Over the summer, when I was putting together publicity material for my cookbook,
my publicist told me to add "Can a casserole be a feminist object?" to
my author Q&A. I thought it was kind-of a silly question. I'd
always considered myself a feminist, just as I'd considered myself not
a racist or not a homophobe. I listened to Ani DiFranco in the
nineties. I carried a sign in the March for Womens' Lives, I subscribe
to "BUST" and I'm sexually liberated. I also grew up with parents who
told me I could do whatever I wanted, as long as I put my mind to it.
And I believed them. At five, I wanted to be a "fireman." At 13, I
wanted to be president. No one ever told me I couldn't do either and I
never doubted that if I wanted to, I could do both (though one would
require a title or sex change). How could I not be a feminist?
But
when it came time to answer the question, I realized I didn't even
really know what feminism meant to me, a single woman in my twenties,
in 2008.
I actually had to look it up. And all I learned was
what I already knew: feminism has meant many things to many women over
the years—which didn't help me figure out how I could convince anyone
else that me bending over an oven while wearing a push-up bra,
hand-stitched apron and red lipstick made me a feminist.
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