Shouldn’t church be, to quote Anne Lamott, “a kind of spiritual chemotherapy?” When one leaves from there shouldn’t one feel renewed and invigorated?  Ready to tackle if not the world, at least one’s immediate problems? I believe so. And so many times it is.  Yet, it also isn’t.  I went to church a few Sundays ago, for the first time in a long time, and despite the sermon, the songs that never fail to beg for my tears, the many faces of friends I haven’t seen in a while, I left dejected and almost wishing that I hadn’t gone.

Growing up in the church community I did was not an easy task.  Not just because people talked and everyone knew what everyone else was doing (and being rather judgmental while they were at it), or because it was so suffocatingly patriarchical, but also because church was the only acceptable social interaction allowed to the children of it’s members. Mothers marketed their daughters to the ‘good boys’ from the ‘good families’ by accentuating their daughters assets. And daughters learned from a young age where their strength lay. Regardless of the finesse about it, the Sunday service was a parade. A test of the ‘at home’ finishing school, if you will.  Very few girls lacked that subtle sexiness.  That certain way of walking, certain way of smiling.  That enjoyment of being feminine. Yes, respectable and dignified, it is church we are talking about after all, yet nonetheless.

I left soon after I got married.  For too long I had one foot in and one foot out, weighing, deciding.  Whatever spiritual connection I had experienced on Sunday was gone by Monday morning.  I figured that I had outgrown it.  It was time to move on.  Sure I missed the people, my friends, my family. Their little idiosyncrasies.  But I didn’t want to raise my children there and become a victim of indifference.  And I kept asking myself why and when had that awareness of propriety that had existed for a place of worship been replaced?  Was it just generational?  Or cultural?  Or both?

Here is the conundrum, not just for this generation of young girls and their mothers, but for the church leaders as well, and I cannot ask this enough: Are we at fault when our daughters come to us with problems in their marriage? When we ourselves have issues we can’t resolve? Shouldn’t we hold ourselves accountable if not to each other, then to a higher power?  To God?

There’s plenty of sexual baggage in just being a woman. Our reputations have been tarnished for centuries by mere acts, miniscule in comparison.  Let church be our safe harbor.  Our place to worship our God.  Give Him the honor and respect He deserves. And let’s show our children that that’s what we do in His house.

On Saturday evening I met a close friend for dessert at one of our favorite dessert places in Portland.  I have to say that although I truly enjoy all of my friendships, I have a handful of friends which, for one reason or another, are as closely knit as sisters, and with these girls no subject is taboo.  This friend in particular is probably the most uninhibited in both thought or action, and while sometimes a bit shocking, she gets away with it because she’s so darn cute and real. That’s the thing about true friendships; we don’t stand on ceremony and decorum.  All those tactful formalities are dropped the minute we take off our shoes and fill our coffee mugs.

As we sat there for over two hours getting refills on our coffees and desserts, we discussed many things, but mostly sex, because (hello!) women enjoy talking about it just as much as men, and this friend in particular, more than anybody else I know.

And for my readers who are rolling their eyes and thinking to stop reading this second: admit it!  We are all multi faceted.  About time we embrace all characteristics of our personality and stop being so fastidious in portraying ourselves as one dimensional, just to please certain members of our sub communities who don’t care about us one way or another.  Maybe it is a little too harsh, but I often feel that we are treated as nothing more than an incident.

All I’m interested in is an accurate portrayal of our womanhood.  For some (maybe you) their love lives are gentle and discreet.  Non-existent even.  Certainly suburban.  Married for years, they rarely touch in public, rarely even look at each other.  When you see them in restaurants, they each concentrate on their own plates determinedly, chew mechanically, inhale the food rather than taste it.  I wonder what’s the point of even dressing up for a nice dinner, if the effort to enjoy themselves isn’t attempted.

Think about it.  Stop shushing and changing the subject. Talk about it.  Admit it.  We are not powerless.  Or are we? What’s with all these silly expectations placed on women?  Why do we allow this impulse to order us around?

