"Having it All"

In the world-at-large, how fabulous is it the opportunities that women have?

Pretty fabulous. I'm not close enough to the subject to know whether all women are fairly compensated for similar positions held by their male counterparts. (I hear they're not.) I just know that successful women abound everywhere; they can do everything well and are paid amply enough that many are the head-of-household.

I think most women want to contribute, but I doubt all long to be the head of household, unless they are happily single. I know women such as the ones I described in the previous paragraph, and I see that they are where they want to be. They may (or may not) have had to fight their way to the top, but they worked hard, proved themselves and earned their positions. They are thrilled with their positions, and they don't just rightfully deserve their business moniker, they deserve all the feel-good benefits they can derive from it.

You go, girl. Getting what you want professionally is no small accomplishment. Being where you want to be is, as the now-old term goes--liberating. If you are where you want to be professionally AND personally, this has to be the biggest liberation of all.

But liberation has different meanings for different people. The most liberating thing I see is when women  want to work away from the home and they do, and if they want to stay home to raise the family they do. If they can do either or both on their own terms, that's liberating. To career or not to career, to marry and have a family or not--freedom to choose in whatever and to what degree is liberating.

It's when you have no choice, or feel that someone (or something) is calling the shots for you that freedom becomes "just another word," one that is sadly not a part of your life.

In 2012, I know a number of women who feel no freedom of choice in whether to work away from the home or stay home and raise the babies. Frankly, I know plenty of women (without young ones) who would like to just stay home and pick and choose how to fill their hours, an option unavailable to them also. Something or someone has decided that these women, younger or older, must go to work.

Being home for the kids, seeing them off to school in the morning and greeting them when they arrive back is something they really want to do. They'd like to be free NOT to have to wave the baby off at daycare and wonder all day about the actual care the facility will give. They'd like to be free NOT to hand over an amount of earnings that makes one's efforts to hold a job questionable.

Trying to prod these women towards a realization that they DO have choice is fairly futile, and often enough one can see why. A woman's employment might be the one in a partnership that holds the health insurance and retirement benefits. It likely would be problematic later to try to rejoin the workforce. There is always the reality of binding expenses to maintain a home that obliterate the option of making a decision based on personal choice. Especially in these times, a woman's work might be the ONLY employment carrying a household.

And why is it that taking care of a family, once managed by one income, now costs so much that two incomes do not seem to suffice? Is it a conspiracy that if women want to do well, we all have to pay well, for absolutely everything?

Of course there's a zillion answers. There's much more to covet these days, like homes that are much more spacious and feature-filled than the ones we grew up in, and technogadgets that serve us for both work and leisure. Things that our forebears never considered essential, like auto, homeowner's and health insurance are now practically rule of law for us, with good reason. And the truth is if two people (or more) are going to work in different directions and time frames, there is usually a need for each person to have a car--and all the related expenses. The list goes on and on.

"A chicken in every pot,"  a long-gone saying that once (circa1928, during a presidential campaign) insinuated if every family across America could enjoy a Sunday chicken dinner, that would be prosperity.

We've come a long way (Baby) from being satisfied with a chicken in every pot. It's hard to imagine a time that women (or men for that matter) could consider themselves wealthy or successful with so simple and small a status symbol.

Hmm....the conflicting meanings of "success." One woman has it in her career status that provides a good measure of what she considers to make a wholly meaningful life. For another woman, nothing would make her happier than to be home for the children--or just for herself.

The choice to do either, or at least to try to do either, is real liberation.  It's a funny world when something that was once considered a non-choice (a woman's right to work equitably) later becomes yet another kind of non-choice--the belief that she HAS to work.

***Comments? What do YOU feel about the workplace and the part it plays in your life? Does it make you feel valuable or more strongly do you feel it diminishes your personal choice? If you are a babyboomer (as I am) what do you see your sons and daughters preferring these days as to time split between home, family, and work? Are they doing exactly as they wish, or do they feel the times have limited their options? I would love to hear what others have to say......Darlene

Less Resolution is Plenty for Me

In the peak month of diet resolution, I have thought more than acted on weight loss.

I'm a little past trusting my own January-hype of recent years. I tell myself at least if I haven't lost neither have I gained, but this too is small comfort.

