“Who made these cookies? Venice?”
“No, my wife.”
“Yeah. Apparently she cooks.”
-Ronald and J. Thanks for the support, love.
Newlywed and me being caught up in the idea of being a good wife (coupled with a degree of gentle poverty) J. and I have been being good about putting together meals, cheap dates, and limited spending. Which leaves me feeling smug. “Look! A modern woman am I! Dinner on the table, clean house, and laundry done once a week. AND I’m currently the primary bread winner, bacon bringer, ladder climber, whatever, so I can in no way fall into the barefoot and chained to the kitchen sink variety. I am woman hear me roar!”
Then again, even though I fight it hard, I sometimes find myself slipping into the 19th century. For example, when Venice decides to show me how to make her amazing peach-strawberry jam. Incidentally, Venice’s overall fabulousness is in no way lessened by this knowledge. She’s from Idaho, they know how to do that sort of thing up there. Anyway, I got it whipped up and gelled with barely any loss of face, and now it’s kind of my dirty secret hiding in the back of the freezer.
But then on sunday, when J. and I were both feeling under the weather and stayed home, I went into Absolutely Fabulous Wife Mode. I whipped up bread pudding for breakfast while my plagued husband slept in, a broccoli and carrot soup for dinner, and even managed to stay a good friend and drove Marie home (she lives over an hour away in my hit-and-miss car)…and then…Venice came over to borrow cooking spray, a lemon, scotch tape, and wrapping paper (how she combined them I’ll never know) looking like this:
“What the Betty Crocker?!” I demanded, but it was sheer jealousy. Perfect 1950’s housewife (minus the valium, hopefully). I immediately tumbled down a well of inadequacy.
Editor’s Note : Savitrii just came by and asked what I was writing. I said I was blogging about making jam and her eyes bugged. “YOU?!” she demanded shakily, “I…I don’t even know who I am anymore…” Har har, people.