I have the pleasure of introducing Duckie, a fellow mom, blogger, and writer that I know. She asked me to do a guest post for her blog a few weeks back, and now she’s come over here to pay a literary visit. Enjoy!
Hello, readers of Feisty Red Hair. My name, well, my nickname, is Duckie. A while back Katherine was kind enough to guest blog over in my little corner of the webiverse, Duckie’s World. Now I’m here to regale with tales from my neck of the woods.
Katherine and I have a few things in common; we’re both stay-at-home mommies, writers, voracious readers, have 2 young children, live in a funky beach town, hubbies work at the same place and we love to cook. Wait, that last one is a lie. Katherine loves to cook. I…well…
In all actuality, the mere thought gives me hives, brings on a bout of nausea and makes me doubt my existence in the universe. For lack of better wording, I suck at it. I don’t want to suck at it, but I get panicky when I think about what’s involved to create an edible meal my family will eat.
My hubby, thankfully, loves to cook, or we’d be eating a lot of PB & J. He enjoys mixing and trying new flavours, shopping for ingredients and looking up new recipes for us to try.
So what’s the problem with this little setup, you might ask? Well, I feel guilty that my husband, after coming home from work, cooks dinner. It sounds silly, especially when I read this over, but it’s one of those unsaid rules we moms have given one another: if you stay-at-home you are in charge of ALL food preparation, combining and distributing.
A good majority of the moms I know cook all of the meals for their families, with hubbies usually in charge of BBQ management. There’s recipe swapping, discussing what’s on the menu for that evening and when my turns comes to say what we’re having, I bite my lip, shrug and say, “Don’t know, Hubby’s making dinner.” Then the room fills with an uncomfortable silence, one that says, ‘but you stay at home, you should have time to to cook.’ Believe me, it has nothing to do with time. It has everything to do with my lack of confidence in being able to cook.
Now, I should mention that I love to bake. But, before you say it’s the same thing, IT. IS. NOT.
Not even close, people. Making cookies, brownies and chelsea buns gives me a sense of accomplishment. I have no qualms about tackling a complicated Martha Stewart apple torte recipe, complete with an ingredient list a mile long and 80 steps to completion. That sounds like fun to me. Nobody shushes when I bust out the homemade granola, but when I want to cry at the thought of cooking chicken, somehow I’m just not all of the stay-at-home mommy I could be.
It’s not just other moms giving me a look out of the corner of their eyes, it’s also my grandparents who like to make remarks about my lack of finesse in the culinary arts. Every once in a while my grandpa will say, “Now dear, have you been cooking? You know, your husband works hard and deserves to come home to a cooked meal.” My grandpa, while sweet, is 80 years old and has never had to take care of anything inside of the house…ever! The man has no clue how to boil water, and when my granny would leave for a few days, he lived on corn flakes and blueberries. Really.
So maybe it’s a generational thing. Maybe I’m surrounded by genuinely awesome cooks, with me being the lone baker, or maybe we live in a society that expects the person who stays at home to be take care of it all? Course there’s always the off chance this is all in my head and no one really cares if I’d rather bake dozens of cookies than try and cook a meatball.
Would you rather bake or cook, or are you super fancy pants and like to do both?