The Homemaker's Creed

"I believe no task is too humble that contributes to the cleanliness, the order, the health and the well being of the household."

---Betty Crocker Homemaker's Creed.

One of my most prized possessions is my circa 1962 Betty Crocker cookbook. The one that is a three-ring binder and has all the mid-century modern photographs of Jell-O molds and deviled eggs in those plates whose only use is to hold deviled eggs. It has notes from my mother on specific recipes and has all these charts on how many ounces is a cup and what to do if a recipe calls for buttermilk and you don't have any. It's a real resource;  left to my own devices, I'd have poisoned my family and set the house afire a long time ago. However, I'm not on board with this creed, because I simply do not have it in me.

EDITED TO ADD: I am apparently unable to read anything homemaking related correctly. My book is a BETTER HOMES AND GARDENS Cookbook, not a Betty Crocker. I've only been calling it Betty Crocker my WHOLE DAMN LIFE. 

 

I grew up on the cusp of home ec classes in school. They had them, but in 7th grade, some law changed and instead of the boys taking a year of shop (half wood shop, half metal shop) and the girls taking a year of home economics (half cooking, half sewing) everyone rotated through all four classes. Mrs. Potter taught sewing; she was a gifted seamstress and a really lovely person who had the grace not to mention that stuffed dog I made only had three legs.

That one year was the only practical training I had in any kind of homemaking. My mother showed me a few things, but none of them stuck. She wasn't exactly a Susie Homemaker either, she had been in the Navy and traveled the world before getting married, so she never saw her worth as being tied to how clean or orderly the house was. Many nights found her waiting for my father to come home and then zipping out the door to hit the dog track once he pulled into the driveway. Her dinner efforts on those nights were to toss my brother and me a hot dog and tell my father to pick up a pizza.

While celebrating New Year's last week with the traditional Chinese food feast, it happened that a juicy, delicious dumpling (worth every one of the 47 Weight Watcher's points I now have to burn) exploded on a new red sweater I was wearing. Seriously, it looked like the Exxon Valdez had lost its load all over the front. I asked around for recommendations of a good dry cleaner, and I was amazed at how many people replied with household hints and tricks at stain removal. There are people that know these things? Yes, yes, there are.

Everyone agreed that blue dish detergent was the key. They wash ducks and seabirds with it when there's an oil spill. I tried it, but it didn't work, so now what? The big guns, that's what. Baby powder, hydrogen peroxide, and something called "Grandma's Secret Spot Remover." If they sell it by the gallon in stores, is it really a secret anymore? Thankfully my friend Tim and his staff at Ace Hardware had the goods, so I stocked up.

It should be noted that in addition to my poor homemaker skills, chemistry is not my forte either, having nearly flunked it in high school. As I write this, the sweater is drying flat having been treated with a combination of Murphy's oil, Lestoil and Kosher sea salt. How is it that grease takes out a grease stain? Well, I guess I will find out.

Other suggestions included putting a paper bag underneath and over the stain and ironing it, which might have worked if I owned an iron. There used to be one around, but apparently, it's missing. Another homemaker fail on my part. This skillset of sewing on buttons, removing stains, and knowing how to MacGyver up some buttermilk seems to be a lost art, and that is too bad because no one is ever worse off for knowing how to do something practical. I just don't think these abilities need to be limited to women or that anyone should have to swear allegiance to a creed of stain removal and dust bunny eradication. For the record, only one home remedy came from a man (Thanks, Ken) Come on guys, time to get in the game.

Coincidentally, the town census was due this week. Somehow my occupation is down as "At Home." You can bet I changed that. Not because it's a bad thing, but because it's not accurate for me. I would be so fired if that was my job.  I hope the Great Dumpling Spill of 2018 will not spell the end of my lovely red sweater, but in the meantime, I now know more about stains, grease and the many uses for an old toothbrush and some vinegar than I thought possible. It' s a poor day you don't learn something new I guess, but I'm still never going to be a homemaker, at least not if the definition is limited to cooking and cleaning skills. Throw in the ability to welcome friends anytime, throw on the kettle for a nice cuppa, and keep the children from going on a crime spree and perhaps I qualify. They look pretty happy, they survived childhood, right?

