the freedom of mediocrity

Two things, unrelated to each other (except in my mind, as will become clear):

1. The cake I made last night for a baby shower tomorrow
2. An essay by Rufi Thorpe, Mother, Writer, Monster, Maid

The cake: a disaster. First, never bake with egg whites from a box—even in an effort to save yourself from wasting egg yolks—boxed egg whites don’t whip up the way egg whites from an actual egg do. Second, and this part is crucial: never use baking powder that expired five years ago.

In retrospect, both these of these things seem obvious. Alas. I spent five hours baking two cakes, each of which failed to rise. The first cake failed, or so I thought, because of the egg whites (which also failed to whip up for my first batch of icing). My assumption about the egg whites turned out wrong, though, because—to my utter despair—the second cake I made also failed to rise. The true cause: my baking powder, which no longer retained any of the properties of baking powder. 

(Fun fact: you will know whether your baking powder is dead if you put ¼ teaspoon in ½ cup water. If there is no fizz, go buy new baking powder.)

So you may assume that tonight I am, yet again, making another cake. Not so. After tasting one of the four very thin cake layers I made to make sure it was edible, I put three layers together to form a reasonably normal-looking cake. I covered its imperfections with my second batch of (successful!) icing, and finally went to bed.

And here’s where we get to the essay by Thorpe. There are a great many things I sympathize with in her essay, and since I have no idea what it’s like to be a mother, I can only guess what my own experience would be. I do, however, have some experience as a wife, so those are the parts of the essay I’ll comment on. As Thorpe describes, her husband does not cook and he leaves his underwear on the floor of the bathroom. He also shrinks clothing in the wash. This means that she cleans up the underwear, and she does the cooking, and she does the laundry. She is unhappy about this, which is not surprising. 

And yet, reading this all I could think was that it’s really ok for the food to be mediocre and the underwear to remain on the floor. I know this because my food is often mediocre and I too leave my underwear lying around. I still do my fair share of the cooking, and no one picks up after me. (And when Josh leaves his clothes lying around, no one is picking up after him either.) None of this is ideal, but we muddle along regardless. 

So I would like to make a recommendation to Thorpe and everyone like her: imperfection and mediocrity can be wonderful. Not caring can be truly, truly liberating. Is our house the cleanest? No. Do the dishes always get put away immediately? No. Have I shrunk clothes in the wash? Yes, yes I have. Do I eat too much boxed mac and cheese? Yes, I certainly do. Is this the way I would prefer my life to be? Not really. But are we still doing ok? Still enjoying ourselves? Yes, yes we are.

It’s fine. Not great, not perfect, but totally ok. Sort of like the cake I made last night. I know that with fresh baking powder and another carton of eggs, I could make a perfect, fluffy, beautiful cake. But I don’t want to. I’m tired of baking. The cake I made is good enough.

An Open Letter to my 1998 Nissan Sentra

Dear Simon,

Technically, you were my sister’s car first. You were purchased for her, used, in 2000, after she almost wrecked the Volvo trying to learn how to drive stick shift. And you are named after a boy she had a crush on in the 9th grade. But after 15 years of driving you and replacing your rusting parts, it’s safe to say that you’re all mine now.

I mentioned that are you named after a boy my sister had a crush on. This does not make you all that special—all cars in our family are named, and all names begin with the same letter as the model of the car. Victor the Volvo, Harry the Honda, Simon the Sentra. And yes, all the cars are “male.” In our family, the cars and pets are always male (and we like to anthropomorphize). We know we're strange.

Naming may not have made you special, Simon, but you are nevertheless quite special indeed. You are 18 years old, with only 65,000 miles. When I registered you at the Maryland MVA last year, the lady behind the desk thought this was a joke. It’s not.

You once had mice living in your air conditioning, unbeknownst to me, and I neglected to get the unit checked out for a whole summer. Back in 2002, I knocked your side mirror off while backing out of a garage, and I reattached it using duct tape and drove you around like that for months. (My high school friends call you “El Ghetto” because of this. Not PC at all, but give us a break—we were only 17.) Your top is peeling off and rusting. It looks pretty gruesome. Josh, when he first met you, asked if I had tried to cut out a sunroof for you. (I hope you forgive him for that—sometimes he makes bad jokes.) 

And just a few weeks ago, someone hit your front driver-side door, and now it makes a terrible crunching sound when it closes. In high school, my sister sat in you with liquid cement on her pants, and there has been a weird splotch on your upholstery ever since. In the winter, your power steering sometimes fails. Water now leaks into your trunk. You are missing two hubcaps. You have never, ever been broken into.

Once, driving up Broadway in Manhattan, someone pulled up next to you and shouted: “Hey, I know where you can get that bumper replaced for a great price!” I was confused by this at first—usually men shouting in cars are referring to my bumper and not yours, Simon. But then I was insulted for you. What was wrong with your bumper? It may have looked (as it does now) like I had played bumper cars with you, repeatedly and for many years, but what of it? Isn’t there a saying about scars giving character to a face? No? Well. I still told that guy to get lost. I hope your feelings weren’t hurt.

Simon, you have been an important part of my young adult life. You were the car I learned to drive on, and the car I drove during my driving test back in 2001. You allowed me to sneak in the house way past my curfew in high school. You came to college with me, and got me safely from DC to Chicago to New York and back again, several times. You have helped me move six times. We have spent many, many hours driving around together with the windows down, listening to bad pop music at a ridiculous volume—this is one of my favorite things to do. 

You took me and Alex and Rita to Depot late at night for hamburgers. You took me and Marta and Alex (and sometimes Adam) to many, many delicious cheap ethnic dining establishments. You took me to the library to write my dissertation when I was too lazy to take the bus. You helped Josh out when his car broke down. You got me all the places I wanted to go without ever leaving me stranded by the side of the road. I couldn’t have asked for a better car.

And now, after 15 years together, soon it’s going to be time to say goodbye. You’re old and not in great shape. I don’t drive you as much as I should. Last time I took you to the mechanic, he told me he was worried about replacing any of your parts because you are so rusty and brittle.  And he needs to replace many of your parts.

Selling you (or more likely, giving you away) will be hard for me, because I think of you as a friend—a great friend who is always ready for a trip and never gives me a hard time. We’ve grown old together, Simon, and I’ll really miss you when you’re gone.

Love,

Julia