fixing myself

Each Sunday, Joe & I spend more time making food, sitting down & enjoying it for a long time. Yesterday after Mass, we headed to the grocery store around the corner (luckily open until 1 p.m. on Sundays) to pick up some fresh supplies.

Apparently, this is a very common idea. After Mass, there must have been a parade of Catholics en route to the grocery. It was packed! People were reaching and grabbing for mushrooms or Belgian endive like it was Black Friday. We grabbed a couple of ingredients for this steak au poivre recipe, & I prepared myself to make my first French sauce.

I was excited for the time in the kitchen, because my awkward anxiety from lack of real activity had been exhausting me. I needed to get my hands going on something tangible, so before unpacking the groceries all the way, I was setting myself to work slicing mushrooms (which we added to the sauce) and preparing potatoes (to make home fries, not the recommended fries). My hands were flying. Bowls of fresh ingredients surrounded me. I was covered in raw meat juice (not something I'd usually be very happy about).

I refuse to accept that no measuring cups was really at the heart of the sauce's thinness. I don't feel that I added to much stock or wine... I feel I've learned to use my eye as a measuring tool with enough accuracy to get by. I do, however, accept the blame. This is a solid recipe. I am not yet a solid sauce maker.

Now, I've mentioned before that I'm not very good at cooking rice or pasta. I'm generally not very good at boiling. I believe this is where my sauce broke down. In a hurry to not burn the potatoes or make Joe's stomach growl (or mine growl any louder), I tried to rush the sauce. I turned the heat up a bit to make the wine evaporate more quickly.

Fail. I added the rest of the liquid and set it all to simmering too quickly. The sauce was thin, flooding the plate and the herbed potatoes. I was disappointed. But, in the spirit of Julia Child, I refused to be beaten. The sauce was delicious; the meat was delicious; we were hungry & happy to share the meal. My hands were more at peace.

While Betty Friedan gives us this quote...

No woman gets an orgasm from shining the kitchen floor.

...and Ayn Rand describes preparing meals as a circular event leading nowhere & therefore an invalid way to spend one's time, I have to say that I get lots of pleasure out of doing the small things to make our lives easier, happier & tastier. But it was my choice, & this is the difference. This is the essence of feminism–the right to make decisions about where we work & what our role in the home is; to share the world fully with men. Dishes & food preparation were not prescribed to me. I found enjoyment in them for myself; I do it because it pleases me. I do it by choice–and feminism began as the push to give us these choices.

So today, I'll let Joe do the laundry while I read more Atlas Shrugged & prepare more lesson plans. We'll fix meals together & figure out more of what our roles are in this marriage, because they are not static; they are never assigned by anyone but we two. It's not an effort to get near 50-50. It's an effort to find enjoyment & purpose in the things we have to do, to share in them & feel we're working toward the same goal.

Next up in my French cooking adventures, I'll be even more bold. I've been a bit scared out of it by the small failure of the sauce, but I refuse to back down. French cooking tradition will not beat me! I'll be doing the most famous emulsion in the food world: mayonnaise. While I'd love to snag a copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, it's too heavy for my suitcase; we'll instead be using this mayonnaise recipe from Alton Brown.

I know what you're thinking. "You're going to get fat. You just eat eggs, cheese, bread and a TON of mayonnaise." False. Well. Ok, false for now. We eat in moderation, and we balance mayonnaise with meals composed mostly of vegetables. Also, we could be eating this, & we're not. So there.