Sewing & cooking & painting – oh my! That jingle is meant to be sung to the tune of lions & tigers & bears – oh my! Nonsense, right? Whyever would I be as frightened of domestic activities as Dorothy (Wizard of Oz, of course) is of a haunted forest? The simple answer is that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing with a needle, a spatula or a paint brush.
Okay, okay, okay – I lie (but only a little bit, promise). My mom considered the kitchen “her” room, and she called the family to dinner only after she had fully prepared the meal and set the table. Our home was famous for being consistently stocked with cookies and cakes and whatever else my mom’s latest edition of Food&Wine deemed popular.
I’m digressing too much. Point is, my mom never taught me or my siblings how to cook. Cooking was her therapy — something she did to relax – and the skill was never passed on or shared. When I went to college, I reaped the benefits of a delicious cafeteria until I discovered 100 ways to cook a meal in the microwave.
Everything changed when I met Jon. My new crush didn’t know any microwave secrets or own any pots&pans. He preferred eating out for breakfast (Bruegger’s Bagels), lunch (Qdoba or Quiznos) and dinner (a few rotating spots).
The meal routine was fun when we first started dating, but as we began spending more time together, I wanted to have dinners at home (a little just-the-two-of-us time, if you will). And so, drum roll… I read cookbooks, watched UTube tutorials, became addicted to Pinterest, and, eventually, taught myself to cook.
My high school offered sewing and cooking and pottery and painting, but I figured I would spend four years filling my schedule with traditional things like biology and calculus and English. Unfortunately for me, the ‘staying away from anything domestic’ trend continued through college. 10 years later, I can write an essay on the topic-of-your-choice-in under-20-minutes but I cannot hem a skirt. Houston, we have a problem.
My domestic instincts didn’t kick-in until my MA was framed. Great to have the degree, but what about making this house a home? Geesh. It’s a whole new ball game.
Jon came home work a few weeks ago with a hole in his jeans, and I instinctively wanted to fix it. Hear that? Wanted to. Some sort of ‘let me take care of you’ gene that makes it more reasonable to stitch and sew than head to Nordstrom. Well, Christmas came and a sewing machine was under the tree and soon ‘seamstress’ will be added to my list of skills.
Are you still reading this? I might just feel like typing because the whole point of this letter is simply to tell you that I’ve finally found patterns and bought fabric and am ready to embark on my stitch&sew career.
I’m a little excited.
That’s all (and that’s enough, right?)