I went to high school in the late 80s, when women’s lib was at its peak (at least in my young mind). The idea that I would stand for a man opening the door for me, wanting me to cook for him, or standing in the way of my career... well, it just wasn’t going to happen. I kid you not, in college, if I saw a man move to open a door for me, I jumped forward first, and opened the door for myself before he could! Being married and “settling down” to a life of domesticity? Forget it. For me, becoming a woman in the 80s and 90s had a lot to do with rebelling against the common notions of what a woman was in the 50s and before. I was never going to be a June Cleaver - no way.
Pictured Above: My grandmother (whom I loved dearly)
setting the table for a dinner party in the 60s.
Opening Doors...
Then I left Seattle, and went to school in Manhattan (yes, the second degree of three - and the loans are still killing me!). Somewhere in Manhattan, it dawned on me that men were showing me a sign of respect when they opened a door for me. Also, considering that I still come up against obstacles because I’m a woman, maybe it’s ok to have the door opened for me once in a while. And lastly, it was important for many men to feel that they’re “doing the right thing” by opening that door, and not letting them do so actually hurts them. Huh. So, while I don’t expect to have a door opened for me, I don’t mind so much anymore when it happens. It’s also kind of nice to have that little bit of contact with a stranger, even if fleeting.
Standing in the way of my career...
Clearly I just hadn’t found the right person when I thought a man would stand in the way of my career! Having a companion to bounce ideas off of, to hug me when things don’t go the right way, to support me when my career is just getting off the ground, to take a job with benefits so that I can work freelance and still take care of my health, to push me to do more and be stronger, to cook when I work late nights, to take a night off with when things are a bit rough, to toast with when something great happens, to laugh, cry, sing, and make love with... those are all so much better than being alone. What was I thinking?
Wanting me to cook for him...
This one was the last to go, and I’m still getting over the fear of domesticity. In Los Angeles I worked in the film industry. It was brutal - I’m so lucky that Matt stuck around for all that! I still work in the film industry, but on my own terms, and from my own home whenever I can. In LA, I was working 6 to 7 days/week, 14-16 hours/day. Over and over, from one job to the next. My dear husband got up with me in the morning and made breakfast while I showered. And late in the evening I would call when I was on my way home, and he’d have dinner waiting (since he worked as a cook, our dinners were not simple, and boy were they fabulous). He also made fresh sourdough bread, yoghurt, and homemade cheese on a regular basis. How cool is that?
Now we have moved and begun to simplify our lifestyles, and he is the one who works long hours (with his job, career-related classes and studying), and I work at home. I took up making dinners and some breakfasts pretty quickly, because I’ve always been a decent cook and I do kind of like it. But our poor sourdough starter has been in the fridge for two months, we haven’t had fresh yoghurt since we moved from LA, and we’ve been buying cheese (which just isn’t the same) for months now. Don’t I feel like a schmuck?! But it’s that whole domesticity thing.
Well, this week guilt got the better of me - as did a desire for yummy food again, to cut down our grocery bills, to reduce our impact on the planet, and to really make my husband happy. Three days ago I resurrected “Audrey” (our sourdough starter)**. I’ve been nurturing her back to health (it takes a while to get back up to speed after two months in the fridge). And yesterday, I had Matt show me how to make the bread (which we call “Audrey‘s spawn” - yep, we’re crazy).
Pic: Spawn yesterday, beginning to ‘proof’.
I’ll post the details of bread making in a later post,
as soon as I understand it myself!
Pic: Out of her proofing basket and ready to go in the oven.
Pic: Here’s where she is now, in a ‘cloche’ inside the oven.
And while I wait to find out what it looks like when it’s done, let me show you what else I accomplished this week:
Pic: Pizza dough I made all by myself, along with sauce from scratch
with tomatoes and basil from the garden.
Next step: make the mozzarella, too!
Pic: It was so good, I made it again the next night!!
Ok, the timer just rang, I measured the temperature, and it seems to be cooked through and through! Drum roll please....
Not bad. Room for improvement. It didn’t quite rise enough, so I have some things to work on. For a comparison, here is Matt’s last loaf of bread:
Aside from the lighting being beautiful that day, his is about twice as tall, and bursting out of the places he’s scored it. But hey, it’s a good start! And when Matt gets home, we can have a yummy slice of my first ever loaf of bread.
Pic: Me and the man who cooks, supports, and opens doors for me.
(Photo by Harrison Hurwitz)
**Audrey is named after the plant in Little Shop of Horrors who always wants to eat, and keeps saying “feed me, Seymour, feed me.” Our starter has to be fed 1-3 times a day.
