Recently, I was given some paperwork to fill out and when it came to a line requesting I fill out my “profession” I had a momentary crisis. At least, I hope it was momentary. Sometimes it’s hard for me to tell how long I freak out for because I am stuck in the centrifugal force of my own emotions.
“My profession… My meaning in life… My value? Why would they ask this?” I kept it to an internal monologue even though I wanted to wail, “This is such an unfair question!!!”
So yeah, profession. Blank Line. Me freaking out. I was extremely hesitant to write “Homemaker” as my profession. How does one make a ‘home’ for 3 small children and a overworked husband in a two bedroom apartment? Besides, I felt it would be totally deceitful to lead anyone to believe that I can do anything domestic. I am horribly insecure about the issue. So, I still wrote “TEACHER” not because that is one of the many hats stay-at-home moms wear but because technically, for 3 more months, I’m on medical maternity leave from the middle school where I teach. Taught? Urgh! This identity crisis thing is really rough.
Here’s what’s hard about the profession of homemaker. Everything! Not having an end time to clock out is hard. Being on call 24/7-365 days a year is hard. Not having sick days is hard. Not being late to work because I overslept is hard. In fact, forget overslept, there isn’t even a guarantee of sleep in this profession. It’s an unlikely luxury that will probably be yanked from you just when you need it most.
Here’s what’s ALSO hard about staying at home. Nothing! You get to be with your favorite people on earth. There are days when you nap, watch your favorite childhood movies and stay in your pajamas all day. It is a luxury too few women in the world get the option of enjoying.
I guess Dickens got it right, “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
If I had to pick out of the 24-hour day, cooking dinner is the worst of times. I wake up most morning in a cold sweat dreading, “what’s for dinner?” Unless I have the blessed assurance of leftovers in the fridge I find a way to schedule myself busy from 4:00-6:00pm.
So, I was baffled when an author whom I adore wrote in her most recent book, “Cooking is not an affliction, and we aren’t incapable women who can’t crack eggs” [Speak for yourself sister.] She continues, “Just drop some onion and garlic in olive oil and your day improves exponentially. Cooking isn’t really hard. [Oh, I beg to differ!] It us a simple mechanism that has nourished every generation in time.”
Feeling bolstered by her belief in me and her affirmation that I am not truly “a total hot disaster.” I dragged my three children, who are all under 5 out of the house at 8:00am. I undertook this feat so I could purchase the ingredients (which she wrongly assumed I would have most of in my pantry). Though it was harrowing we survived this outing. Step one, check. I was feeling good.
Then, my husband got home. I hadn’t really started yet… I was getting everything mise en place (I believe this is French for procrastinating.) He poked around skeptically, “what’s all this for?” he queried. He has been a victim of my cooking antics before.
I responded without looking up, “I am making a foolproof recipe from that book I am reading.”
“Oh.” He raised an eyebrow. “May I look at it?”
“Sure.”
“Wow, this looks complicated. What is it?”
“Beef Bourguignon. It’s like a beef stew. It’s what Amy Adams makes in Julie and Julia.”
“Doesn’t she ruin that?”
“Well…yes, but this version is foolproof. You can help me though, there is a lot of chopping and cutting and stuff. Can you do the meat? You are good with meat. I am going to put on some music and pour a glass of wine.” Since that was what she suggested in the book.
“My profession… My meaning in life… My value? Why would they ask this?” I kept it to an internal monologue even though I wanted to wail, “This is such an unfair question!!!”
So yeah, profession. Blank Line. Me freaking out. I was extremely hesitant to write “Homemaker” as my profession. How does one make a ‘home’ for 3 small children and a overworked husband in a two bedroom apartment? Besides, I felt it would be totally deceitful to lead anyone to believe that I can do anything domestic. I am horribly insecure about the issue. So, I still wrote “TEACHER” not because that is one of the many hats stay-at-home moms wear but because technically, for 3 more months, I’m on medical maternity leave from the middle school where I teach. Taught? Urgh! This identity crisis thing is really rough.
Here’s what’s hard about the profession of homemaker. Everything! Not having an end time to clock out is hard. Being on call 24/7-365 days a year is hard. Not having sick days is hard. Not being late to work because I overslept is hard. In fact, forget overslept, there isn’t even a guarantee of sleep in this profession. It’s an unlikely luxury that will probably be yanked from you just when you need it most.
Here’s what’s ALSO hard about staying at home. Nothing! You get to be with your favorite people on earth. There are days when you nap, watch your favorite childhood movies and stay in your pajamas all day. It is a luxury too few women in the world get the option of enjoying.
I guess Dickens got it right, “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
If I had to pick out of the 24-hour day, cooking dinner is the worst of times. I wake up most morning in a cold sweat dreading, “what’s for dinner?” Unless I have the blessed assurance of leftovers in the fridge I find a way to schedule myself busy from 4:00-6:00pm.
So, I was baffled when an author whom I adore wrote in her most recent book, “Cooking is not an affliction, and we aren’t incapable women who can’t crack eggs” [Speak for yourself sister.] She continues, “Just drop some onion and garlic in olive oil and your day improves exponentially. Cooking isn’t really hard. [Oh, I beg to differ!] It us a simple mechanism that has nourished every generation in time.”
Feeling bolstered by her belief in me and her affirmation that I am not truly “a total hot disaster.” I dragged my three children, who are all under 5 out of the house at 8:00am. I undertook this feat so I could purchase the ingredients (which she wrongly assumed I would have most of in my pantry). Though it was harrowing we survived this outing. Step one, check. I was feeling good.
