I’m about half-way through with Rachel Held Evans’ recent book A Year of Biblical Womanhood.  I’m reading YBW this week and blogging about my experience.  This may actually bleed into next week, but I’m hoping to finish up this weekend… 

I finished the chapter on domesticity yesterday, and was feeling pretty amazing.  Not only am I a quite capable baker, but I can cook a mean ham and throw together a pot roast in no time.  If Rachel really wanted to be domestic instead of just make a ruckus for her book, I thought, she would have picked something easier than a homemade pie and she wouldn’t have baked it on Thanksgiving Eve.  She’s probably a fine cook under normal circumstances, I continued — she’s just choosing something hard where any number of things can go wrong as a gimmick, setting herself up for disaster.  I was feeling a little condescending about the whole process, until…

Today.  Today I decided to make a cake to celebrate a friend’s very exciting and wonderful good news.  She requested strawberry, so I found a recipe and headed to the store.  I needed a 15-ounce package and a 10-ounce package of frozen strawberries in syrup, but there was nothing even CLOSE to this.  I ended up buying the only berries in syrup they had.

Well, whoa.  Let me just tell you that whatever Paula Deen was asking for when she wrote this recipe, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a frozen red rock covered in freezer burn.  By the time it was defrosted even a little, it was more soup than fruit.  I tried stirring in some extra flour to thicken up the very wet batter, but who can really tell how that will turn out.  I’ve never been a huge believer in the philosophy that baking required “exact measurements” . . . but I’m not feeling incredibly optimistic.

So I’m eating a little crow and hoping for the best in the kitchen tonight (and thanking the Lord that H is out of town this weekend and won’t see the strawberry-cake-disaster that may or may not be coming out of my oven in the next two minutes.  And I’m also feeling a little guilty for jumping to conclusions half-way through the story of a woman’s experience with God and cooking and cleaning and righteousness.  It’s her story, not mine.

Domesticity in YBW and a Kitchen Disaster
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