There is something about occasionally being domestic that makes me feel really good. Or, maybe useful. I don’t know. I rarely have the time to cook or entertain, so I relish the times that I do. I think sometimes I am so stressed with work schedules and deadlines that I seek domesticity out – to feel somewhat “normal”. I know I can bring home the bacon but rarely can I fry it up (unless it can be microwaved).
I was reading a trash novel last week and one of the characters mentioned pot roast with red wine and porcini mushrooms. Umm, I thought. That sounds very intriguing. I need to make that. So, I Googled this dish and came up with several recipes. Twenty minutes later, walah! It was great and I have a week’s worth of meals now. My dog, Mags, just lies on the floor sighing at me – this upset her schedule terribly to see me slaving over a stove!
For me, it was more cathartic than doing 5 loads of laundry or planting flowers. I felt like Martha Stewart for a few hours. Back to reality tomorrow.
I don’t know when this happened but I am extremely domesticated. (Does that mean I have been tamed?) I like to cook, when it’s my idea. I like the smell of freshly laundered clothes but I do not like someone asking me about the laundry. I hate running errands; I do it anyway. We have a big ol’, money pit house. Something always needs done. My in-laws live with us. My baby is headed to college. My husband travels and golfs a lot. The dog needs training. Oh, and I have deadlines.
I’d like Martha Stewart to spend a few hours at my house.