On Martha and the Harm in “Perfect” Womanhood
In the etiquette class, everything had a proper place and use—even me.
no one was here
If someone doesn’t see you as fully human because you’re a woman or because you’re not white or because you’re not cis or whatever it might be, chances are that you knowing how to hold a salad fork won’t really change that.
The many etiquette books I read as a child, the seasonally appropriate greetings I draft first in pencil, then in pen, the soup spoons and dessert spoons; none of these will erase the fear, anxiety and longing I feel about my half-way-immigrant, half-way-lady self.
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What a gift it is to be asked to feed a person, but what a further gift for that person to ask if they might be taught to make what you make.
This is an essay about soup, but it is also about friendship. Or rather, this is an essay about soup and how a friendship ends.
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While Ruth’s words— “where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay”—made for a heart-stilling pseudomarital vow, I was not selfless enough to promise the same.
While I understood why theft or murder was wrong, this aspect didn’t make sense to me. What did sex and my body have to do with God?
My grandmother once told me that bringing bread into a home means that its residents will never go hungry.