The Irony of my Ironing

“Ronnie, get in here. It’s your week to clean the kitchen. Wendy had last week.” Mom trumpeted through our small house. An awkward 12 year old shuffled through the living room and groaned looking at the stack of breakfast dishes in the sink and grimy pans stacked on the stove. “That’s not fair!” I said. “Why doesn’t Danny ever have to clean?”
“Because he’s a boy and cleaning is women’s work.” Mom’s words infuriated me. The burning started in my feet and rose quickly through the rest of my body, finally shooting out my mouth like a shift whistle.
“That’s bullshit!” I screamed! “Since when does having a penis count as a free pass from housework?”
“Since the beginning of time, garbage mouth. Now get busy or you’ll be here all day.” She handed me a rag and slammed the dish soap on the counter.
There was no use fighting her. I set to work rinsing egg yolk from dirty plates. Scrubbing the pans coated in bacon grease and cooking oil seemed to drag on forever.
Just when I thought I was finished, Mom would come stomping in there and point out the burned-on food on the stove top.
“Get an SOS pad from under the sink and clean these burners. Don’t just wipe down the counters, move the appliances and clean under and behind them with bleach. Clean the refrigerator handle and door. Sweep the floor when you’re done and then call me so I can come and check it. You know, one of these days when you have a husband and kids, you’ll be thanking me for teaching you how to properly clean. If you settle your ass down and watch me, I‘ll teach you how to cook.”
My mom’s 1950’s mentality made my jaw hurt, most likely from gritting my teeth. And once again, my adolescent rage came bubbling up and out. “It’ll be a mighty COLD DAY IN HELL when I cook and clean for ANY man!”


As it turns out, nearly 30 years later I only ate most of my words. My morning begins with making breakfast, getting my girls ready to meet their day, and shuttling the kid to school. I come back home and have a quick cup of coffee before… wait for it… CLEANING THE KITCHEN.

I find myself comfortably stepping into the role of wife and mother, but certainly not for a man. It’s Sheena that I wait for at the end of the day.

I do laundry, I do toilets, I do dusting and vacuuming. Hell, I even do windows. My favorite task is grocery shopping followed by home cooking. I love the game of budgeting, meal planning, and preparing a delicious meal. I hear my mother’s voice when I both encourage and discipline the kid. I am happy and proud to ultimately be choosing the same life my mom did. And now I understand that she did it because she loves my dad.

I’m sure my parents knew what took me years to understand. You can’t put a price on a solid home life when it comes to marriage and raising children.

Valarie's Home Table

Stuffins. That’s what Valarie called them. It was the night before Thanksgiving and she was trying a new twist on an old tradition. The stuffing was made with spicy sausage and apples. I helped her chop the apples and Val mixed the ingredients. When she was done the mixture went into the cups of a muffin tin and the tray was popped into the oven. The end result was a savory taste explosion in each muffin.

What do you call it when someone creates something so deliciously fantastic but can’t repeat the dish again? Culinary amnesia? Whatever the affliction, my sweet cousin suffers from it. Actually, those of us waiting at her table are the ones who suffer. But wait! The suffering is short-lived because Valarie will instead make something so tasty that you forget what you were wanting her to repeat. Culinary amnesia in reverse??

I remember an omelet she made that was so special, Adam, Amanda and myself were speechless. Yes, my cousin has a gift. But those of us who have been blessed to be guests at her table, are the ones reaping the sweet, and often savory, rewards.