[Note from Jodi: Did you notice both my brother and I are finalists in the 2009 Bloggie Awards? It’s true! Also true: we’d love your vote. If you have the time and the inclination, get your voting on here. Pistols + Popcorn is nominated for “Best-Kept Secret Weblog” shhhhh! Fat Cyclist is nominated for “Best Sports Weblog” Thanks, citizens!!]
|I think that girls are just screwed. We start out being princesses, and then are told that we can be anything that a boy can be, but then are told not to be the things that the boys are being (because, seriously young boys are a little disgusting. I know; I’ve got one.) A little bit later the planet-wide adoration of a certain body type lets us know that our body should be one way and then our hearts and minds are told not to listen to that. We start dividing into tough girls and mean girls and smart girls and bad girls and good girls. We buy into the crowd-think and live or die by these identities all the while wondering if it’s really who we are and also, as a side note, wondering if there’s any chance Billy Idol would make-out with us if we could just get backstage. Ok, only 1984 Billy Idol. I’m not actually going to want to meet 2009 Billy Idol close-up. Back to the|
girl thing – then we keep on moving on and become women, and come into our own thoughts and ideas and identities. We break hearts and break trust and learn from those things and then we keep moving forward.
Certain things stick. We may know better now, but still silently swear at our body if the swimming suit doesn’t look so good. We have abandoned God or found a new improved God or hope that he’ll be ok if we just don’t commit for now, but still have the outline of guilt pasted on any behavior that was once forbidden. Those of us who were bad girls still have some badness left, and find even as an adult that it’s hard to let go. It is tricky to navigate the adult world without anything to prove, when a whole lifetime has been spent proving things: I’m tonka-tough, I can turn a phrase and twist words with an “aww, shucks” smile, I have no use for a safety net under a trapeze, I will jay-walk. Mostly: I will not cook. I am not that person.
Roan is five. He eats real meals. Anson works away from home all day. So as it turns out, I am that person. I must be the one who makes the food. It sounds so basic yet I’ve just accepted it recently. I’ve always claimed that I hate cooking, that I’m a bad cook. Now I’m starting to think that it isn’t true. I could possibly like it and my son will enjoy more than Pokemon shaped Macaroni and Cheese if I accept this new challenge. The key to me getting on board is realizing that it isn’t an antiquated idea, cooking for your family. It is a sweet thing to do, it is a nurturing thing to do, and it is something I can probably do well. There’s really nothing I enjoy more than going to a friend’s home and talking to them while they
|cook. So I’m trying to get Roan to talk to me while I cook, and to help me prepare the food. He’s totally into it and seems willing to try new things if he’s had a hand in making them. To do next: remember to get him to wash that hand before we begin.
I’ve started out slow, mostly with sou
|(Yes, I used the Tater Mitts, and I liked them, OK? Here are the ingredients from the soup I made last night. Feel free to leave me some recipes!)|