One could argue that their respective zones are retrograde and sexist, but it works for them.
My father had the lawn, the garage and his workshop.
My mother had the rest of the house.
My mother asked only that these not be publicly displayed.)
But now that theyve downsized and moved into senior living, the zones have merged.
Where roles were once understood, theyve had to be renegotiated.
Im referring to my fathers invasion of the kitchen.
She has not borne it lightly.
He considered baking a metric ton of cookies helping with her recovery.
She could only see an ugly appliance taking up precious counter space.
howled my mother on the phone.
A retired dietitian, my mother has a complicated relationship with cookies.
Yes, she loves them, but there are standards, in quality and quantity.
My father was failing at both metrics.
His snickerdoodles are too hard.
I said, Stan, give these away.
My father gave the cookies to the front desk staff at their senior center.
He replaced her pots.
Nonetheless, they were my mothers.
She didnt think there was anything wrong with them, and he was overstepping.
I cant lift these things!
He bought cast iron!
Does it matter if hes doing all the cooking now?
Who cares what pots he uses?
That was the wrong answer.
My mother clearly still considers herself administrator of the kitchen zone.
He shouldve consulted her.
Hed had an infatuation with the TV showThe Galloping Gourmet, and a hippie bread-baking phase.
She rolled with it.
Until he took over a dinner party in 1976 and served hasenpfeffer (rabbit stew).
For a week leading up to the party, there was a sever-headed, pickled rabbit in our refrigerator.
As you’re able to imagine, the sinewy, vinegar-soaked rabbit meat was not a hit.
My mother was mortified.
My father had been banished from the kitchen ever since.
