Sauce Rage

A few weeks ago, I made salsa and tomato sauce. I did it late at night after my kids were in bed. Some evenings I started this ridiculous endeavour at 9:30 pm only to collape exhausted into bed at 1 am. Let me explain that I am on summer holidays and my husband is not. His alarm goes off at 6am and I have learned to sleep right through it. So when I got it in my head to start a canning binge on a Sunday night, my husband, while supportive in theory, was not particularly enthusiastic. So I did it myself.

The first day was fine. I made a test batch of tomato sauce. No problem. But that didn't even make a tiny dent in the massive pile of tomatoes in my kitchen. So I got to work on salsa, diced tomatoes, roasted tomatoes. Over the course of the week (one that also included taking the kids swimming, to the zoo, the beach, the library, and making 3 meals a day), the nighttime canning experiment began to get ugly. I began to vent in my head, I started to bang pots and pans around, I took to angrily elbowing my snoring husband when I crawled into bed late at night. I recall at one point being reduced to screeching something to the effect of "I'll remember that this is NOT YOUR FOOD and won't serve you ANY! Jackass!" when he made a comment about the mess in the kitchen not being his idea. Or something like that.

Turns out, I was suffering from Sauce Rage. Seems it stems from anger at the futility of spending countless hours to make something that you don't really need to make. And, for me, from some deeply instilled feminist voices in the back of my head.

After my first week of canning was done, and my mountain of tomatoes reduced to a mere molehill, I was able to think again. I was able to use real words to express what had been eating at me. And that was, "6 years of university and two degrees and here I am toiling for hours over a hot stove to make food for us that I could just buy at the store with the money I can earn in less than an hour of work?" Indeed, in all this waxing poetic about the joys of the "old ways", there is certainly a tense undercurrent of "there is a reason women wanted out of the kitchen". I still can't quite wrap my head around the gender politics of this endeavour, but I certainly found some food for thought (sorry) in an article by Peggy Orenstein, The Femivore's Dilemma. Despite the unfortunate title (femivore=one who eats women?), I found the article both inspiring and cautionary. It made me glad that I said " Next time, let's do this together so I don't feel like a harried hausfrau" and we agreed to use weekends instead of evenings. My next batch involved spousal assistance in peeling, seeding and chopping. It was kind of fun, and overall left me blissfully free of the dreaded Sauce Rage. Moral of the story, don't sauce alone. You'll want to kill someone.