Domestic Goddess

My mother went out to work when she was 13. My father always maintains that he had to teach her to cook and that she was never as good as his mother. The only thing I ever saw Nana cook was porridge, which Dad loves….. and anyway in my opinion his taste in food is dubious. My mother cooked three different meals practically every night because I wouldn’t eat roast and Dad wouldn’t eat ‘rabbit-food’. She cooked adventurously for her age group (we had pizza before I had ever been to a takeaway); she cleaned everything all the time; she sewed expertly because she was a tailoress (I’m keeping the feminised words. Whoever heard of a Domestic God?). Whatever my father thinks, my mother was a Domestic Goddess and as such has ruined my life.

I’m a bad housekeeper. I hate cleaning bins, dusting, vacuuming…. You have to clean everything in every way all the time. I see the value in it, but I don’t like it. I put off washing up sometimes. I buy kitchen objects I like so it’s not so much of a chore to wash them, but I still think it’s a job that should be shared. I cook often and put effort in, and then end up doing the washing up too. We supposedly share the washing up. I try to not care when things pile up and it’s not my turn. I try not to care when there are specks of food on the washed up dishes. I try not to care that I have to unstack the dishes 90% of the time. I try not to care when delicate objects are scoured and roasting pans aren’t…. I know these things aren’t that important, but my mother haunts me. It’s a double-whammy - my mother’s expectations (now mine) and the expectations I have as a modern woman.