Please tell me you still remember me, its been SO LONG. It’s like a three kiss-on-the-cheek Salaam instead of just two.
Can you believe the summer’s almost over? It feels like yesterday I was blogging about being dragged on vacay with the crazies.
Time flies, and I should know- it was my birthday last week. One year closer to TORSHIDEH&DESPARATE (according to my mother, I’m already there) but we had Holly cover all that, didnt we?
Anyway, so along the same lines of MIA-ness, I’ve also been MIA from the workout scene, a.k.a my downstairs gym. & one glance in a full-length mirror, I realized maybe I should rethink my recent nutritional guidelines. So I decided to head to the grocery store >> to buy ingredients >> to make food for myself.
Let me warn you:
The Kitchen and I have one of those really hot, messy love affairs. I never leave without some burns or cuts, and Kitchen’s always a mess when I leave.
But in all honesty, I’m not a “bi-orzeh” (clumsy and incapable) – I just don’t like cooking. I like being in the kitchen for as long as it takes to microwave popcorn. Anything beyond that, in my eyes, will soon become mandatory hard labor.
Don’t get me wrong there are times when I feel like making something: which is why you’ll find the oddest things in my kitchen– cream of tartar for that fruit tart I made once, bulgur for the “Mediterranean Gourmet Burgers” I attempted, and Radicchio for a really nasty salad I will never make again.
So, long story short, IMPULSE HIT AGAIN–I grab a recipe from some BS Cooking blog, write the list of things I need to buy in my phone, and I head over to the local grocery store.
There, I faced a real crisis figuring out what type of olive oil I needed for the meal– extra virgin, extra light, original? & what was the difference really?
In the aisle with me, was a couple– I turned to them: “Hey, which olive oil is better?”
To my surprise, the woman responded, slightly embarassed “I don’t know, I don’t really know the difference”
And then her boyfriend chimed in “Well, what do you need it for? ..blablablabla”
I felt like I was in Olive OIL 101. I left the aisle with an extra virgin, and a really strange realization.
That girl didn’t know wtf was going on either.
I faced another issue figuring out where Lemon Juice was located, and if I could just use lemonade instead…? (Valid logic, I swear).
In my ten minute search for lemon juice, I overheard the same guy tell his girlfriend: “OK, well I need you to go get artichoke hearts from this aisle.”
He was directing her! HA!
I didn’t think much about it, until the next night– when my coworker came over to help teach me how to grill. He ended up doing all of it, and washing the dishes.
In all honesty, I derive a lot of satisfaction from watching men work in the kitchen. and I like not knowing my way around the kitchen. I like telling a guy I’m incapable of cooking dinner for two, so he doesn’t get any ideas along the lines of H-O-M-E-M-A-K-E-R.
Only experience can show you how judgmental you really are. In my case, my prejudice is against the kitchen. I don’t think women should be in it, and when they choose to be– I dont get it?
Do you see what’s wrong with this picture?
Now, I finally do.
I grew up in a household with pretty rigid gender roles– my dad has cooked once in my entire existence, and that was a catastrophe. My mom had dinner prepared every night. But it was a duty, an obligation– something she did, +382109381092382 other things she had on her plate.
& for the amount of effort it takes to cook ghormeh sabzi and fessenjoon, my mom’s dinner never really got appreciated.
Not to generalize, but I can imagine there are many households like this– especially within our culture– where the kitchen is the domain of the woman, whether she cares to be there or not.
So somehow along the way, I decided to give the gender-roled world and the kitchen a big F U, but now I’m realizing I’m only F#cking over myself.
I think lemon juice, and lemonade are interchangeable. I had to microwave my pasta because I couldn’t get my stove to work. and I absolutely love the idea of a male dish-washer.
I can’t let what happened in my parent’s kitchen dictate what’ll happen in mine. Wearing an apron and playing Betty Crocker doesn’t degrade me, just like having sex with more than one person doesn’t make me a slut.
A lot of us girls have decided we don’t want to be associated with H-O-M-E-M-A-K-E-R, maybe not in the psycho-freudian way I interpret it. But just like the girlfriend in the grocery store who followed her boyfriend in the aisles– a lot of us girls aren’t embracing the homemaker within us, even if some of those skill are essential for survival. Nowadays, “why aren’t you in the kitchen making me a sandwich?” is a sexist joke because the guy’s two times more likely to make that sandwich himself, and one for his girlfriend.