We all know what it takes to lose weight. The formula is simple: eat less, move more. Keep eating less, move even more--the feeling of "slim" will taste better than the best chocolate cake you've ever had.

I know this to be true. I have a favorite chocolate cake recipe, and the sense of lightness I've enjoyed after shedding a few pounds is the far sweeter experience.

This losing weight thing was never a problem for me. Eat the cake, stay busy, maintain near-to-ideal weight. Even after the babies, I could eat the cake and still wear flattering clothes.

I could blame it on menopause, and I think I will. Too, I do not own the mindset that perpetually thin people seem to successfully take possession of, whatever the years bring.

My husband is a perfect example of this mindblowing mindset. The other morning, we were watching a typical January morning news show offering weight-loss advice. The segment discussed temptation-resistance strategies, meals assessed to the calorie, and promoted the latest and "best" exercise equipment.

All this prompted Ramon to speak aloud an observation: "I think people who say they can't lose weight really don't want to. People don't need particular diets or expensive equipment. If they really want to lose weight, they will just get it done, don't you think?"

I looked around the room. Was he talking to ME?! In the manner of a peace-seeker, I said quietly but firmly, "Don't even go there."

He got it, and didn't go there.

The thing is, at every meal he eats fully twice the amount of food I do. He doesn't put butter on his pancakes or cream in his coffee, but he'll enjoy a second WHOLE dessert to my one half of one piece, everytime. He'll drink three glasses of a sweet beverage in one day when the most I take in is water. (Oh, and the cream in my coffee.)

Yes, he does physically exerting work almost every single day, and if he doesn't think he's expended enough energy he'll go into the garage and kickbox for an hour. Even babysitting the grandkids is a whirlwind of exercise, flying them about in laundry baskets or racing them down our lengthy driveway.

I work hard too, but it's usually with "ordinary" housework and alot of pencil-pushing. I'll purposely take the stairs a few more times than necessary, but it never takes much before I feel that futile effort is cutting into my valuable time.

One would think his sins would offset mine, but it doesn't work that way. He's fit and lean and wears a smaller size in jeans than he did when we got married in 1973. I stopped buying clothes over a year ago. I have plenty of good things to wear, I just have to fit into them again.

Which reminds me of other advice I read recently: a magazine article suggests if I 've been hanging onto clothes that I haven't worn in over a year, it's time to donate.

I'm all for donating unused items, but really? These are clothes that if I lost a few pounds and could fit into  again, I would purchase once more at full price.

That kind of waste doesn't help another kind of "waist," my waistline. If I give over clothes I like because I don't fit into them anymore, am I really then going to lose the few pounds that would let me wear favorite clothes I no longer own?

Common sense, where are you? This January I seek you more than ever. I've been there and done that with exercise equipment, slimming "meal" drinks, long walks in the woods with a salad and broiled chicken afterward. That is all good and well, but not sustainable for me.

My husband doesn't even think of the day he can't do all that he does to stay slim. He just keeps doing it, thinking that by this he will ALWAYS be able to do it. Good, good, GOOD for him, and I hope he's right.

As for me, I can't imagine that a voraciousness for exercise will yet overtake my life. As well, I know that sporadic bursts of mindset do me small good anyway.

Just as I hoped, writing this has spurred me to a new and I hope sustainable mindset of my own. I will start with the proverbial eating less and moving more, but in increments that are not highly noticeable to anyone but myself. Oh geez--I just "put it out there," so I guess I've made it noticeable, huh?

I'll keep you posted--in hardly noticeable increments.

Passing the Baton (in Food Traditions)

When I was a young girl of twelve, my mother was the lone preparer of meals for her family of nine, soon to be ten. About this time, she began to experience a bemusement at her third daughter (myself) who had been lolling around the house in long hours of boredom.

No requests from me to do much of anything my pre-teen counterparts were doing; just let me make supper, please.

She must have had a hard time quashing her obvious pleasure over this. You know, as soon as a young person realizes what they're having fun with is actually work, well, it becomes WORK. The offers to help just stop coming.

Wisely, Mom subdued her reaction and casually retreated to her newspaper in the livingroom. Recipes and measuring cups didn't play a big part in our household, but after watching Mom prepare meals for most of my twelve years, where to go from here just felt natural.

