Domestic Goddess?

I don’t own an apron, I think a “dash of salt” is a ridiculous and confusing measurement, and fancy ass pots and pans are wasted on me. Martha Stewart I am not. However, early on in the relationship with my husband, Kevin, I decided to fry him a steak. I tend to only cook meat in the oven because cooking on the stove top makes the smoke alarm go off but we all do crazy things when we first fall in love.

I arrived at Kevin’s place with the steak and he provided me with cooking instructions, a fancy ass pan, and a splatter screen. The recipe seemed simple enough. Oil and warm fancy ass pan, rub meat spices on the steak (gross!), and cook each side in 5-minute increments until done. Cool, I could do this. 

About 15 minutes later I went to find Kevin and told him the steak didn’t appear to be frying properly. He walked into the kitchen, froze, and then covered his mouth to try and hide his laughter. “Oh, honey”, was all he could get out.

Everything had started off fine. I had oiled and warmed the fancy ass pan correctly and rubbed the meat as needed but that’s where I fell off the correct cooking path. Sitting on the stove was the fancy ass pan, splatter screen, and steak but in the wrong order. For some reason it seemed reasonable to me that the correct order was fancy ass pan on the stove top, splatter screen sitting on top of said pan, and the steak sitting on top of the splatter screen. Basically, I was steaming the steak with oil.

I am actually quite intelligent but in some areas of life it’s like I’m new to the party. I once knew this guy who was incredibly intelligent. He read Nietzsche and studied Latin and Greek but sometimes went to his university classes with his shirt on backwards and inside out. That’s me in the kitchen. All backwards and inside out.

It's Not Really About the Milk

FADE IN:

SUBURBAN HOME – NIGHT

 

WE OPEN on a modern suburban kitchen. We see Molly (partner 1) stirring a pot on the stove with a toddler in a highchair and infant bouncing in her arms and Sylvia (partner 2) comes in wearing a dishevelled shirt carrying a briefcase.

 

Molly

Did you get the milk I asked you to pick up?

 

Sylvia

I forgot.

 

 What do you think an effective response to this would be:

 

a)Molly: What do you mean you forgot the milk? I rushed home from work to get dinner ready and you couldn’t even pick up milk?!

 

b)Molly: You never do anything I ask you to do. Remember last week when you said you’d fold the clothes and I found them 2 days later still in the dryer?

 

c)Molly: Ok. Is there a reason you couldn’t pick it up?

 

(Hint, it’s not a or b.)

 

I get it. It’s the end of a long day and both of you are exhausted trying to be the employee, partner, and parent so it’s easy to fall into the habit of anger and defensiveness. But honestly that’s a needlessly exhausting way to deal with conflict that usually ends up with no one feeling heard and everyone cranky as f*ck.

In my experience being able to answer with choice C is a lot easier if you come into conflict, or possible conflict, trusting that your partner is not trying to hurt you or make your life harder. (And if they truly are trying to do those things, the issue is much bigger than forgotten milk.)

 

For me it’s all about intent. My husband and I both share the belief that neither of us would intentionally try and hurt the other person so there’s a lot of leeway given. When you start to show up to murky emotional situations with empathy and curiosity instead of judgement and accusations an interesting thing may happen. You may realize that a lot of their emotions and behaviour aren't really about you. It’s about how they were in traffic for an hour, had a disagreement with their boss, and they’re worried about how to keep paying the mortgage.  A lot of conflict seems to be about wanting to really feel seen, heard, and cared for. 

15 Years...

    His love feels like a calico purring on my chest in the late afternoon and tastes like chocolates wrapped in gold foil. He is soft with his words and firm with his forgiveness. Slow with judgement and quick with compassion. His hugs make me feel heard and his kisses can make everything blurry. He taught me to soften my gaze when looking inward and has helped me rewrite so many of the painful stories I’ve built my life around.

        

    My love looks like true north on his internal compass and sounds like the soulful rendering of an R&B ballad. I am soft with my guidance and firm with my honesty. Slow with disapproval and quick with tenderness. My hugs make him feel safe and my kisses make him unravel. I taught him how to create a safe place for vulnerability and inspired him with my strength.

    Our love sometimes feels like the moment between the end of an amazing performance and a standing ovation and once in awhile it feels more like the sporadic clapping after an awkward performance but mostly it feels like home. The best and worst parts of us fumbling together trying to create a life that is more than we thought it could be. We’ve created a love with the space to fall apart and rebuild over and over, each time coming out a truer version of ourselves. 

 

         Happy anniversary, my love.