Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
On the Manly Art of Cooking, or: My Scarlett O'Hara Moment
I was born in a time (and place) where men didn't learn how to cook.
Here's the story of how I did.
Now, let me mention from the outset that raising men incapable of preparing their own food violates ancestral precedent. In the old tribal days, every war party or hunting party would take along a few youths—men-in-training—to cook for them. These would already have learned to cook in the Boys' House, where you made your own stew, stir-about, and oat cakes, or went without.
For numerous reasons—personal affinity foremost among them—I became vegetarian at 18. (It is, admittedly, a very freshman year kind of thing to do.) In those days, that made eating out difficult.
One night as, for the umpteenth time, I was cobbling together (at a steak house, no less) a meatless meal for myself from the “Sides” menu, sitting with my baked potato, tossed salad, cottage cheese, and glass of tomato juice in front of me, I had my Scarlett O'Hara moment.
“As the Goddess is my witness,” I vowed, “I'll never piece together a meal out of 'sides' again!”
So I learned to cook.
Even my father, who (you could tell) for years felt kind of ambivalent about his gay son who liked to cook, learned—after my mother stopped cooking (surely after 50+ years, she'd earned the right)—to love the fact. When I came to visit, he would always have suggestions.
“So, how about potato pancakes on Friday?” he would say.
Friday it was. Indeed, my potato pancakes are some of the best.
Mythology is filled with important male gods—the Horned One, the Dagda, Thor—known for their huge, supernatural cauldrons. (Important gods need big cauldrons because they have a lot of people to feed.) Though cauldrons are usually thought of (in these post-Freudian days) as female attributes, the ancestors knew better.
They knew—just as I learned from my father—that your most important job, as a man, is to see that your people are cared for.
So pull up a plate, my friend. My potato pancakes really are some of the best around.
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There is a Methodist church north of the James river that sells homemade Brunswick Stew for a few days each year. My parents loved it. They would buy two containers and freeze one for later in the year. I only remember going with them to buy the stew one year. There was a big kettle outside with a fire underneath it and what had to be the three oldest guys in the church taking turns stirring the pot and adding the meat and vegetables..