Confessions of a Closet Domestic



I honestly apologize for the lack of posts recently.  I truly have a good reason including this and oh yeah this. Honestly,  I am back  in full force and wanted to open up to you about a secret that I have.  Don't let your imagination run wild, it's actually something to be proud of.  See, I like to call myself a closet domestic, key word closet because for a long time I rarely let others know. After reading glossy magazines, and sipping champagne most nights of the week, I find great pleasure in channeling my inner Martha Stewart.  Yes Martha Martha Martha, the domestic high priestess,  glue gun Nazi. Your girl is proud to admit that I  find extreme joy in attempting to draw some parallels between Martha as well as B.Smith, Barefoot Contessa's Ina Garten and also the first crazy domestic divas I'm related to, shout out to  my grandma, mom and aunt. 

I never attended  preschool,  my early childhood education consisted of  Lamb Chop's Play-A-Long, Sesame Street, Mister Rogers' Neighborhood  and trips with my grandparents  for household errands. With Grandma and Gregeddy  we'd hit the wholesale market, the beer house, Walbaum's for groceries and a host of other stores dedicated to Mamie's love to keep her home bountiful. My mother channeled her domestic gifts in a more craft based aesthetic, there is a pottery project she did in high school that is still in my grandmother's china closet. Where as my Mom may have the gift to create only four  meals really well, she can stain her own furniture and work a sale like no one's business. Last, my aunt probably has stock in arts and crafts emporium Michael's. You won't catch me wrapping a gift or enjoying the bows and ribbons of a baby shower, Aunt Aimee goes into a Tasmanian Devil like fury to create the perfect candy buffet.  As a grown woman, I love saying that by the way, I believe I have channeled bits and pieces of that inner domestic and processed it in my own way.

 I recently cranked out 150 cupcakes, 50 brownies and 150 chocolate chip cookies in one day all in my rhombus shaped kitchen with very archaic appliances.  Like any true domestic diva, I declined the help of others as my kitchen is very sacred. I had become my  grandmother, a lady  who loathes anyone performing any acts on her stove.  Stepping into my kitchen makes me very nervous and it's not because of the space, it's actually quite large even for suburban standards.   I am super Type A  in my kitchen and therefore no loitering. While cranking out the carb friendly sweets, I started to have a breakthrough of sorts.  Between whipping up batches of frosting and sifting flour, I started to dream of wearing aprons and greeting my future husband at the door with a cocktail, taking his coat off and lighting his pipe. Okay, I've been catching up on episodes of Mad Men, sue me.  Really, besides helping others look great by reworking their wardrobes I find great joy in the art of nurturing, which is truly the root of a domestic.  Now don't get me wrong, I despise cleaning, and I will go for long stretched before I drop off laundry and let's not even get started on not having a dishwasher. Feeding someone is in some forms an act of giving someone strength and adding to their life. Breaking bread and sharing a meal provides a soothing warmth that even the coldest ice princess (a title an old boyfriend gave me) can let melt at her heart.

So now I am off to play with my set of miniature cake domes and develop a new cupcake recipe for a competition that I entered. Heck, I may buy myself some flowers just because and follow that up by making some homemade ice cream. Is there a support group for us?