After Shabbos, I had the opportunity to speak with my “Aunt” Ruth (she’s really my mom’s aunt, which makes her, what, my great-aunt? I don’t know. We just call her Aunt Ruth). It was just a quick on-and-off conversation, you know, some how-are-you-doings and how’s-the-weathers. In between the requisite niceties, she mentioned that my mom had told her how much I cook and bake, and how busy I am with my little men. Then she said it:
“You’re really a housewife, arent’cha? You love it, don’tcha?”
Now, Aunt Ruth is the quintessential housewife. Up early in the morning to make a hot breakfast for her family, making everything from scratch, and constantly concerned with how well-fed her loved ones are.
The answer to both of her questions is yes. I am, and I do love it. Sometimes I don’t even want to leave my house. It’s just so warm and comfy in here.
Her comment was reinforced later in the evening, as I was baking up a batch of cookies for a few guests who were coming over, and I thought to myself “hmmm, I should really have some dough in the freezer that I could just pop in the oven in a pinch.”
Why is this notable? Well, only seven years ago I was a wandering, bohemian musician, playing clarinet in front of independently owned bookstores, having rigorous philosophical debates with grad students, collaborating on the spot at open mic nights. What I was not doing was thinking about settling down, much less strategizing about the fastest way to make cookies for guests.
And here I am, with my apron and gloves, spit-up on my shoulder, house slippers on my feet, happy as can be. Who would’ve thunk it? Not me, that’s for sure.
When Aunt Ruth made those comments, I had the feeling that I was connecting with her, and all the other old-school housewives from that era, despite the difference in time and backgrounds. It was kind of epic.
What are some ways your life is unexpectedly different?