Slow Cookers And A Waste Of Talented Women

Image by Author - You Don’t Owe Anyone Your Life (Nor Your Cooking)

There was a phase in my life when I believed slow cookers were the answer. The blackboard wall with its weekly schedule was just too terrifying to look at, the syncing of diaries on Sunday evenings caused late-night strops¹, the life hacks, the time management techniques weren’t working. I was becoming submerged and embittered. If I could chop vigorously before 8am, throw in huge quantities of stock over pieces of protein, ones that didn’t need browning, set it at low for eight hours, maybe my stress levels would reduce, an aura of contentment would bathe the house and Annabel Karmel would be proud. Instead of handing out brioches from my pocket to starving mouths in the back of the car to tide them over, I’d hand out steaming bowls of nutrition within seconds of throwing their school bags through the front door. We’d arrive in excited from all the pickups to a home filled with an aroma of something that validated my ability as a mother.

When I worked in an office filled with women who were either coming or going due to some childcare crisis, we’d share our woes, our never-ending emotional labour, our never-ending to-do lists and our slow cooker ideas - roast chicken, ten ways with sausages, Baked Alaska. We were continually amazed at what this piece of equipment could do. Most of us had been given one as a wedding present from a great aunt who swore by it. Our brilliant minds, collective brainpower, leadership gifts, our endless talents were wasted on identifying seven different dinners per week. We bonded over our frustrations, and the demoralising travesty that despite having proved our worth to an organisation, the boss’s wife was still able to sweep in and take up a senior role through a mysterious recruitment process.

In an act of gratitude for saving me from insanity during the first weeks with a newborn, that disorientating period when I was wrenched from society, left with stitches and anxiety, isolated, minus network, community and any infrastructure around me, I have recently embraced the concept of pay-it-forward and started to help at a Toddlers’ group. It’s called T ‘n’ C. This seems appropriate. It’s somewhere to be held and comforted even if it’s only for ninety minutes every other Wednesday. I relive traumas there. As we talk about weaning, the absorbency of nappies, the merits of butternut squash, I remember how my main ambition was to survive each day and blend enough vegetables. I see younger versions of my former self. “I only work part-time”, “I’m just an administrator” they say as they lament the constant juggle to keep on top of things. They heap pressure upon pressure onto themselves. It was there that I was reminded about that well-known survival technique - one-pot wonders. “I hope that recipe works out,” one mum shouted to another as she manoeuvred her buggy into the lift.  

I wondered should I dig out some of my old recipes, the ones I’d invested my hopes in before realising that washing a large crock container in a too-small sink outweighed any benefits. I’d torn them out of magazines, stuck them in a notebook like a 1950s housewife. My husband who is known for breaking boundaries through digital transformation, decided he’d digitally transform my collection. They ended up in Dropbox. Locating them was complex. He’d used his version of a file-naming system. They were usually upside-down. But then, I had no time in the mornings anyway. I returned to dicing onions, grating carrots, rolling meatballs at 5pm with one eye on my email.

I listened to Michael Pollan on Desert Island Discs. I had never heard of him. I guess sustainable agriculture hasn’t been on my radar. He writes about “the places where nature and culture intersect: on our plates, in our farms and gardens”. “There are satisfying and inexpensive meals you can make in twenty minutes,” he said. I didn’t believe it. Jamie Oliver had lied about that too. “Cooking is about communion, family, there’s so much else (beyond eating) that happens at the dinner table”. He heaped on the guilt. But, I couldn’t remember anything useful happening at my dinner table. To this day, it remains a place where old grievances surface, where tensions rise, where things get thrown.

It is at dinner time though that many mothers most believe they are failing. What they have or haven’t put on the table at the end of a tiring day starts to define them. I talked to a friend this week. Our conversation revolved around our concerns for the general wellbeing of women who simply have too much on their plate. “If they were part of a good organisation which cared about the wellbeing of its staff, their duties would be delegated at a team meeting,” she said. “It would be wonderful, a weight lifted,” I thought. “Brian, can you soak the mushrooms”, “Phil, can you pick up the mince”.

On Thursday evening, I evaded the dinner table altogether and went to see The Fabelmans. Michelle Williams plays Mitzi, a mother-of-four. She’s a brilliant pianist, an artist, a creative free spirit. We watch her criticised by her mother-in-law for her sub-standard brisket, she burns the bacon she is frying in an attempt to rebuild her relationship with her son, she despairs at the repetitive cycle of domesticity. She’d rather take her children into the middle of a tornado than have yet another meal with them. In an act of rebellion, she uses only paper plates and cups, rolls up her tablecloth, throws it all in the bin. We watch her shrivel, seek solace in a whisky bottle, the piano with its dust cover becomes unplayed.   

I wonder where we are as a generation of women, what has really changed as the measurement of our value continues to revolve around our capacity to produce an evening meal. We are possibly the first generation of women to attempt to survive outside of a community of other women. Our children’s grandmothers have their own careers, our work colleagues are our support system, we rarely see our neighbours, we lack sisterhood, we don’t stand and chat on our doorsteps, we hold ourselves tightly inside, we don’t outwardly share our struggles, we find it hard to accept offers of help, we feel we need to quickly reciprocate. Our daughters are the first generation of women who could almost believe they can be anything they want to be. But, as I encourage my girls to boil, scramble, poach, I know that it is not cookery skills they will need to thrive but partners who value them enough to cook for them, to lift some of the load off them. In that conversation with my friend, we reached a devastating conclusion. “I don’t want the same life for my daughters as I had. Do you?” she said. “No,” I replied. And, I don’t want to be known for my cheesecake either, I want to be known for so much more. But that something clashes badly with the expectations placed on us. When Mitzi eventually says, “you do what your heart says you have to, because you don’t owe anyone your life,” I don’t know where to start with this, how to operationalise it.

I reckoned I should leave you with a recipe, a slow cooker favourite, one that works out. The best ones are the ones you know by heart, the ones where you never have to open Dropbox to identify the ingredients. In honour of Mitzi, here’s a brisket one. I swear by it. I’ve passed it on to the next generation. It’s an ugly meat but it tastes great. It’s a crowd-pleaser. Shred it, serve it with baps (soft bread rolls) and coleslaw. I’ll let Lucy explain it to you. She’s seventeen, she can prep it before school, you’ll see how well I’ve done. Quantities are totally flexible, all spices are optional, you’ll end up with a BBQ sauce anyway. I hope it makes your life easier. Go use your talent elsewhere.

How do you do what your heart says? Are slow cookers the answer to anything? Do let me know!

Image by Author - The Best Brisket Recipe

1. Mine