Reclaiming the Feminine starts in the kitchen
IWD - Daisy Chain Flower Crown
It started with a substack for celebrating International Women’s Day …
It spoke to my heart.
In celebration of International Women’s Day (IWD) this year, we wondered if it might be possible to pause and walk barefoot together on the grass a while.
To stop the world from spinning for a day or two…
To remember days gone by and take a breath to integrate how far we’ve come since we made the first chain. To make a virtual flower crown for each other and wear it with pride.
To contemplate what’s possible for us here and now.
As we live as women in 2024…
In liberation
In sharing our creative voice
In confidence
In alchemy
In reciprocity
In sisterhood
In love
To sit together in virtual circle and share hurts, healing and dreams. To talk more of our soul whispers as we make daisy chains for the girls and women who walk behind us, beyond us and alongside us.
Yes. It’s what I need. Quite honestly, it’s what writing does for me. A chance to share who I am with the world. It’s why I keep doing it, in so many formats. And now on Substack.
So, of course, I’ll participate.
Let’s chat about femininity
The divine feminine. Feminine power. It’s been brought up in so many ways the past few years, and yet I feel it’s more elusive than ever.
Where do we learn femininity from? Is it an innate quality? Is it a learned skill?
As a Gen X female, I find myself asking that again and again.
As one of the oldest Gen Xers, I’ve found myself leading a pack of women who suddenly could DO it all, BE all. And frankly, it’s been thrilling.
I was the first woman in my family to graduate college. The first with a master’s degree. The first to start a business.
The first to do so many things.
I often think about my place in the family circle:
My great-grandmother.
My grandmother.
My mom.
Me.
My daughter.
I envision the five of us together, sitting around the fire, sharing, having a conversation about life.
I think about my great-grandmother, a woman I never got to meet. She died young in childbirth, leaving behind a husband, three boys, and two girls. As part of the migration from Germany, she settled in the Midwest for a better life. She met my great-grandfather, married, and settled on a farm to raise a family. Yet she never got the joy of moving into old age. She never saw her kids turn into productive adults or watch her grandkids play.
My grandmother was eight years old when her mother died, suddenly thrust into a maternal role. Such responsibilities! A three-year-old sister, three older brothers, and a father who depended on her. She cared for the farm, became a dynamic cook, never reading a recipe, just “knowing” what made the meal superb. She dropped out of school after the eighth grade to spend more time doing her chores.
My mom valued education. Her dream was a degree, independence, and eventually, a family. But times were different back then. Her parents didn’t see life the same way, and said no to her dreams of education … “You'll just get married and stay home.” They weren’t wrong; that was her path. She married at twenty-two and settled in to raise her family.
But there was one gift she gave to me: “You’ll earn your degree. You’ll be able to stand on your own two feet, no matter what.”
I heard that throughout my childhood. It wasn’t an option, and for that, I’m grateful.
But it did still come with expectations.
I had no idea what I wanted to be. My mom’s idea - “Be a teacher, it helps when you’re raising a family.” My dad pushed further - “How about an accountant? It’s a great job for women.”
Neither of those held my interest. At all.
But I knew the value, and earned my degree. A BS in finance and an MS in financial management a few years later.
I climbed. Banking. Auditing. And finally, my own business, where I’ve happily been for the past twenty years.
A go-getter … until I wasn’t
I had a dream. I truly believed I could have it all, do it all. Oh, did the Enjoli “I’m a Woman” advertisements impact me.
I firmly attached myself to the concept of “I can sleep when I’m dead.”
I’d rise early to get a few hours in. Planned my day carefully while my daughter was in school. Then we’d race to activities, with me trying to fit three things in at once. “I can easily pick up the dry cleaning and a few groceries and still be at the end of carpool line.” I’d tuck her into bed and head back into my home office - a few more hours for me.
Go, go, go. I was happy, thought I was happy. Until I wasn’t.
The year 2020 hit me hard. Staying home. A brother-in-law with cancer. A mom who fell and moved into assisted living. With me living more than 1,000 miles away, I tried desperately to navigate two worlds - two lives - and so much more.
