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Musings on Cooking and the Closet

May 4, 2009

I cooked some twelve dozen cookies this weekend. I made an obscene amount of oatmeal raisin cookies (my family’s recipe, one of my favorite cookie recipes) and a smaller, experimental batch of vanilla glazed biscuit cookies from a recipe book I picked up a few months ago at the bargain bin at Borders. It was experimental not only because I had never made it before, but because I was translating it from british metrics to american, and the recipe itself was half-translated to american, and poorly. I mostly used it as a “guideline” and improvised as I felt that the original did not have enough flour or sugar and was just too straight up buttery. I was not terribly impressed with the result in proportion to the amount of work involved (I had to make two different kinds of glaze and the dough was a pain in the ass to roll the way the recipe called for), but everyone who had one liked them, so I suppose it was a successful experiment. The plethora of people raving about my baking/cooking swells the bit of pride I have in it and has me wondering what I can do to get better at it? Classes? Just lots and lots of practice? Whatever. Tonight, smittenkitchen’s World Peace Cookies, just because. Definitely something that is coming to the office with me so I do not consume them all.

I spent most of the weekend at S’s house for his vanilla (read: non-kinky) party for friends and family. Which was interesting in that I don’t think his family and friends could tell what my relationship was with him. On the one hand, I think we’re pretty obviously not a couple, but on the other, I think you can tell that we’re intimate. They would ask me questions like if I had access to his computer, or if I knew where X was in the kitchen, etc. Assuming – often correctly – that I knew where something was in his house. Then there’s the whole fact that I slept in his bed and was seen in his bathrobe. Conflicting signals, much? It’s odd, mixing family vanilla friends with a poly-kink lifestyle. It got me thinking about what my family knows and doesn’t know about me, what I choose to tell them and what I choose not to.

I know some people who are completely out to their families (one person explained why he came out to his family thus – “If they find me dead, tied up, and in a pink tutu, I want them to know that I died happy.”), but that isn’t something I see myself doing any time soon. As active as I am in the local BDSM community, it’s what I do not who I am. I don’t view being kinky as a primary aspect of my identity, and in general don’t feel like my family ever needs to know what I do in the bedroom (or in a public dungeon, as the case may be).

So how would I explain my relationships to my family? It hasn’t come up, really. I’ve always been private about my relationships with my family, a long habit of growing up a lesbian in their household. My Mom knows about Kiwi, mostly because I like to throw her a bone about my personal life every now and then. I wonder sometimes how they would react to my… unconventional lifestyle. How much of it is truly necessary for them to know? The only situation that I could see myself specifically telling them about polyamory (which is a phrase they have quite possibly never even heard of) would be if I ended up in a long term triad or some other similar situation. Or if I had a primary partner and we were both obviously dating other people, I might note that we had an “open relationship.” Which they would think is odd, but somehow seems more acceptable than being a member of a community of people who share similar “weird” perspectives on relationships.

There are so many things in my life that I simply choose not to talk about. I am constantly accused of – usually by people who don’t know me at all – not having a filter. I have such a finely tuned filter, you have no idea. I am well aware of how awkward I make some people when I discuss my life openly, and when I do so, I do so deliberately, pushing at that “line” with full knowledge of what I am doing. But my family? They’re family, it’s different. I know that they will be there for me regardless of what kind of life I am leading, but there is no need to stir up a hornet’s nest, no need to make them uncomfortable about something that is not directly related to our relationship. I know that they would rather not even think about me as a sexual person, let alone someone whose hobby involves getting suspended from ceilings and having the crap beaten out of her. Someone whose whose relationships are rarely, if ever, in the singular.
I am, effectively, closeted, just as if I chose not to tell my parents about me dating women (until recently I was “closeted” about dating men). It’s a huge part of my life that I simply don’t talk about to my family. I worry sometimes about it possibly getting to the point where I will have little to discuss of my life that would pass the “family” filter. After all, there is only so much spinning and selective omission that you can do before someone close to you starts to wonder.

On another note
Saw X-Men Origins: Wolverine this Sunday with Kiwi. As entertaining as it was to someone with a sad weakness for bad comic book movies and Hugh Jackman, it is a completely useless waste of celluloid that owes its existence to someone in Hollywood wanting more money. The movie theatre did have the arm rests that raise up, so I got lots of cuddling in, but eh.

In the past week, I’ve lost three pounds simply by adding ten minutes to my work out routine and not drinking as much alcohol.

Started the NuvaRing yesterday. My last foray into hormonal birth control (Yaz) had me migrainey and nauseous every day for a month. I’m giving NuvaRing a month as well – so far all it’s got going is slight dizziness and possible fatigue, not sure if the latter is caused by the ring, “non-drowsy” sudafed, or the fact that it is a rainy Monday.

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