One of the few regrets in my life is that I grew up during the casserole era.
If anyone in my neighbourhood was physically or emotionally under the weather, the ladies of the IODE (Independent Order of Daughters of the Empire) would arrive with casseroles. Lots of casseroles.
It really put the fear of, well, the fear of casseroles in us. My dad, for example, was never known to ever have been ill in all his years of marriage. Why? Fear of casserole delivery. He knew in the depths of his soul that if he were ever too weak to make it in to work, the good administrations of the IODE casseroles would finish him off.
My mother, who gave up a high end corporate career to be a housewife, got it in her head that she too should make casseroles. Her head, however, was far too filled with more interesting and worthwhile thoughts than mundane matters such as keeping an eye on the oven. In short, kitchen fires were common. She placed casserole after casserole in front of our family, and always asked my father, “Do you like it, Dear?” Being smarter than the average bear, he always answered, “Yes. Thank you.” My mother, however, being smarter than my father, knew that he was lying, and would call him on it.
A word about my parents. My mother’s father, a regional head of a provincial power commission, was illiterate, so she handled all his paperwork from the time she was in public school. After earning a couple of business degrees, she made a name for herself in the corporate world before throwing it all away to have a husband and family. Although she was a truly brilliant person, she had absolutely no training or interest in cooking. Her first meal in married life was an attempt at baked beans, in which she and my father narrowly escaped injury, for no one told her about the importance of opening the can before baking. Unfortunately, despite monumental culinary incompetence which routinely led to illness and injury, she insisted on playing the role of housewife, and therefore always having food (I use that term loosely) on the table for the family.
My father was a gentleman from a long line of gentlemen. He was always polite and considerate. He did not understand why my mother gave up business for the kitchen, for she had established herself in the corporate world and they did not have children at the time. He did not understand why she had to be the one to prepare meals, for having lived on his own for many years, he quite enjoyed cooking. Not only that, but he was a good cook, so he did not understand why casseroles were considered food. The man had grace and decorum, and was always courteous, no matter how despairing the situation.
The poor fellow’s only relief came on evenings when my mother was out with the IODE doing whatever nefarious and charitable things such organizations do. Of course she always left a casserole, and always made a point of asking the next day why it had not been eaten, but at least for the occasional evening my father, sister and I would escape the dreaded casserole.
In later years, I asked my parents about the homemaking arrangement they had. My mother told me that she was heavily influenced by society’s standards, which in her day meant that to be a successful person, a woman had to be a housewife, and pour her creativity and time into her family. Fortunately, as far as parenting skills went, she and my father were both fantastic, so all worked out just fine in the long run. It’s just that whoever decided that women should stay at home and prepare casseroles never met my mother.
What can I say. My sister and I are both feminists and vegetarians. We survived the casserole era.