I had already moved from vegetarian to vegan, and was diving deeper into plant-based living. 2020 had me baking bread, planting a garden, and reevaluating my kitchen.
My thoughts returned to my grandmother quite often.
I remember visiting her twice a year, in the summer and at Christmas. She knew my “food loves” well. We’d arrive for the holidays, and she’d meet me at the door with a jar of molasses cookies in her hands. She’d bake them, cut them into fun shapes, ice them, and sprinkle them with pretty sugars. (That jar was mine - she’d made it just for me! She made sure everyone knew. 😋)
As I aged, I’d help her in the kitchen, preparing family-style lunches and dinners. Oh, could this woman cook! But you’d never find measuring spoons or cups on her shelves. Instead, it was a pinch of this, a little of that. She eyeballed everything, and I’d just stand back and watch.
She knew cooking like the back of her hand. She’d been doing it for family since she was eight years old. And she did it so well.
She shared what she could with me, gave me my first cookbook. I still have it sitting on my shelf. Even if I didn’t have time for cooking back then - I was being all I could be! But I remembered …
As I started a family …
As my daughter declared herself vegetarian …
As I read books and started learning about the vital role food plays in our lives.
They no longer teach cooking in school, and I think that’s tragic. What skill do humans need like never before, but to learn the meaning of “real” food? How to cook it, how to choose it, what it does for our bodies. What a math class it would be: halve or double a recipe.
We don’t give enough credit to the generations before us who did it so eloquently. Could easily feed 2 or 200 people. Made with the ingredients they had. Did so with love, every single time.
2020 made that acutely aware to me.
As I started devouring plant-based cookbooks, trying recipe after recipe, I sometimes recalled my time with my grandma, sitting in her kitchen.
As I chopped onions, carrots, celery for a soup. As I measure and add whole ingredients from my pantry. And see magical, gorgeous meals I love to share with my family.
The more I learned, the more my family joined in, the more fun it became.
Food is elegant. Food is sensual.
We’ve tried to make it just something we need to survive - drive through drive-thru and filler up!
Nope, not working. Not at all.
But making meals with love? Real food, real ingredients? The love shines through. It tastes better. And it shows in our health.
We’re in the middle of the Great Wealth Transfer. We’re at the receiving end of one of the greatest wealth transfers in history. We’re in a booming economy, high appreciation of assets and houses. Women tend to live longer than men, meaning they ultimately will have more under their influence in the long run.
Plus, we’re educated - more educated - than ever before.
What good is life without health?
Shouldn’t we get back into the kitchen, focus on wellbeing, too?
Shouldn’t we care about wellth?
A gift for my daughter
My daughter declared herself a vegetarian at three years old. I knew nothing about vegetarianism.
But I was already asking questions about health. My dad had died a few years before of a massive heart attack at the age of 54.
I listened to my vegetarian daughter, respected her wishes. It caused me to go into a steep learning curve to understand this new world.
Now that she’s 29, I can’t imagine our lives any other way. My daughter, this beautiful woman, has taught me so much about food.
I chuckled recently as we chopped, measured, and stirred. We were in a philosophical discussion about women’s rights. She’d been reading a book, and was filling me in on the details.
Oh, I treasure our mealtime conversations. When we’re both in the same kitchen, whipping up something for dinner.
We might not live in a world free of bias, stereotypes, and discrimination. But thanks to our kitchens, we have the opportunity to keep the lines of communication open.
From a woman who lost her life so young, to a woman with an 8th grade education, to a woman who pushed for the opportunity of higher education - I see each of these women in who I’ve become. Who I share with my own college-educated daughter.
For all the strides we’re making and will continue to make into the future, nothing can be more fundamental than how we feed ourselves, and the love we share with those we care about. That’s what’s important.
Maybe that’s what generations of women before me knew innately, even if they didn’t realize how important it was.
Mother Earth has a place in our lives. We’ve forgotten her, and she’s facing an uphill struggle. Similar to women today.
Why can’t we have it all? Why can’t we do what’s most important, knowing that’s enough?
Because I believe that above all else, the key to equality might just lie in the kitchen.
What do you think?
Lori
