Tuesday, November 27, 2012

I don't cook

No, really. It's Ok. Don't assure me I'm a good cook. THIS is not part of my affirmation. You won't offend me, and it does not hit a nerve, and it does pretty much zilch to my idea of my "womanhood."

Southwest Michigan is so heartbreakingly beautiful and abundant. The dramatic sunrises sandwiched between melancholy grey days. The deep and drifting snow in the winters, and the sweet and verdant knolls of grass in the summers. Cicadas and bbq, hickory wood fires and melted snow on wool socks. Popsicles, bubbles, icicles, eagles.

The one thing I still startle at: 19th century norms in the face of my 21st century reality. I'm not one to trouble myself with cultural norms. I've lived too far outside of them to really care. But when they are imposed on me mano-a-mano, I really do have to laugh in your face. Yes, it is rude. So is suggesting that the womanly art of cooking is one that I have ached to master.

No, I don't cook. But I'm sure you do. Be a dear and fix me a Manhattan.

PS Bo is excelling in school, but needs OT to get his fine motor skills up to speed. Ahn is learning to play catch and chase, do somersaults and find hidden candy.