Then, my husband got home. I hadn’t really started yet… I was getting everything mise en place (I believe this is French for procrastinating.) He poked around skeptically, “what’s all this for?” he queried. He has been a victim of my cooking antics before.
I responded without looking up, “I am making a foolproof recipe from that book I am reading.”
“Oh.” He raised an eyebrow. “May I look at it?”
“Sure.”
“Wow, this looks complicated. What is it?”
“Beef Bourguignon. It’s like a beef stew. It’s what Amy Adams makes in Julie and Julia.”
“Doesn’t she ruin that?”
“Well…yes, but this version is foolproof. You can help me though, there is a lot of chopping and cutting and stuff. Can you do the meat? You are good with meat. I am going to put on some music and pour a glass of wine.” Since that was what she suggested in the book.
I cut the carrots and onions. My husband returned in time to notice that I was chopping when I was suppose to be slicing but when he pointed this out I just rolled my eyes.
He asked me what needed to be done first. I read from the book, “One tablespoon of olive oil and 8 ounces of ‘baaaaacooooon” into the Dutch oven.
“K,” he replied. I already set up to work on the entire 2 inches of counter space we have in our kitchen. He looked around for a place to deal with the bacon.
Soon, our son became impatient to start their promised reenactment of the demise of Darth Maul (spoiler alert from 2001). He began to ask every three seconds if dad was done yet.
My 2 year old entertained herself, which is to say that she continually hit the glowing button on her Frozen microphone and serenaded us with 18 seconds of “Let it go” at the top of her lungs and then repeated the procedure.
By this point, my 9 month old was getting hungry. At first she simply crawled underfoot looking for leftovers that her siblings dropped. Before long she began to voice her displeasure at having to wait for her dinner. She cried for a minute or so and then escalated without warning to her wookie-level scream – complete with high-pitched screeches and gurgles.
I muttered, “Great, Grand, Wonderful! EVERYBODY ON THE BUS!” I like to channel my inner Chris Farley at moments like this.
My husband had also had enough and informed me that the bacon was supposed to be chopped before entering the Dutch oven. “What? It just says ‘chopped bacon.’ We can chop it after it cooks.”
“Umm, no.” He replied.
“Great...Grand...Wonderful!”
About an hour and 45 minutes into this endeavor I gave up and just fed the baby a jar of mush. Then, my husband beckoned me to the kitchen. I reread the recipe to see what is taking so long. It hit me like a sack of flour off the top shelf, “Cook for 2 hours.”
We hadn’t even gotten CLOSE to this part yet. URGGGHHH!!! “Hot mess, total and utter hot mess,” I kept thinking.
My husband is a champ. He made rice and beans the day before and we did indeed have some leftovers.
“Ok, well… Rice and Pulled Pork is gonna be great anyway,” he smiled at me. I love his smile.
It was the best of times.
He asked me what needed to be done first. I read from the book, “One tablespoon of olive oil and 8 ounces of ‘baaaaacooooon” into the Dutch oven.
“K,” he replied. I already set up to work on the entire 2 inches of counter space we have in our kitchen. He looked around for a place to deal with the bacon.
Soon, our son became impatient to start their promised reenactment of the demise of Darth Maul (spoiler alert from 2001). He began to ask every three seconds if dad was done yet.
My 2 year old entertained herself, which is to say that she continually hit the glowing button on her Frozen microphone and serenaded us with 18 seconds of “Let it go” at the top of her lungs and then repeated the procedure.
By this point, my 9 month old was getting hungry. At first she simply crawled underfoot looking for leftovers that her siblings dropped. Before long she began to voice her displeasure at having to wait for her dinner. She cried for a minute or so and then escalated without warning to her wookie-level scream – complete with high-pitched screeches and gurgles.
I muttered, “Great, Grand, Wonderful! EVERYBODY ON THE BUS!” I like to channel my inner Chris Farley at moments like this.
My husband had also had enough and informed me that the bacon was supposed to be chopped before entering the Dutch oven. “What? It just says ‘chopped bacon.’ We can chop it after it cooks.”
“Umm, no.” He replied.
“Great...Grand...Wonderful!”
About an hour and 45 minutes into this endeavor I gave up and just fed the baby a jar of mush. Then, my husband beckoned me to the kitchen. I reread the recipe to see what is taking so long. It hit me like a sack of flour off the top shelf, “Cook for 2 hours.”
We hadn’t even gotten CLOSE to this part yet. URGGGHHH!!! “Hot mess, total and utter hot mess,” I kept thinking.
My husband is a champ. He made rice and beans the day before and we did indeed have some leftovers.
“Ok, well… Rice and Pulled Pork is gonna be great anyway,” he smiled at me. I love his smile.
It was the best of times.
Header photo by T. Guzzio.
CONNECT WITH KATIE:
Katie Simington is a born and bred New Englander who set out west looking for adventure. She graduated from Westmont College in Santa Barbara, CA, with a Bachelor of Arts in Religious Studies. It was there that she met and married her husband, David. They moved back to Boston in 2006. Katie attended Boston College to earn her M.Ed. She is currently on leave from formal teaching to raise her three little ones. She is a compulsive reader, writer and debater. You can find her on Twitter @katiesimington, on Facebook, or her personal blog: www.pennedbutnotpublished.blogspot.com.
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