My apologies Rosie the Riveter

Food: fun to make, fun to eat

15 year-old me would never believe it was I who wrote this post. Like quite a few little girls I grew up somewhat of a tomboy and eventually that turned into a feminist chip on my shoulder. I am not sure where I picked the attitude up, maybe skirts are just annoying to sit in or perhaps I really saw some sort of gender disparity that I felt the need to resist against. Either way I never sat at my mother’s feet to learn the ways of sewing, crocheting, interior design or cooking (or any other ‘feminine’ activities). Not that my mother really tried too hard to teach me either, she was busy ripping up carpet or adjusting the plumbing (maybe I’m starting to see where I picked this up…) But in all honesty, I think a lot of it boils down to the fact that don’t like being classified a “woman” any more than I like being classified “white” or “American” mostly because they are things that don’t necessarily define me and that ultimately I can do nothing to change. Though as most of you know, life brings lessons and wisdom and slowly we all start figuring out who we really are.

Cinnamon Rolls: Ambassadors of love

And I feel absolutely useless without an oven. My house, due to my lack of financial plenty, is still lacking many little things (such as a mirror which I believe I already complained about) as well as large ones such as a couch, chairs, a table, a refrigerator, a stove or worst of all an oven. I’m OK with sitting on my bed or washing my clothes by hand or at my generous neighbor’s house. That will all come in time, but I desperately need to buy an oven. I’m not sure where this tendency came from, but food is my response to any of life’s problems. It’s how I show love and the more homemade the food, the more love it shows (yes I know, poor, fat, future husband). If I’m invited to someone’s house, I take food. If someone is going through a tough time, I take food. If I want to thank someone for helping me out, I take food. But there is no way I’m showing up at someone’s house with a bag of potato chips! It’s gotta be at least freshly baked muffins or nothing. And I feel at a complete loss without being able to show my love in this way. My friend’s mother passed away and my first thought was “I have to make brownies” but then the reality sunk in that I can’t. And of course the purpose isn’t that food will fix problems, but it’s a gateway drug for relationships. You enter with brownies or cinnamon rolls, sit and spend hours talking.
I feel useless without an oven! And yes, as sad as it is, much less feminine. But at least I can say with confidence, thank you women’s rights activists for giving me the right to choose whether I wanted to cook or not.

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