I was sitting in a cafe recently and surreptitiously watching two women at another table while pretending to keep an eye on my daughter as she ran around and navigated the closely set tables and uneven natural stone floor.  The older of the two, an apparently well to do, and well coifed fifty something year old was doing all the talking.  She was gesticulating and pointing at a small photo album while the much younger other woman appeared unconvinced.

Were they mother and daughter, friends, coworkers?  And what were they so intent about?

A perpetual fascination of mine is observing others and imagining their lives or conversations.  I’m so entranced about all the possibilities of what goes on behind the scenes.  The story behind the story.  The reasons why we put so much (or so little) into our public appearances; the versions of truth we choose to show and to share.

There is a certain couple in my parents’ neighborhood which without fail brings out the curiosity in me.  For the last twenty years I see them out and about every single time I go there.  They appear to be in their late sixties, European, and incessantly talking.  What is there to talk about after so many years?  I wish I knew.  And I wish I could ask them.  

Usually they wear matching beige jackets and baseball caps and the husband always walks on the outside of the sidewalk, even if a step ahead.  I saw them one day while finishing my shopping at Safeway, and shamelessly followed them around trying to eavesdrop on their conversation.  If, however, I was lacking in manners, they weren’t.  Their voices were too low for me to make out what they were saying.  

In A Changed Man, Francine Prose says: “Every human born into this world is a blank slate on which a life will be inscribed.”  I suppose that what captivates me about the presumed lives of others is the possibilities of all those inscriptions.  

Every once in a while I get a craving for something that reminds me of my childhood.  I often associate good food with it because most of what went into making a specific dish or dessert were such hard to come by commodities, that in my memories of it now, the preparation of the pastries and cakes were an event into themselves. Everyone was around.  Grandmothers and aunts shooing us out of the way, cousins skipping to the hen house for eggs, or to the larder for butter, or to the well to get a bucket of water.  Of course, we were also stealing precious chocolate or spoonfuls of sugar when we thought no one was looking.  And washing dishes.  There were always lots of dishes.

The saddest thing for me about the fall of communism in Romania, is that some of the country’s yummiest recipes have become modernized in the interest of saving time.  All that nurturing and comforting right out the door the minute electric mixers and food processors entered.  

Don’t despair, this dish does not require anyone to give up any modern kitchen utensil.  Added bonuses: it’s easy, fast, and absolutely delicious.  Make it for your kids and they’ll be hooked for life.  With that in mind, allow me to remain nostalgic for another 50 minutes or so while I make this.

4 cups milk (2% or whole) + 1/2 cup milk 
1 vanilla bean, cut in half lengthwise with the seeds scraped out
6 eggs, whites and yolks separated
12 tablespoons sugar

1. In a saucepan over medium heat, bring the 4 cups of milk and vanilla bean and scraped seeds to a simmer, turn heat off so that it doesn’t burn. 
2. Beat the egg whites with half of the sugar until stiff peaks form. 
3. Place a metal serving spoon in the simmering milk so that it heats up and use it to spoon out servings of the egg whites into the milk. 
4.Turn the egg whites into the milk after 2 minutes or so, and then let them poach on that side too. After another 2 minutes, remove the egg whites and place them in one layer into a deep baking dish, leave room in between them so they don’t stick. Repeat this until all of the egg whites are done. 
5. In a bowl, use a whisk to beat the egg yolks with the remaining sugar and about 1/2 cup milk (you might need more). *
6. Add some of the hot milk to the cold yolk mixture in order to temper it and then gradually combine the two together. 
7. Once they are combined, remove the vanilla bean and whisk the milk mixture thoroughly. 
8. Gently ladle the milk mixture into the baking dish where the egg whites are sitting.
9. Keep warm in the oven at 200 for about 30-45 minutes (any longer and the milk will thicken and become like pudding)

*Rachel uses 1 tablespoon of cornstarch, which she gradually adds into the egg yolk mixture until incorporated.  I forgot to buy it, so I went without.   Nevertheless, they were delicious!!!