Thus I began to imitate Mom's classic comfort foods and the traditional Mexican fare of our culture. But if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, I wasn't just out to make Mom feel good. I wanted to make my own mark. While I knew I was enjoying myself, there was something missing from my experience--something on the periphery, soon to arrive and not anything I would soon let go of.

One afternoon Mom commented that she had all the fixings for tacos. With that mention, my wheels of creativity began to turn. Here, I thought, I will break away from the taco that I know to the taco I can get excited about.

Now don't get me wrong. Mom made a good taco. But it was the one cultural favorite that I had for some time felt she was too complacent about. Brown the meat, season with garlic and salt, fry up the shells, add lettuce, cheese, and salsa. Every other dish Mom made was vivid with flavor and texture, and in comparison, her tacos were paling.

Once a year for many years we had tacos at a Mexican festival in a churchyard a few miles from our home. Now those tacos were memorable, with spicy, tender meat submerged in tasty juices that oozed messily from their soft shells into waxed cardboard "boats." The lettuce, crisp and cool and finely shredded, gave just the right contrast to the heat of the meat, while threads of a rich Monterey impacted all the flavors with a creamy tempering.

Garnishes like smooth guacamole, salsa fresca amply flecked with cilantro and roasted chilies , and tangy crema blanco were lined up in iced receptacles for diners to heap onto their tacos. Served from a mobile stand to be eaten at picnic tables while being serenaded by a live Mariachi band--could a taco experience be any better than that?

If I couldn't compete with the atmosphere, I would try my hardest to recreate the flavors.

Digging into Mom's pantry, I scared up all the seasonings of color and taste I thought would work. As did the bazaar stand of my hopeful emulation, I used the ubiquitous ground chuck everyone seemed to gravitate toward for tacos. These days roasted and chunked meats are my preferred "carne" of choice, but for this occasion I slow cooked the hamburger into reduced, then replenished stocks of tomato and chicken. When ultra tender and juicy, I assembled the tacos with all the accompaniments laid out to look every bit as festive as were the ones at the, well, festival.

My dad, settling himself before a plate at the table, was served the first one. As my mother readied hers, she seemed intrigued and commented nicely about the added colors and qualities of the meat.

Like a twelve-year-old (or maybe NOT like a twelve-year-old) I watched from the stove, still stirring protectively my body of work. Both anticipation and dread over their opinion washed through me. I had probably overtasted the food, and didn't know anymore if it was all that good. Maybe, I thought, it's really, really bad.

Dad's first taste dispelled my qualms. Not one to overdramatize things, his eyes widened and his expressive, if few, words made me blush with pride.

"Luisa," he gushed to my mom, as much as macho Latino males can gush, "These tacos taste JUST like the ones at the festival....taste one, taste ONE!"

In that ego-pumping moment, I suddenly became aware that my mom's take on my dad's response might not fly so well. She might feel slighted by his enthusiasm, and even in my immaturity I knew I wasn't looking for THAT.

My mother was too smart a cookie for that. She enjoyed her plate every bit as much as my father did, and as often happens when one does a job too well, for some time then taco-making became my exclusive task.

I still enjoy making tacos that way, and even though I think I have a pretty good handle on many other Mexican dishes, my mother had a way with hers that is hers and hers alone. I think I'm doing pretty good, and then I remember the nuances of her specialties that I believe I have yet to capture.

What I have captured, and what captivates me, is this enjoyment I retain for carrying on food traditions that are so vulnerable now to going the way of "lost arts." I hardly fear that tamale-factories will stop churning out tamales, but it does seem possible that they will become a thing of the past in home kitchens.

Last Christmas, I had to take a phone call in the midst of the holiday tamale-making session. Thinking my thirteen-year-old granddaughter, who was helping me, would wait, I lingered over the call in another room. When I returned, there was the whole assembled batch, waiting for the roaster.

She may or may not make tamales from scratch to finish in her lifetime, but she has the seeds of knowledge and she beamed at a task well-done. As well, she loved the final product, and knows this: you can't find tamales in Wisconsin as easily as you can in California, where Grandma was raised.

Sometimes, if you want to enjoy a tradition, YOU might just have to be the one who keeps it alive.