<< I Need a Better Part-Time Job | Home | A Serving of Culture Shock on the Side >>
Becoming my Childhood Nightmare
I wasn’t one of those little girls who liked frills or lace growing up. I was always far more interested in my writing and my sketchbooks, my books and my music. I never wanted to go shopping for dresses—jeans and t-shirts were more my style—or help make brownies (much less help with dinner). In fact, I passionately fought against learning every traditionally feminine craft—sewing, origami, experimenting with my mother’s makeup in secret, blah blah fishcakes—that came across my path. And, for a long time, I didn’t feel like I was lacking anything for it.
Something happened to me while I was away, though. Maybe a bolt of lightning struck me and I’ve blocked it out of my memory, or some sort of usually dormant process activated itself in my brain—I don’t really know. But I suddenly felt the need to acquire some of those domestic skills I’d rejected for so long. I bought cookbooks and some secondhand kitchen tools, and traded my computer skills for tips in the kitchen. I also bribed my closest friend with chocolate chip hot cross buns from the corner bakery for knitting lessons—you know, in case I actually ended up sucking as much as my mother predicted.
After a few weeks (and some mishaps best forgotten), I realized that I was actually decent at this food thing—the raspberry chocolate mud cake I made from scratch for my dad’s birthday last night is only my latest piece of evidence. I probably won’t win any prizes, but given a straightforward recipe and a quiet kitchen, or just a quiet kitchen, I can cook something that tastes good enough to eat. And sometimes, good enough to even warrant seconds.
But even more shocking than that? I actually kinda like it. I used to scoff when friends told me about the relaxing properties of the kitchen—Fiore, I was a prick; I know that now, and I’m sorry—but I actually find it soothing to knead dough or cathartic to chop vegetables and make mashed potatoes. If I’d met myself ten years ago, she probably would’ve tried to hack off my hands with a dull butter knife. Just the idea of even liking something so traditionally girly was completely disturbing at that age.
Oh, and to make matters worse? Those knitting lessons didn’t get very far, and I was planning on abandoning them, but Amy’s entry on yarn lust inspired me again. I figure I have this incredibly soft yarn made of merino and possum wool that I got in Auckland, and I really shouldn’t waste it—so I’m going to give it another shot and try making a scarf. I actually spent time earlier this week painstakingly picking out needles—bamboo ones—to replace the pair confiscated by Overzealous Airport Security. I’m surprised my inner child hasn’t thrown up her hands and completely deserted me to live my very warped adult life without her.
But, then again, I still want a dog—and I wouldn’t mind finally getting a horse, either. So maybe there’s still some hope for me yet.
<< I Need a Better Part-Time Job | Home | A Serving of Culture Shock on the Side >>