I spent a lot of time thinking about food this weekend. I got out cookbooks to plan meals for the week before going grocery shopping (something I never do); made broccoli and cheese soup and blueberry bread from scratch; read a lot of Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle; lamented the lack of CSAs in our area; and discussed with Adam plans to garden, can, and freeze our own fruits and vegetables this year.
We spent a lot of time talking about our families and what we'd come from, and our conversation arrived at the conclusion that feminism meant something very different to our parents' generation than it does to ours. For them, it was all about avoiding the oppression of the home by choosing to use formula rather than breastfeed or take the kids to McDonalds every week to avoid cooking. My definition of feminism is that of an industrious woman, one who knows how to take care of things and doesn't mind getting her hands dirty, in and out of the home.
I never thought I would be someone who enjoyed the domestic arts. Don't get me wrong -- there are plenty I don't enjoy. But in an effort to slow life down and live with intention, my attention is drawn away from modern conveniences and toward the careful crafting of things for myself and my family -- a meal made from scratch, a pair of hemmed pants, a clean floor, a slowly sipped cup of coffee. I'm grateful for the choice.