Feminists, June Cleaver and Pancakes

I was born in the wrong generation. Though I believe that in marriage and in life, males and females should be on an equal playing field, I tend to take on many of the tasks and responsibilities that June Cleaver found to be in her job description. Since these two ideas often clash, I think the reason that I have pseudo-feminist views and yet still clean the bathrooms at home are due to the fact that I am an anal neat freak - not because Troy expects me to do these jobs. He has been known to pick up the mop and broom every once in a while too.

When I say that I was born in the wrong generation, I mean that there is a part of me that thinks traditional, "old-fashioned" ideas are romantic and cozy. I like making meatloaf and mashed potatoes from scratch. I think cooking is therapeutic and honestly, it just tastes better. I like to wear the black and white paisley apron that my sister, Laura gave me for Christmas two years ago. It protects my clothes and I think it's really cute. I like getting recipe cards from friends and family on 3x5 cards with their handwriting. It makes me feel closer to them when I am making their dish. I love place cards, handwritten invitations, candles and table cloths. I am June Cleaver in the new millennium. It is a role I embrace.

Sometimes my perfectionism gets in the way of me living vicariously through June. When a mistake is made in the kitchen, it suddenly becomes catastrophic and makes me want to throw my spatula at the wall. Since I am becoming more of a veteran in the kitchen, these temper tantrums have become almost non-existent. I almost welcome my mistakes now because then I learn from them. For example, I now know that sometimes the fancy cook books can still have misprints. (I had a breakdown after trying to make a chicken pot pie by Paula Dean. There were tears. It was not pretty.)

Pancakes, for whatever reason have always been a trouble spot for me. I usually burn most of the batch, the house gets super smoky and our smoke detector blares it's annoying warning which then forces me to grab a dishtowel and fan it down like a maharajah. Thus, I don't make them very often, even at Troy's request. Today, I decided, was the day that I grab a hold of the pancake reins and tame that beast. That, and I had some eggs in the fridge there were going to go bad this week. I still burned the first two pancakes and the house looked like we had left a fog machine on after a rave, BUT not a peep from the smoke detector was made and the rest of the pancakes survived!! Yay me!!

Suddenly, I realized that I figured out why I had always failed at pancakes in the past! I know how to make them right in the future! (Little things like not trying to multitask in the kitchen and then forgetting your little pancakes, or turning the heat up super hot, to name a couple.) As Troy and I munched on my super yummy, chocolate chip pancakes, we had visions of having Pancake Saturdays with our non-existent, well behaved, polite children who also happen to have impeccable table manners. We dreamed of having themed Pancake Saturdays: chocolate chip, blueberry, and maybe even German, Swedish and Pannekoekens as a nod to our heritages. One big happy Carlson family sitting around the dinning room table enjoying our pancakes and our Saturdays together . . . . sigh . . . . (If this paragraph suddenly gives to the urge to ask about out family time line, see Baby Fever.)

I think that vision is cozy and sweet. It comes straight from the June Cleaver's Bible for family, food and togetherness. If that makes the common feminist want to body slam me, come on over. I'll be ready with my cute apron and rolling pin. And after I have dominated that battle, I may even invite her to join us for Pancake Saturday . . . if I can find an extra place card.