As wild and crazy as I fancy myself to be, and, even behave at times, I’m actually quite ordinary.
Well, I’m ordinary in the ways that modern American culture would dictate. But, as we all know the new culture of, well, anywhere is hardly normal. Perhaps standard is a better word. There are certain things that typical people, couples, and families just do. Just some ol’ fashioned, typical, American behavioral patterns.
Even while I was drinking, I loved the domestic life. Don’t get me wrong. I like being a strong, well spoken, and opinionated lady. But, I’d have no problem being barefoot in the kitchen, adorn with a little sundress and apron, baby on my hip, whipping up a pie. Actually, in my spare time, I’m not too far from that, well, all save for the baby on my hip. It’s how I like to spend my time when I’m not busy being preoccupied with my sobriety, depression, and job hunt: I’m in the kitchen, making other people stuff to eat.
It’s one of those things that’s been lost on me lately. I’ve been so wrapped up in this shit-storm that is my jobless life in sobriety, that, I haven’t taken time to make pie.
When Lars informed me that we’d actually have a whole weekend day together from sunrise to sunrise, my heart lit up with childlike delight. And, I decided it was time to cook for him. I’d done that once before, but, it was chili. And, I informed Lars that chili isn’t a real homemade meal. It’s a bunch a shit you throw in a pot and heat up. Since Lars can be a picky eater, I didn’t want to rock the boat with any of my fabulous Indian curries or my somewhat adventurous slow cooked sweet and sour pork. What to make, what to make? I noticed from Lars’ recycling pile that he eats a good deal of chicken pot pie, packaged of course. And, that makes me sad. Because, people, pie, pie is supposed to made by sweet, loving hands, not by a machine in the Marie Callender processing plant.
So, homemade chicken pot pie it would be. I went shopping at the supermarket and showed up at Lars’ place with all the fix-in’s and, of course, measuring cups, measuring spoons, a pastry brush, and a whisk. Because, ladies, when in doubt, the bachelor pad does NOT have the kitchen tools you need most.
You know me and my expectations. I had envisioned myself like June Cleaver, chopping away at the counter, smiling while the radio hummed a sweet tune in the living room, where Lars would sit with his book, reading away, getting up and stopping into the kitchen every now and then to check on my delightful pie’s progress.
Well, as you may have guessed, my expectations were a far cry from reality. Where, I arrived at Lars’ lugging my bags, purse, and keys like a incompetent bell hop. I entered the apartment to the crash of drums and screaming guitars. Ahhh yes, Lars’ death metal. All the comforts of home.
As I set up shop in the kitchen, Lars continued his spring cleaning, CD blasting. But, he did make frequent stops in the kitchen for a nuzzle and a pie update. And, long story short, the pie was great. It took longer to bake than we anticipated, and, we were fucking starving after smoking a half a pack of cigarettes each waiting for it to come out of the oven. But it was nice, even if we did eat at nine o’clock. We sat at the table, like adults, ate a salad, and kicked Lars’ little white cat down from our chairs as he ruthlessly attempted to get in on the pot pie action.
So, as it turns out, I’m no June Cleaver. But, even if I don’t have an ugly dress and apron from a half century ago, or the waist to fit in it, I still felt like a domestic goddess in my own way. Lars and I are a new, American couple. And yes, sometimes in this day and age, you have to BYO whisk. But, I like that I can walk in Lars’ door without knocking. I like that a neurotic, white cat runs to greet me, and, I even like that I have to shout bloody murder over the death metal to announce my arrival.
It’s little by little, but, I am living my dream. The life domestic. Only, mine isn’t so black and white.