AN INFINITY OF SMALL DETAILS unfurls when we set out to complete a task or learn something new. Everyone thought they could make sourdough bread and then we realized that there are many steps within those steps that lead toward the realization of a bread dream. “Reality has a surprising amount of detail,” an essay by John Salvatier, explores how and why we get stuck in any process, no matter the level of skill or expertise, because we’re not noticing certain crucial details. “If you wish to not get stuck, seek to perceive what you have not yet perceived,” he concludes.
Women and the way we organize our kitchens tell us everything we need to know about a feminism outside the classroom. We need a sane domain for sustenance and triumph, and therefore, a system so subjective and specialized it’s a-categorial in scope to anyone but the woman and her daughters. Where the spices go, a woman knows, and never ask her. Where the sauces get stored, a woman is never bored, and never poke her to tell you her secrets. Where the fresh fruit goes to rot, a woman knows the spot, and never need more than what she’s willing to share with you.
These terms and conditions will apply to anyone under contract between a woman and anyone who loves us. A peace agreement often consists of a series of commitments followed by ritual performance to concretize the promise: A signature, a foot stomp, a wax seal. “Do I have to take my shoes off before I enter?” Do I have to thank you every time you serve me?” “Do I have to do the dishes when it’s all said and done?”
Sometimes we get stuck mid-process and miss all the details and we’re under no contract or obligation to keep going, no one’s keeping track of the subtasks and days could go by before you even check in on yourself.
You find yourself clutching a pen, but you’re not writing. You’re holding the sheets in your hand but the bed’s not made. Your clothes are still damp in the washer, never transferred to the dryer. You’re wearing your shoes but you don’t know where you’re going. You’re clinging to a bouquet of roses but there’s nothing to celebrate.
Maybe it's time to praise the color green. I join a choir of constant singing for this color, so I will spare you the specificity of shades. I am highly focused on the green of jadeite glass cups, the green of 1920s apothecary cabinets, the green of industrious typewriters; the green of steely metal cabinets; the green of royal peacocks.
One of the clearest things I remember about my mother was the way she carried a jeweler’s loop in her purse and took it out whenever she needed to get a closer look at the etched gold. She was looking for markings and fine details lost to the untrained eye, and when she found what she was looking for, she’d snap the loop back in its case and drop it in her ocean of a purse, assured by what she’d seen with her own eyes.
Women and the way we organize our kitchens tell us everything we need to know about a feminism outside the classroom. We need a sane domain for sustenance and triumph, and therefore, a system so subjective and specialized it’s a-categorial in scope to anyone but the woman and her daughters. Where the spices go, a woman knows, and never ask her. Where the sauces get stored, a woman is never bored, and never poke her to tell you her secrets. Where the fresh fruit goes to rot, a woman knows the spot, and never need more than what she’s willing to share with you.
These terms and conditions will apply to anyone under contract between a woman and anyone who loves us. A peace agreement often consists of a series of commitments followed by ritual performance to concretize the promise: A signature, a foot stomp, a wax seal. “Do I have to take my shoes off before I enter?” Do I have to thank you every time you serve me?” “Do I have to do the dishes when it’s all said and done?”
Sometimes we get stuck mid-process and miss all the details and we’re under no contract or obligation to keep going, no one’s keeping track of the subtasks and days could go by before you even check in on yourself.
You find yourself clutching a pen, but you’re not writing. You’re holding the sheets in your hand but the bed’s not made. Your clothes are still damp in the washer, never transferred to the dryer. You’re wearing your shoes but you don’t know where you’re going. You’re clinging to a bouquet of roses but there’s nothing to celebrate.
Maybe it's time to praise the color green. I join a choir of constant singing for this color, so I will spare you the specificity of shades. I am highly focused on the green of jadeite glass cups, the green of 1920s apothecary cabinets, the green of industrious typewriters; the green of steely metal cabinets; the green of royal peacocks.
One of the clearest things I remember about my mother was the way she carried a jeweler’s loop in her purse and took it out whenever she needed to get a closer look at the etched gold. She was looking for markings and fine details lost to the untrained eye, and when she found what she was looking for, she’d snap the loop back in its case and drop it in her ocean of a purse, assured by what she’d seen with her own eyes.
