More than anything, I'm a girl that loves food and entertaining. When I have the time, I lounge in front of the TV with Top Chef on. Padma Lakshmi, America's guide to hot Indian women, invites viewers to watch her be the perfect host, judge and eater of dishes big and small. She's also a talented cook, incredibly charming and every man on the planet wants to be married to her for all eternity. Especially after that Carl's Jr. commercial. Google it.
In the six months I have been a house wife, I have realized I am not Padma Lakshmi. I am not a sultry domestic goddess ready to whip up a four course dinner for twelve people at a moment's notice. I can't poach a dozen eggs in stilettos and a bikini with a beaming smile on my face. If Padma Lakshmi had a kid sister who loved to cook but got fed up of being in the kitchen five nights out of the week and chose to occasionally serve beans on toast in sweatpants, I'd be her. I'd commit to the cause.
To be fair, I had tried desperately to breathe life into this delusional fantasy. Before our wedding, I was never concerned with being the perfect anything. I laughed at people who put pressure on themselves to cook and clean. I thought my time being a housewife would be brief and I'd go back to working like crazy, meeting new people and leaving domestic work for when I had time after the 9-5. Instead, my rational mind disintegrated from being home 24/7. I began to envision myself being the perfect blend of Padma Lakshmi and June Cleaver simply because I had nothing else to do. When my husband would arrive home, I'd have a dinner perfectly laid out complete with cocktails, candles and a damn good attitude. I would be dressed to the nines. The house would be sparkling. I'd have my shit together.
Unfortunately, none of that was the case.
My first time re-creating one of my Mom's recipes, I destroyed it. The evening ended with dried out macaroni and cheese in our trash can and humiliation as I ordered takeout. Dishes seemed to break at a moment's notice. I destroyed my favorite blouse ironing. I'd get frustrated in the grocery store unable to find quinoa, wonton wrappers or black beans and didn't understand that in England, eggplants are called 'aubergines' and zucchini are 'courgettes'. I shrunk our new luxurious Egyptian cotton fitted sheet while washing it. I locked myself out of the house and had to call a relative to help me get back inside. I forgot our alarm code more times than I could count.
No matter how many times I fumbled, I remained determined to continue trying to be the absolute perfect housewife. With each failure, I began to resent being home Monday to Friday alone. I began to resent my husband for having a life outside of our house. I began hating the fact that I left a job, family and friends to be in a house day in and day out where I couldn't even operate the voicemail correctly. My husband would come home to listen to me recount the day's events and dry my tears. He told me I was putting too much pressure on myself to be perfect. Mistakes would happen. But I didn't listen.
Until I finally cracked from the pressure. Neither of us could take my bitterness at being a housewife so I began to look for a job. I took the pressure off myself. If I wanted to make dinner a large Mexican fiesta, I would. If I decided we were having sandwiches, that was the plan. I learned to manage our steam iron with great success and bought new blouses to replace the ones I burnt beyond recognition. I figured out which grocery stores stocked the things I needed and am now discovering places that stock American comforts from home (Bisquick, anyone?) I'd laugh when I'd get hot, soapy water all over myself when washing dishes. I started to find enjoyment in opening a bottle of wine, turning music on and cooking. Sometimes I'd make way too much food. Sometimes I'd track down take out menus after giving up on being Wife of the Year. Things were getting easier.
I still can't figure out how to check the voicemail and occasionally break a beloved dish or wine glass, but I go to bed at night knowing I did my best and had a few laughs. I watch Padma Lakshmi on Top Chef reruns and flip through my frayed cookbooks by Julia Child and know that I am neither of those women. And I'm okay with that.
In the six months I have been a house wife, I have realized I am not Padma Lakshmi. I am not a sultry domestic goddess ready to whip up a four course dinner for twelve people at a moment's notice. I can't poach a dozen eggs in stilettos and a bikini with a beaming smile on my face. If Padma Lakshmi had a kid sister who loved to cook but got fed up of being in the kitchen five nights out of the week and chose to occasionally serve beans on toast in sweatpants, I'd be her. I'd commit to the cause.
To be fair, I had tried desperately to breathe life into this delusional fantasy. Before our wedding, I was never concerned with being the perfect anything. I laughed at people who put pressure on themselves to cook and clean. I thought my time being a housewife would be brief and I'd go back to working like crazy, meeting new people and leaving domestic work for when I had time after the 9-5. Instead, my rational mind disintegrated from being home 24/7. I began to envision myself being the perfect blend of Padma Lakshmi and June Cleaver simply because I had nothing else to do. When my husband would arrive home, I'd have a dinner perfectly laid out complete with cocktails, candles and a damn good attitude. I would be dressed to the nines. The house would be sparkling. I'd have my shit together.
Unfortunately, none of that was the case.
My first time re-creating one of my Mom's recipes, I destroyed it. The evening ended with dried out macaroni and cheese in our trash can and humiliation as I ordered takeout. Dishes seemed to break at a moment's notice. I destroyed my favorite blouse ironing. I'd get frustrated in the grocery store unable to find quinoa, wonton wrappers or black beans and didn't understand that in England, eggplants are called 'aubergines' and zucchini are 'courgettes'. I shrunk our new luxurious Egyptian cotton fitted sheet while washing it. I locked myself out of the house and had to call a relative to help me get back inside. I forgot our alarm code more times than I could count.
No matter how many times I fumbled, I remained determined to continue trying to be the absolute perfect housewife. With each failure, I began to resent being home Monday to Friday alone. I began to resent my husband for having a life outside of our house. I began hating the fact that I left a job, family and friends to be in a house day in and day out where I couldn't even operate the voicemail correctly. My husband would come home to listen to me recount the day's events and dry my tears. He told me I was putting too much pressure on myself to be perfect. Mistakes would happen. But I didn't listen.
Until I finally cracked from the pressure. Neither of us could take my bitterness at being a housewife so I began to look for a job. I took the pressure off myself. If I wanted to make dinner a large Mexican fiesta, I would. If I decided we were having sandwiches, that was the plan. I learned to manage our steam iron with great success and bought new blouses to replace the ones I burnt beyond recognition. I figured out which grocery stores stocked the things I needed and am now discovering places that stock American comforts from home (Bisquick, anyone?) I'd laugh when I'd get hot, soapy water all over myself when washing dishes. I started to find enjoyment in opening a bottle of wine, turning music on and cooking. Sometimes I'd make way too much food. Sometimes I'd track down take out menus after giving up on being Wife of the Year. Things were getting easier.
I still can't figure out how to check the voicemail and occasionally break a beloved dish or wine glass, but I go to bed at night knowing I did my best and had a few laughs. I watch Padma Lakshmi on Top Chef reruns and flip through my frayed cookbooks by Julia Child and know that I am neither of those women. And I'm okay with that.
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