These are days....You'll Remember

"These are days you'll remember

Never before and never since

I promise

Will the whole world be warm as this

And as you feel it

You'll know it's true

That you are blessed and lucky."

---Natalie Merchant

What is it about the "good old days" that makes us long for them? I'm not a time lord, so no phone box will allow me to pop off to another era that some say was so much better. Recently, a discussion among some friends (OK, it was Facebook, but all those who commented were real-life people, most from here in town) awoke a bit of a controversy over the good old days, how it was, what is different now, and who's to blame for it all. Sometimes I use a social media post as a kind of journal entry. Then I can go back in a year or so and see what was happening at a particular time. This post wasn't meant to be one of those; it was intended to be funny. 

I had taken the very unusual step of pulling my couch out from the wall and cleaning under it. The exact details of everything that was under there should remain unexplained, but it was a treasure trove of spare change, Legos, hair ties and silverware. It was like the mythical graveyard of cutlery. There may have been some bowls too. That is when the wheels came off the Electrolux, and the debate began.

While a few of my friends could relate, in just a few comments it became clear that my habits as a housekeeper and a mother were the cause of all the evils of our modern society. My children and their milk-slopping, Cheerio-chomping, snack-snogging little faces were devoid of manners, and I had let it happen, right under my nose. Sad! Apparently, some of my friends have traveled further along the road of life than I have, and they remembered when mothers stayed at home, served the family meals around a table, and nary a speck of food had ever been near their couches. Well, I remember those days too. I was a little kid in the late 60s, the Mad Men era of little boxes, on the hillside. It wasn't all Dick Van Dyke, tripping over the ottoman while Laura made a roast and Richie was conveniently in his room. There were workaholic fathers who drank too much, and mothers who often smoked like chimneys or nipped at the cooking sherry in the pantry. There was a war on, and it played on the television every night. Citizens were sprayed with fire hoses or pelted with rocks for the vicious crime of trying to vote or go to school. Good times, right?

Maybe it's just a Kelley thing, and I come by lackadaisical food rules the same way I got my red hair and my attitude? Our house did not look like a Ladies' Home Journal spread. My mother was much more Peg Bundy than Laura Petrie, which was probably difficult for her at the time, but she was always a rebel; it was likely deliberate on her part. The one fact most of my friends agreed on though, was that the family has changed. That's because time has marched on and change is necessary. There are blended families, single-parent families, families with two moms, or two dads. Parents work more; social research has shown that. Children are busier, not playing kick the can or tag, but club soccer and lacrosse. There is, sadly, still a war on, and there isn't a day that goes by that the news doesn't show a bombing, a shooting or a violent protest. We all know there are still parents who drink too much or suffer in silence but put on a good face.

What does any of that have to do with my nonexistent vacuuming skills? Nothing. That's the point. While some contended that the previous generation of stay at home mommies and societal expectations was the better way to live, I'm not buying that, not entirely. Rather than looking at a specific decade, we should turn our attention instead to who we are now, rather than who someone else was back in the day. The truth is, our recollections of the past are not always infallible. The brain processes memories every day. There are thousands of minutes and hours of experience, and not everything is retained. We forget because the mind needs to do that to make room for new minutes and hours of what is to come. We can't be fully present in our lives today if we are still looking back at what used to be.

I read somewhere that there is a reason the windshield of a car is usually larger than the rear window. And my father, a member of "The Greatest Generation," always told me "Don't look backward, you're not going that way. Also, you'll fall on your arse." Was this discussion a come to Jesus moment? Am I going to suddenly turn into a hybrid of Martha Stewart and June Cleaver and keep a home worthy of a magazine layout after witnessing my living room landfill? No. Not even close. Are the kids banned from morning cereal on the couch and late-night snacks in the recliner? No. The days gone by hold a lot of sweet memories for me, but they are over. These are the days, and despite it all, we are blessed and lucky.