At first, I felt like a 16th century explorer, sailing into culinary territory with the wind in my sails. I stood at the wheel with a grand sense of entitlement, a flag in hand, ready to sink into soil and claim it as my own. No, I was not so ruthless that I intended to annihilate innocents who got in my way--in fact, I shared the fruits of my journey with them at the dinner table each night--but I knew I wouldn't conquer if I didn't assert my control of the kitchen. For he who already occupied this land before me knows it well. Not only can he move with swift grace from stove to sink, wok to grill, he can ably reach into his quiver for weapons, his hands and his knives move like one at the butcher block. I couldn't compete with his homeland advantage without careful planning, and cookbooks laid open on my counters as maps to guide me through rough waters.
About a year ago, I enjoyed a piece called, "The Rise of the Kitchen Bitch" by Hanna Rosin, wherein she detailed her insistence in taking back the kitchen. This resonated with me at the time, especially her assertion that "male cooking is turning out to be one of those feminist-friendly changes that come with an unexpected, bitter aftertaste," because my husband, whose own interest and experience with cooking far outweighs mine, could also be accused of being overly fussy and controlling when it comes to preparing dinner.
In the early years of our marriage, our lives revolved around eating. We both loved to eat, he loved to cook. I was enamored with the way food occupied his thoughts, and it wasn't unusual for us to start the day with a romantic chat about what we would have for dinner. But as our number of children grew from one to three, our lives have become less conducive to weekday feasts, and too often we have been hungry hostages while he happily seared, deglazed, reduced, and plated it up restaurant-style at 8 o'clock. The problem was that I had no interest in taking over. This was his talent and source of pleasure, not mine, and I wasn't like Hanna Rosin with memories of sharing space before the stove.
Where are we now? I have more time and my husband has less, so I'm working on shifting our "European" dining schedule closer to 7 o'clock or earlier. The challenge is that our family is accustomed to yummy food. I can't simply shove my spouse aside and serve up chicken nuggets and oven fries. If I did, our boys would run to the fridge for the Sriracha sauce to spice things up. I'm a few weeks into this transition, and I haven't given up yet. A new Martha Stewart cookbook (I'm not ashamed to write) has provided much guidance; I'm growing confident to make adaptations to suit everyone's fervor for flavor. However, as time goes on, I'm trying not to see my spouse as my opposition. He's not lurking behind the trees with knives in hand, trying to keep me off of his land, and my favorite meals have been collaborations. Frankly, my three-month-old sous-chef can be a little unreliable, so while Martha Stewart has plenty of advice, it's also nice to just walk into the home office or make a quick phone call for the best approach to broiling pork tenderloin. And hey, it takes a lot of work. By Friday, I'm more than ready to cede control for the weekend and watch my happy husband groove to his music and cook the night away.
This doesn't mean I'm not subjected to the occasional schooling from the all-knowing kitchen guru (my jaw clenches as I type), but while some women work hard to take back the kitchen, I'm doing my best to just get to know it. I'll put my flag down for now and listen to what the natives have to share.
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