Showing posts with label cooking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cooking. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Home-living over books and snack?

Where does my daughter get her love of domestic chores? Here she is, voluntarily sweeping the porch with my BFF's adorable son.

From a very young age, SB has always been a regular in the home living area of her daycare, which is decked out with a play kitchen, dining room, couch, dress-up clothes, and baby dolls. During free play time, home living is a "choice"; there are lots of other "choices," including doing art, playing at the sensory table, reading in the library, and having a snack. But her teacher tells me that, 90 percent of the time, SB makes a beeline for home living to cook, clean, and take care of babies.

"She picks that over snack and books?" I asked, incredulous, wondering if this small person has been paying attention at all to how things go down at our house.

I mean, I rarely choose to hang out in the home-living section of our house. Alex likes to cook meals, even on weeknights; I could subsist on take-out and finger foods. He does a lot of the cleaning, too; I haven't touched the toilet or cat litter box in years (still coasting on the whole "pregnant women shouldn't clean the cat box for fear of contracting toxoplasmosis" rule). I specialize in fun domestic chores like making elaborate desserts and storing bulk foods in attractive containers and scheduling social activities.

In my observations of my friends' domestic lives, this arrangement seems fairly common--not at all as unusual as it might have been a generation or two ago. And it turns out that this kind of equity in domestic chores will at least keep us in the business of being a country: Did anyone catch the New York Times Magazine cover story this week, "No Babies?" It's fascinating look at how birth rates are dropping so drastically that some European countries are facing population declines and demographic shifts that are, according to one professor, "pathological." Some sociologists think one of the causes for this decline is the growing tension between traditional and modern roles of women: studies show that women who do the majority of the housework and child care have fewer children than those who have partners who "share the load."

But population replacement rates aside, I assumed this gender role shake up would somehow be visible in my daughter, evident in a kind of genderlessness--you know, playing with trains in a princess dress, bouncing a ball while rocking a baby to sleep. But maybe it's only been confusing to her? When she was about two, she commented that "Daddies go to the office and mommies stay home," and I corrected her by naming off all the working moms (myself included) she knew. But the reality/perception thing baffled her for months.

She's getting older, though, and figuring it out: A couple of months ago, she told me she was choosing art because she didn't like to clean up the home-living section after she was done playing. And a couple of weeks ago, she remarked, "Dada's a good cooker and cleaner. He's the boss of the house." Then she hurriedly added, "But Mama's the boss."

"Sure," I said, my defensiveness immediately quelled by the formula of Mama=omnipotent, Dada=middle management.

Then she wandered off to cook in her play kitchen, reciting a list of things she was going to pick up at the grocery store--after she was done with her "deadline." Aha. She's been watching us after all.

Sunday, June 29, 2008

If this isn't domestic ...

I don't know what is.

Why, yes, it was the hottest day of the year yesterday, something like 100 degrees outside and a relatively cool 85 in the house. But what else was I going to do with a full flat of delicious, fragile Oregon Hood strawberries?

It starts out pleasantly enough every June: homemade strawberry ice cream, strawberries dipped in chocolate, strawberries gobbled plain while sitting on the porch. I even tried a couple of new recipes this year: Strawberries covered with balsamic and honey then topped with whipped marscapone and cream. Arborio rice pudding with strawberry preserves and sugared almonds (from Ivy Manning's awesome book, The Farm to Table Cookbook).

But by about four weeks in, it starts to get ugly. The family starts to show signs that they're reaching the strawberry breaking point. When I say, "Let's go to the farmer's market and get some strawberries," my husband suddenly has something important to do in the garage and SB, not yet old enough to make up excuses, defends herself in classic almost-four-year-old style by pretending not to hear me. When I drag everyone to the farm to pick berries on a gorgeous Friday morning, I'm met with grim, resigned expressions that say, "Mom's crazy but don't antagonize her, because it could get even worse."

An insurgency?!? Are you guys kidding me? These are Oregon strawberries, people. Once a year and they're gone--gone! Must. Get. Them. Must. Eat. Them. Must. Can. Them. Now!

So this week, I force fed the family strawberries in every shape and form: on cereal and in yogurt for breakfast, on salad for dinner, and with chocolate and ice cream for dessert (okay, the last bit wasn't met by much resistance at all). And I had to put up at least a few of them, even on the hottest day of the year, because I'd just taken this super-fun preserving class.

But I might be done with strawberries for the season--a sure sign that July is just around the corner. Raspberries, anyone?