Radical Domestic Imperfection - by Shannon Hayes

9/28/07

Shannon Hayes, author of THE FARMER AND THE GRILL and THE GRASSFED GOURMET

This month we moved, for the second time this summer, and I am also moving into a new office and Julian's molars are coming in and we are night-weaning and he is walking and babbling constantly and occasionally goes on Potty Strike or Hunger Strike, and there are other professional and developmental milestones for the adults here at home which I'll keep private, and amidst this happy untidy organic life comes a wonderful essay from Shannon Hayes, a grass farmer upstate, author of two excellent cookbooks about meat, and someone I admire.

Today I am delighted to bring you her take on keeping up: with a farm, with making traditional foods for dinner, with babies we nurse and carry and take to the potty, with a writing career - with all of life, as it rains down, sometimes gently, sometimes rushing like a swollen creek. Shannon describes her life as one of Radical Domestic Imperfection. Her light touch made my day, so I'm sharing it with you. Next time, maybe something more on omega-3 fats or the virtues of high HDL. Buy hey, all nutrients and no wordplay makes Jack a dull boy.

Shannon Hayes and her children

Homespun Mom Comes Unraveled

by Shannon Hayes

I completed grad school in 2001 knowing only that I was not cut out for a professional life. The 'Supermom' ideal of blending family and career seemed impossible to attain. Instead, my husband and I re-joined my family on our grassfed livestock farm, planted perennial beds and an organic garden, and began pursuing an authentic life, one where we lived by our principles. We split our own firewood, rendered our animal fats to make soap; canned peaches, cider, plums and jellies; stored winter vegetables. My husband wove baskets. I wrote a cookbook. We started a family, worked on the farm, and sold meat at our weekly farmers' market.

In pursuit of our self-sufficiency, I didn't realize that I had actually become a type. Even if we've never met, you know me. I am part of a new cadre of women - the uber-Moms. We are the over-educated over-achievers, sidestepping the conventional rat race in favor of an alternative maelstrom. In school we were taught that our careers could be our lives, and instead, we've opted to make our lives our careers. You can see us every week at your farmers' market. When consumers cried out for 'food with a face,' we stepped forward and offered you our sun-kissed complexions, breast-fed babies and homegrown products. We nourish our families on grass fed meats, homemade kefir, raw farmers' cheese and yogurt; we knit sweaters, sew quilts and hand stitch Halloween costumes; we gather eggs, milk the family cow, weed the vegetable patch and eviscerate chickens with our babies strapped to our backs; we compost everything from dinner scraps to diapers and placentas. Our children are home-birthed, unvaccinated and un-schooled. We forbid white flour, white sugar, television, Disney films and plastic toys. We bake wholesome cookies and make believe they taste delicious. We sit on panels at farmer-chef dinners, host workshops and write newsletter articles. We claim to know nothing about cell phones, blackberries or ipods, but we have websites and PowerPoint presentations featuring idyllic pictures of our children bottle feeding lambs or nuzzling chicks. We blog.

And when you approach us at the weekly market, we offer to sell you our eggs, or a grass-fed steak or freshly processed chicken. But really, we are selling you more than that. We are selling you our lifestyle. 'Buy from me,' it feels as though we‚re saying, 'Because I represent your values.'

But what I really feel like saying is 'Buy from me, because I want to pick up a bottle of gin on the way home.' Somehow, on our paths toward this noble life, one more group of girls has fallen prey to another impossible feminine ideal. And I, for one, am crumbling under the pressure of uber-Momming. Our gardens are a mess, my kids are throwing up on the way to the market, my fingers ache from milking the cow, we're running out of homemade soap, and attachment parenting is causing my back to ache. The cat has made a bed in my unfinished knitting, the firewood's getting rained on, and despite our best efforts, our four-year-old still longs to be a Disney Princess.

And, truth be told, I don't always feel like passing a summer afternoon making lacto-fermented pickles, stuffing sausages or packing meat for the farmers' market. I want to take my girls swimming in the pond, then sprawl out with them across my bed for a mid summer nap beneath an open window. I want to sip a martini and dance on the screen porch with my husband. I want to put on lipstick, go see a movie with the family, then eat ice cream while watching lightning bugs.

Farming keeps us in a state of sated poverty. We eat well, but cannot afford (and prefer not to afford) conveniences or assistance of any kind. Help violates the uber-Mom code. Instead, our family has settled for a life of radical domestic imperfection. We've quit mowing our lawn. It wastes gas, anyhow. Laundry doesn't really need to be folded. It's easier for my girls to find their clothes when they're strewn across the couch. We'll still eat grass fed meat, but we've decided not to worry about cleaning up the drippings that stick to the bottom of the refrigerator. And maybe if we ignore those organic vegetables rotting in the produce drawer, they'll manage to compost themselves. I just don't invite any uber-Moms over for lunch.

So next time when you see me at the farmers' market, please don't marvel wide-eyed at my seemingly pristine, wholesome, puritanical lifestyle. Smile and thank me for the succulent pork chops, beautifully marbled steaks or the tasty eggs, then put your hand on my arm, lean forward and remind me that you are not buying from me because I am an ideal archetype representing your values. You are buying from me because I am your friend, your neighbor, a responsible producer, and the girl you can turn to for a nice juicy piece of meat.

Shannon Hayes is the author of THE FARMER AND THE GRILL and THE GRASSFED GOURMET. Her essays can be found at theradicalhomemaker.net.