Imagine yourself at eighteen.  Maybe you’re a senior in high school. Maybe a freshman at a community college. Maybe you’re taking a year off to rest and decide what to do with the rest of your life.  You are intelligent.  You are beautiful.  And you have all the time in the world, because you are just eighteen.  You have a mom and a dad who love you, adore you, really, because you are the baby.  And while they want you out of the house so they could downsize and start traveling the world, they also can’t imagine you leaving them.  Or maybe you are the eldest, and intertwined with that love is that anxiety parents experience when their firstborn leaves, moves out to try life on her/his own.

Now imagine a visit to your doctor.  Your pediatrician.  The man or the woman who has seen you every year from the time you were born.  This is really the last visit before you move on.  You have a bad cough that just isn’t going away, or a bruise that isn’t fading, or a mole on your back that looks a bit strange since the last time you went tanning and fell asleep in the tanning booth, or maybe a headache that just won’t go away.

She examines you, making little noises at the back of her throat.  Same noises she’s made while examining your broken nose in second grade when a big ball came out of nowhere while you were walking around the track with your three best friends; or the time you stepped on a rusty nail and had to get a tetanus shot.  It sounds like she’s humming, or chirping.  In any case, it’s a comforting sound, so you close your eyes and wait for it to be done so you can get dressed and go.  You have plans tonight.

Then she sits you down.  Takes off her glasses, rubs her eyes, looks at you over her clipboard.  And says that you’ll need to go to the lab for some tests. You ask if it could wait until Monday, after all it is three o’clock on Friday and you need to go places.  To see people.  And there is that shirt, or dress, or shoes that you absolutely need to have for this party you’re attending tonight.

She looks at you and smiles and nods her head, but a sigh escapes.  First thing Monday morning, she reminds you.  Then she gives you a hug that’s a bit too tight and a bit too long.  And your childhood ends.  Because you know that something is going on.  There’s a war inside your body.  Something you have no control over.  And all cheer until you find out what it is, is false cheer.

So you call your mom.  She’s frantic.  She hangs up too quickly, then calls you back.  She tells you to wait for her right there, she’s on her way.  And you wait because what else can you do? Meanwhile thoughts race through your head: you’re just eighteen; whatever it is, it isn’t fair; there are never any decent magazines in the doctor’s office; maybe you’ll be done quickly at the lab; you hope you make it to the mall; you’re just eighteen…

And the weekend passes in a blur.  Your doctor calls on Monday.  You need more tests.  You go in.  You get hooked up to things.  Blood flows out of your veins and into countless vials.  You hear your mom crying herself to sleep at night.  Your dad, so strong, so tough, is breaking apart.  So you try to be brave for your parents and for your siblings who watch you with big, fearful eyes.  Or maybe you break down and cry with them.  You hope.  You despair.  You pray.  You pray for a miracle.  After all you are just eighteen.  And your whole life should be ahead of you.

During a recent lunch amongst a few people I know well and most not too well, the talk turned to current events, as it invariably does when strangers meet each other and try to make friends.  And as it usually occurs during such times, one of the women present tried to share her opposing views, only to be disgraced into silence by the righteousness of two of the men. It was demeaning and embarrassing and I, being a woman, felt her humiliation.  But I was more embarrassed for the snobbery and affectation of intellect on the men’s side.  Or rather, for the fact that I held these two in some esteem, and they had disappointed me. 

While reading yesterday about the 300 Afghan women who marched in Kabul, amidst spit, name calling and flying stones, to secure rights for themselves as women and valid members of society, I got to thinking about the sacrifices some make to pave the way for others.  And even the sacrifices our daughters will continue having to make, because for one reason or another when it comes to certain issues, we’re still stuck in the nineteenth century.   

Why is it so?  In countries that have less freedom than ours, it is easy to find the culprits. But here?  Could it be that we are indulged?  Patted on the head, scratched behind the ears, thrown crumbs here and there….  There is no remorse, because we are not taken seriously.  And if we make an issue and try to take a stand, we are ridiculed and beaten to a pulp by the nasty tongues of men only interested in the survival of their own agendas.  We are invited to a round table discussion only to find out when we get there that the round table has been replaced with a pulpit.  Monologue has replaced the dialogue, and if you need something to do, start refilling the coffee cups.

