Barefoot In The Kitchen

Last night, as my every saporous desire was being satisfied by a pepper-rubbed filet, grilled asparagus and sauteed mushrooms with roma tomatoes, I concluded that I am not a feminist (despite my 'equality in the bedroom' and 'you-go-girl' style blog posts). I had not prepared the feast I was devouring, and a small part of me felt guilty about that. Granted, it WAS Valentine's Day, when men are commercially tasered into being romantic. With flushed cheeks, I graciously accepted Charming Fellow's gesture. In fact, I ate up [literally] every cheese-soaked minute of his doting (as most women would).

That role reversal, however, is something I know I would struggle with were it to be a regular occurrence. Here I am, a university-educated female consultant, hailing from an extremely liberal country, who also happens to subscribe to the fairytale ideals of the traditional female responsibilities in the household. I look forward to preparing the meals, separating the socks, scrubbing the bathtub, rinsing the dishes, preparing the budget, massaging tired feet, grocery shopping, buttoning the dress shirt collars that I've ironed...

I have often wondered if this conservative instinct is a sign of weakness. But after much internal debate, I have concluded quite the opposite. I'm a woman; which by virtual default, makes me a caregiver. I want to provide for the man in my life the way my mother provides for my father, and my grandmother provides for my grandfather. What I've discovered with age and wisdom is that my desire to nurture has yet to obstruct the weight of my intellect or the authority of my voice. One characteristic does not have to hold back another. I can work, play, delegate, support, debate, learn, speak, manage, love, comfort and protect; all with equal vigour.

Bring on the cookbook...