There is a club of which I am not a member, nor would I ever be offered even discounted membership should there be a need to bolster the ranks. That would be the club of people, mostly women, who do traditional, home-based crafts and tasks, including gardening, canning, sewing, baking, quilting, and yes, even knitting.
Oh, I can bake a great Tollhouse cookie – even know the recipe by heart – but that talent grew out of a desperate need for chocolate, and not from a deep-seated desire to learn how to bake well. I can follow a recipe, make a decent meal when I have the time and inclination, and can even bake a few different cakes and pies, but when it comes to really knowing one’s way around a kitchen, I have been voted off the island.
And indeed, as the mater familias of my little corner of the world, it is necessary for me to know how to wield a shopping cart, feed, clothe and keep my children clean and relatively presentable to the world, and make our home a nice place to live. Again, I can live up to these responsibilities.
But I am no Martha Stewart. Or Ina Garten. Or even Ann Hood (the wonderful author of "The Knitting Circle.")
Sunday’s Washington Post had an editorial about the new domesticity – the Gen X and Milennial generations' newly acquired passion for the domestic arts. Not only is the growing and making of one’s own food, canning it and saving it up for winter pleasurable, it is feeding into the life of more self sufficiency and sustainability that so many are embracing.
The author argues that her tech-saturated generation not only craves hands-on activity and creativity, it is also imbuing its food and clothing creation with moral purpose. There is satisfaction in knowing that not only are you keeping the earth greener with your choices to grow your own food, you are also sticking it to the military-industrial complex (and staying true to your values of being the 99%) by staying out of the stores and taking responsibility for clothing and feeding yourself.
Sigh. It used to be I only had to hang my head in shame in front of my neighbors, all of whom can be seen out in their gardens on any pleasant day, hands deep in the peaty earth, planting flowers and trees and greens of all sorts. My idea of gardening, on the other hand, is to toss some already-grown flowers into some flower pots, neglect them and then pray they die quickly so I can stop feeling guilty about not watering them.
But today, I have to answer to an entire generation, perhaps including my children, as to why I don’t want to grow my own vegetables, can my own tomatoes, spin my own flax, sew my own clothes, quilt my own bedcovers, knit my own hats, sour my own yogurt, churn my own butter … the list goes on and on. My chagrin knows no bounds.
As with many things in life that can be tidily sorted under a generational rubric (“oh, those wacky Baby Boomers are at it again”) I don’t fit neatly into a category. As someone born in 1963, I am officially a Boomer, but really don’t belong with those who still reminisce about the heady days at Woodstock. And although I straddle the starting year for the Gen Xers, I also don’t relate to the legendary (although greatly exaggerated) slackerdom of those who were born of the Boomers. I am a bridge generation, and as such, I have no obvious place in the universe.
So I’m kind of hoping this gives me license to skip this next phase of the revolution.
Much like my tech skills (somewhere between understanding the need to tweet but not really getting how to do it) I am caught between a mulch pile and a sewing machine – two items that give me hives when I encounter them. I do not know how to sew, nor do I have the slightest desire to learn. The last time I encountered thread and bobbins was in 6th grade home economics class, when I had to make a jumper and then wear it in the school fashion show. My skirt and bib never quite attached at the right point, and there was a giant gape in my finished product, through which my underwear shone. The unsympathetic teacher still made me march on the runway, causing no small amount of tears and humiliation.
So, no sewing machine in this house. Buttons are about as sophisticated as I get.
I also am the product of a mother whose idea of haute cuisine was jello molds and Yule logs. The day she no longer had a family to care for and feed was the day she discovered take-out – and never again cooked a meal. I can live without the jello, but eternal take-out sounds sublime to me.
And the gardening? Well, all I can say is that when my parents finally sold the house in which I grew up, the backyard looked like something out of a ghost story, complete with ivy and weeds crawling up the sides of the fences, obscuring the grass floor almost completely. There were clearly no gardening shears for me to inherit. My father now lives in a high-rise apartment where he doesn’t even have to shovel his own snow. Now that’s living.
When I have free time, I want to spend it OUT of my house – not tied to domestic chores. I have a deep appreciation for convenience items that allow me to do other things – pre-packaged (but healthful and tasty) meals, all-in-one cleaning fluids, pre-fabricated clothing. I am a fan of the Whole Foods take-out counter and Thai restaurants. While I think gardens are beautiful, I prefer to enjoy other people’s efforts.
And don’t get me started on the raise-your-own-chicken movement – actually a popular activity in my neighborhood. While my children think it’s cool and fun to collect fresh eggs in your own backyard, I can’t begin to imagine cleaning chicken coops. I don’t even like scrubbing my children’s sinks (and make them do it themselves.)
So the back-to-the-land project will have to continue without me. I will try to walk proudly, head held high, bringing home my organic eggs from the farmer’s market and my Target bags with pre-fab socks and jeans for my kids. I will bow to no one’s pressure to invest in canning materials so that my family can have fresh tomato sauce all winter.
And I’m afraid the knitting circle will have to save a seat for someone else.
Photo by stevendepolo via Flickr
It's a Brooklyn thing. Our idea of nature includes pigeons that run and rats that party along subway tracks.
Posted by: Rachel Martin | Thursday, December 01, 2011 at 04:36 PM
Good for you! As a stay-at-home mom in an eco-crazy community, I'm surrounded by knitters, composters, and organic farmers! Oh my! It's not enough to just buy organic eggs, many of them are actually raising chickens in their backyards. (I kid you not!) I was invited to learn how to do canning and politely declined. I now believe the act of declining was itself impolite...in a Stepford Wives sort of way.
Posted by: Rogue Housewife | Tuesday, December 06, 2011 at 10:22 AM
"My idea of gardening, on the other hand, is to toss some already-grown flowers into some flower pots, neglect them and then pray they die quickly so I can stop feeling guilty about not watering them."
Lol! I recently bought a couple of cactus plants (one for home, one for the office) and they are dying! I thought it was impossible to kill a cactus!
Actually, this summer we grew our own basil, parsley, lettuce, and grape tomatoes (totally John and Sam's project). It was great until we all got bored and let them get out of control.
Posted by: Paula | Friday, December 09, 2011 at 06:12 AM