Within the above mentioned group at least, the authority of the two men is an amateur sort of authority.  One of them talked as if he needed to convince himself.  The other, as though he was willing to overlook our naivety, if only we’d shut up, move ourselves into another room and start talking fashion.  Yet, that makes no difference.  We get used to it, used to how little is expected of our intelligence, and in turn become wary of any change that brings with it the power to turn on it’s head the world we have grown accustomed to.

I don’t believe that this is a ‘men versus women’ issue.  This apportioning of power between us is a result of our upbringing, culture and education.  It rarely is questioned.  It’s just the way things always were and how they should continue to be.   In my case, as in the case of many of my friends, upbringing and culture play a tremendous role.  As outspoken as I am, I often hesitate.  However, as mothers and female role models, we need to be a bit more responsible first to ourselves, secondly to our children and finally to our husbands.  And maybe we can acknowledge that the past and the future belongs to all of us equally.  Men and women working together.

We all have that certain friend who oozes class, no matter what time of day or night.  Her makeup always flawlessly done, her clothing tasteful and timeless, and while the rest of us merely walk (or, on occasion, trip over our feet), she glides.  She is so well mannered she puts us to shame.  Charming and captivating and effortless: three adjectives that describe her person perfectly.

At the same time, she is fun, passionate about her family and friends, outspoken about issues she holds dear, sincere, honest and hardworking.  She is in fact the most hardworking woman I know. 

I have a quote from Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies, which I absolutely love, and secretly wish applies to me.  Without a doubt it applies to her: You could be all the traditional feminine things- a mother, a lover, a listener, a nurturer- and you could also be critically astute and radical and have a minority opinion that was profoundly moral.

And since many of you are probably yawning at the thought of such perfection, let me just say that my exemplary friend has two very bad, unforgivable qualities.  Of course she is human, allowances should be made. I really shouldn’t say, unforgivable.  That’s too harsh a word.

However, she does talk just a tad too much about her kids.  Nothing really wrong with that, except if you want to say something about yours, and she isn’t quite finished yet. And then your mind starts wandering and thinking: when will I get to say what I want?  And then the occasion passes.

Also, she has a bad habit of being too polite to the waiters.  She doesn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, I suppose. But still.  Why pay for something overcooked or undercooked?  I guess that’s where I come in.  I nudge her gently in the right direction.

It makes me wonder if what we want is control, not a relationship. (D. Miller)

There is a kind of superhuman power in conjugal love. (I. Nemirovsky)

A few days ago I had a conversation with one of my single friends about marriage.  She, nearing 30, feels that she knows all there is to know about having a happy marriage, and worries that as each day passes and Mr. Right retains his absence, she will never walk the aisle.  I can attest to those feelings as well.  In my early twenties I felt under a tremendous strain to cultivate relationships that led to marriage and fulfill my subcultural obligations to my parents and community.  The fear of being referred to as an ‘old girl’ energized me into action.

I got to thinking on my drive home about marriage and all that it entails.  My post adolescent ideas were so different than the reality I live every day. I won’t talk about those ideas now because I am embarrassed at my naivety then.  Love, sex, loyalty, attention, validation… and all of them in good measure, are the necessary ingredients.  Leave one out and the cake falls flat.  And let’s not forget those heart to hearts. Sitting down to talk and listen, no matter how tired or late, smoothes out the wrinkles in the marriage fabric.

Failure awaits to greet at every step.  You stop to make its acquaintance and your spouse is forced to stop as well.  Marriage, as well as life, is filled with such obstacles.  Our progress fails, we suffer, our children suffer.  We believe we’ve reached our limit, we don’t have the resources within us to drag ourselves another inch.  And what do we do?  The easy choice is to give up, to call it quits, to close ourselves off from our best friend, our lover, and to look elsewhere.

How illusory it is to imagine life on the other side of the fence.  At first glance you don’t see the patches of earth that show through the parched grass.  Marriage is truth and marriage is effort.  A great marriage takes time.  Plenty of it.  It isn’t something that anyone is given.  It requires work and maintenance.  It requires faith.