I’m going to feel Deprived if my Husband doesn’t Cook

Pot roast

Pot roast (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m going to feel deprived if my husband doesn’t cook.  In my head is this fantasy that I have, and I just laughed as I wrote that, because in this fantasy my (future) husband likes to cook.  Steak.  Mashed potatoes.  Chicken.  Pot roast.  Tacos.  You get my drift.  Oh, but my future husband doesn’t mind baking, either.  Chocolate cake.  Brownies.  Cookies.  Banana nut Muffins.  I laugh to myself again.  You are probably laughing at me, too.  Or, perhaps you are outraged.  Actually, that is kind of the mood I am in.   I feel like pushing the envelope a bit.  I’m not outraged, but actually I just want to set gender expectations on their head.

So I was just eating dinner tonight and thinking about how I feel like a “bad” female, because honestly I don’t really like to cook.  I was always too busy reading to help my Mom in the kitchen, and she would have to push and prod me.  So, I really don’t know how to cook.  That is part of the problem.  Also, I hate dishes.  But, I have a dish washer now, so you ask what is my excuse?  Truth be told, my Mom even recently subscribed me to Rachel Ray’s magazine, but I find myself flipping through it thinking that certain foods look good, but then I stumble at the action point where I need to go out and buy the needed ingredients to make the meal.  My observation is that if you don’t have basic ingredients to start with, then your grocery bill can burst your budget and be a major detriment into your foray into cooking.

I fear my future husband will feel deprived with my lack of domesticity.  Here is what “gets me.”  Women are expected to work full-time.  Be thin (and I must say that the older I become, the harder that is, especially with the genetic predisposition of the women in my family).  Be beautiful.  Be sweet.  Love children.  Do the bulk (if not all) of the cleaning in your home.  And, finally, be a domestic “goddess.”  But what happens when you don’t wear the red polka-dot apron and make an amazing pot roast?

Society likes to play it both ways.  Women need to work outside the home, but they need to shine in the home sphere, too.  If you don’t, then you deprive your husband (thus goes the logic).  Your husband deserves a good home cooked meal.  And why would a woman want to “waste” a college education if she decides she wants to raise her children and stay at home?  Is that not a noble profession, or does she have to be climbing the corporate or academic ladder to get applauded?  I think many women get burned out running from full-time work to PTA meetings to kid’s soccer practice, and trying to be home in time to make a five course meal may be an unfair burden that society places on women.  Women can juggle many things successfully, but I think fairness and equality is a standard to be obtained in both the work and home sphere.  Why can’t husbands cook, too?  While I definitely will not feel deprived if my future husband doesn’t cook (FYI, I was just stirring the pot), I do hope that my husband will at least like to grill out, or he will enjoy cooking with me as we learn to cook together.  A girl can dream.

 

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Hope: A Poem (The Beautiful Promise of Tomorrow)

Author’s note:

This poem is fictitious and inspired by the author’s imagination.  The only exceptions are that the woman’s name “Maria” was inspired by the name Maria in the musical “West Side Story” (a musical that I like which has many good lessons).  Second, the pink was inspired by pink being my favorite color, and also by my desire to somewhat personify the sunset.  Thus, I gave the sunset  some characteristics that (at times) I possess.  Finally, while I have at times felt like the little sparrow, forlorn and perhaps somewhat broken (which I do not care to elaborate on), this did not inspire the poetic sparrow, nor did any other resemblance to another person, thing, or sparrow, living or dead. (Ditto for the little old man).

 Hope: A Poem (The Beautiful Promise of Tomorrow)

The little old man

with a crooked back

and a kind yet wistful smile

gazes out at the shimmering ocean

beckoning to him in the distance.

Lost in thought

he ponders

simpler times,

days gone by,

and a girl with a pretty smile.

 

“Ah, to be young again,”

he thinks to himself.

Youth is wasted on the young,

as the old saying goes.

 

He has no regrets.

The mistakes he made

taught him well,

but yet

still his heart aches

and at times

he is lonely.

 

He misses his sweet Maria

with an intensity

that sometimes awakens him

in the night.

She was his muse

and his joy

and his love.

His beautiful wife

gone six years now

(My, how the time seems to fly).

But, she was NOT his life,

yet she played quite a starring role.

A good distinction,

the man has always thought,

is that life should be shared

and enriched

but never overtaken

or overwhelmed.

 

Startled,

the little old man’s reminiscing

is broken

by a tiny little sparrow

looking forlorn

but yet brave

with his little broken wing.

The sparrow takes a little hop

along the glistening sand

and looks up with curiosity

at the little old man.

 

“Friend, I know how you feel,”

the man whispers with a conspiratorial wink.

Truth be told, sometimes the man

has been broken in spirit

and broken in his grief.

Yet, somehow,

a tenacious, persevering will

helped the man fight on.

But now,

his frail body

was starting to feel broken,

as age took its usual toll.

(He was approaching age 90,

it is important to note).

The little old man felt an affinity

for the little sparrow with his little broken wing,

and it brought a second smile

to the man’s weathered face.

The sparrow brightened his day

and reminded him to never give up.

 

Slowly, the man’s gaze slide up the horizon.

A sunset was starting

to pierce the sky.

“Where had the day gone?”

the man wondered.

A hint of a beautiful, stunning pink timidly peaked

bashfully

across the horizon.

Skittish

yet hopeful.

The spectacular sight

of the blossoming sunset

caused a hope to spring anew

into the little old man’s heart.

Every day is a gift.

There is the UNKNOWN PROMISE of tomorrow.

Beauty can shine her brightest

even in the darkest hours.

 

Thus, whistling a cheerful tune,

(one I think anyone could recall),

the little old man shuffled off

with hopeful expectation

of a light brighter than any dawn

and the beautiful promise of tomorrow.