Let the blogs begin!
I suppose I should start with a little background: I hail from the Oregon Coast (via California, like everyone else.) At 21 I made the decision to finish college in Georgia, where I played volleyball for my college team. Since I was roughly 6 feet tall at birth, sports were kinda my thing growing up. My parents raised me to be a fighter, to be tough, and never to accept poverty. College was the only option. The only way out of broken-down cars and canned tuna on toast. So when I was offered a full scholarship to play volleyball, I packed up my things, kissed the 'rents goodbye, and moved to the south, sight unseen. I fancied myself to be courageous, you see. I had a solid background in Women's Studies (at least, I had taken that one course at the community college,) I had read Elizabeth Cady Stanton (I mean actually read her stuff,) and I was out to conquer the world... or at least the top 3 market in television news.
A few years into the Georgia stint I met the most wonderful man, the man that is truly better than my dreams!, my fiance Zachary. Zach proposed to me and we are currently planning our wedding. He is doing his best to fix up a little house for us to live in after we get married and I'm doing my best not to drop the bomb that he is gonna be way better at this marriage thing than I am. The guy just exudes patience. It's borderline obnoxious. He is constantly thinking about me, he is kind, funny, quirky, and cute. He is a strong man, but also a fun boy. God has blessed me far beyond my expectations (isn't He good at that?)
But during our engagement I ran into a little problem. It started with the fact that he can cook really well and I can't follow a recipe (don't you tell me what to stir into my pancakes, Sara Lee!) We shortly realized that whilst Zach is a Danny Tanner by no means, he actually enjoys doing the dishes. I, on the other hand, don't cook specifically because I don't like doing the dishes. Or putting my clothes in the hamper. Or taking care of my mail. I can vaccuum. That's all I'm interested in. He also has a one-up on the whole child-rearing process. As the youngest of 8 children, his nephews and nieces came fairly early. I dabbled in baby-sitting, but mostly with cousins who were potty-trained.
(I see this is getting long. I have a point, I promise.) My general lack of tidy had never truly bothered me before. I did not advertise it, but I had my excuses. I'm creative. Creative people never clean. I'm a writer for crying out loud. Writer's cannot be bothered with such simpleton things as bleach and swiffer dusters. Yet I found myself increasingly defeminized by my fiance's abilities and my own shortcomings. I was completely insulted when he would suggest I use nutmeg, instead of cinnamon. I am the woman. I think I know how to bake a cake. While watching his nephews he made another suggestion to me and I nearly ran for the hills. How dare he correct me! I'm the girl, dammit! What can't he just be the domestically aloof man and just let me be the girl!?!?
And thus my plight, dear reader. I have found myself in desire of domestic skills. Skills which, according to society, I don't actually need to have. My culture tells me that I have a choice. I can be a career woman if I want to be. And my culture is correct. I have more of a choice than so many women before me. But...SHOCK AND AWE...I want to be good at baking! I crave to know how to knit, sew, scrub, clean, and care for children. This is not what I expected when I got on that plane, but it turns out that I'm a bit old-fashioned!
So here are my adventures in a homemade life. From scratch! I am determined to become house trained (and hopefully a better partner and person in general along the way.)
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