Ars Domestica

In spite of them calling it a domestic science, we knew when we signed up in junior high that Home Ec was a girl's course, nothing at all like science or math. Nothing to do with it. Boring, giggling, girls making cakes and learning to sew. Very few boys would sign up, preferring instead shop, or weight lifting. When we got to baking, the kitchens set up on the opposite side of the classroom were clean, shiny, unused.

Bananas go old and bruised so fast. Nothing to do with them but make baked goods or throw them out. You find this recipe, decide to wait till a break in studying, in writing about how the domestic in contemporary fiction is a political act of reclaiming power for women, to cook these with the old bananas that are lying brown and fragrant in the wire stainless steel basket next to the sink. You grab flour, oats, from the newly organized clean pantry. Baking powder, cinnamon, baking soda, salt from the cabinet, newly re-painted white by the annoying handyman who would never leave.

Assembled on countertop. You find the stainless steel measuring cups, measuring spoon. Leave the butter to soften a little, grab the bananas, measure out one banana to equal 1/2 cup. You remember the time you got into an argument with a college professor about how a cookbook could be considered technical writing. He swore for a short moment "no" but you reminded him that in writing the cookbook, it would be crucial to distinguish between 1 cup and 1 pound. When to cut in the cold butter to the flour. Whether it made a difference if the butter was salted or unsalted, or whether you melted it first. You know you were right; he agreed with you eventually. You start the oven warming, and think about women over centuries baking, knowing you have it so easy-- not having to worry about cold spots, or chopping wood, or stoking fire. Just press a button a few times to the digital beeping of your double oven's controls. The room starts to become slightly warmer, pleasantly so.

You are pleased with yourself because, remembering that most scone recipes require buttermilk, you bought a small quart of it the other day at the store. All your artistic supplies are ready to go and you begin measuring, precise at times, slightly over-abundant on the Ghiradelli chocolate chips (which you taste a handful of, their deep dark chocolate resting on your tounge as you stir the batter moist). The bananas and buttermilk make a lovely off-white mush that smells wonderful; you almost want to eat it raw. You think of the pot of tea you will brew with your scones; chai spice, with warm milk.

You feel like a character out of Like Water for Chocolate, or Chocolat, and you blend love and a hope for the future into your mixture. You visualize shining freckled faces waiting for bites of warm pastry in a future not so far off. Their hands will reach happily, freshly washed and pink, for the plates and glass of milk to accompany the fresh from the oven delights. There will be no salty tears mixed into the batter, but there will be the care of taking a few moments to mix flour with liquids. You're absurdly happy with the scone pan and cutting tool you bought at Williams Sonoma-- they make the process soooo much easier, and the product comes out looking evenly triangular and perfectly dense.

It takes you about half the recipe's cook time to clean up-- make cutting board fresh, place spoons and bowls in the dishwasher. The other half of time you spend writing and thinking of that class of girls, giggling over books that said you must consider the color arrangement of your food on the plate, making it visually appealing as well as tasty. The room fills with the smell of banana and oat and flour, and the oven calls you back with rapid beeps as the timer ends its countdown of minutes.

You think of Alice Walker's gardens,* and the women who could not take a few moments to write, instead practicing this art of the kitchen, art of love, art that grew bodies and hopes and dreams. No. It's not a science, although it has its scientific moments. Not really. But art? Yes.

You go to the kitchen where your scones wait, and brew your tea. A few moments of the day to rest and participate in the tradition of generations of women past. They stand with you as you enjoy the fruit of your art.

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*"In Search of Our Mother's Gardens"-- a wonderful essay on what black women who were artists did when the desire to create warred with their reality of having to work for others, as well as their own homes. Creating beautiful food, quilts, gardens as an expression of the same urges as the privledged (usually men, but sometimes women) could fulfill with what society regularly calls "art."