I no longer want to pursue a college education. The only appealing thing about a 9 to 5 is vaguely relating to a Dolly Parton song. I need a faithful husband. I yearn for the peace that I see on my FYP.
A woman in a Lana Del Rey-coquette-Ethel Cain-Y2K-gothic-60’s-70’s-1880s-prairie dress. I am she. Nay, not a mere woman. A wife. I twirl in a grassy field like a Manson Girl. I pluck strawberries from the dirt even though strawberries don’t grow underground. I prop my iPhone 15 Plus on my marble countertop to record A Day In The Life with my overmedicated, apathetic voiceover.
We live in a historic farmhouse. Everything is painted white, eerily cutting edge but also extremely vintage. I keep a shrine of homemade candles dedicated to Joanna Gaines in my closet. It is a major fire hazard. Every morning I collect eggs from my perfect A-frame henhouse. The eggs are aesthetically soft baby pink. I pull on my rubber gloves that match my outfit and scrub my $500 pumpkin-shaped Le Creuset with organic and locally sourced lavender-goat milk soap. I hang our linens on a clothesline and they billow in the summer breeze. We have a dryer, but the electromagnetic frequencies unbalance our unvaccinated metabolisms. I have a full set of acrylic nails in the color buckwheat-basil-ochre-buttermilk even though I work in our pesticide-free garden for hours each day.
My husband is Elijah. He works somewhere. The job is excellent, enough to buy this beautiful home and the massive rock on my hand. Is it tech? Is he a finance bro? A model for American Eagle? He looks like a model for American Eagle, yet disturbingly metrosexual for our idyllic environment. But he is certainly a dedicated Christian. I ride in the passenger seat of his lifted Ford F-750 when we go to the Chick-fil-A drive-thru. He orders grilled nuggets and a fruit cup for me, because I am a woman. He always has a toothpick, because he is an American Heterosexual Cis Man. Elijah exudes raw sexual energy, yet we barely touch or show any indication of romance unless he commands his desires be fulfilled. Unless he is attempting to impregnate me with our third child.
I have two toddlers. A four-year-old boy, Orion-River-Zayden-Cadmus, and his three-year-old sister, Luna-Bumblebee-Keighluh-Crysanthemum. Their faces will never appear on social media. I will never show myself cleaning up after them, showing motherly affection, or any of the other duties expected of a housewife. Instead, I shall slave endlessly to create hyperspecific food from scratch.
I begin my day at 3 a.m. The sun is up and I am in full glam. Do not question this. Luna-Bumblebee-Keighluh-Crysanthemum allegedly asked me to make strawberry mini doughnuts for breakfast. I begin by harvesting fresh corn, wheat, eggs, sugar cane, and vanilla (which all grow in this ambiguous midwest environment) from our garden, then I milk our cow Clarabelle. I once again unearth strawberries from our flowerbed. I dig in our salt mine. I separate the wheat from the chaff and use our backyard millstone to make flour. I squeeze the corn cob so hard it makes canola oil. I slam the sugar cane into a cutting board until it becomes granulated. I dehydrate the strawberries in our dehydrator, as everyone has one of those. I mix yeast, milk, and sugar in a bowl, then let sit until foamy. I use my massive FUCK YOU Kitchen Aid mixer to combine the dry ingredients. I snort a line of cocaine, followed by an Adderall, a Ritalin, barbiturates, six valium, and chase it all with a blueberry lime sorbet mocktail. I cut butter into even squares, as I throw the cubes into the batter no one notices the blood dripping from my knuckles. The pink, metallic stains are disguised by the pulverized dehydrated strawberries. I increase the mixer speed to medium, give my husband Elijah a sloppy blowjob, then mix the dough for five more minutes until soft and smooth. I transfer the dough to an oiled bowl with a taught smile, but the smile does not reach my eyes. Cut your dough into small doughnuts and let rise, you can use the scraps to make doughnut holes. I fill a cast iron pan with oil and heat it to 350 degrees. I wonder what would happen if I plunged my face into the oil.
Would I scream? Would I cry? Would my carefully moisturized flesh melt off in layers, viscera bubbling with the canola? These thoughts trouble me at night. I lie awake next to Elijah in bed, too scared to touch myself with him beside me. He is perfect. I am perfect. Then why do I have these thoughts? Do my material comforts satisfy me? Is there some greater purpose? Elijah tells me that there is a place for us in God’s heaven, especially for loyal wives. But I think of my children, will they care for me when I’m old? Will they be with me when I die? I slake my husband’s lust on the daily, I become whatever he requires of me. Will Elijah love me when I am no longer beautiful? I look at my stomach. Could another be growing inside me? Tearing at my vitality like a parasite clawing to be free, a demon in Elijah’s genetics eager for my toil. Tears spring to my eyes. This is my eternal punishment, I think. The woman’s place is the kitchen. I don’t remember being a young girl. The kitchen is where I have always been. Heaven is not eternal labor. Is this Hell? Would it be better to end it now, for the peaceful dark, rather than continue recording my voice overs as I sit in the window? Waiting for Elijah to come home for a single glance of recognition? Waiting for the pangs of motherhood as I watch Orion-River-Zayden-Cadmus and Luna-Bumblebee-Keighluh-Crysanthemum draw flowers with their cruelty-free beeswax crayons?
Is it wrong that I sometimes do not love my children? Do I care for any of this? My mother told me that motherhood is the greatest achievement in a woman’s life. Perhaps mine will be the sweet release of death.
Once the oil has come to temperature, test it with a few scraps of dough or doughnut holes. Gently lower the doughnuts, up to six at a time (depending on the size of your pot), into the hot oil. Cook, flipping every 30 seconds, for 3-4 minutesw, until golden. Remove from the oil using a slotted spoon and place on a cooling rack. Allow to cool for 30 seconds before tossing in powdered sugar and remaining dehydrated strawberry dust. Repeat the process with the rest of the doughnuts. The doughnuts are best eaten the day of, or stored in an airtight container and reheated in a microwave. I couldn’t resist eating just one, and it was delicious. Super cakey, strawberry sweetness. It recalls the innocence and purity of childhood.
I watch Luna-Bumblebee-Keighluh-Crysanthemum bite into one with a grin. She looks so much like me. I am reminded why I do this, why we exist on Earth, why we cook to nourish each other, why we marry, why we give birth, why we feed to spread joy, why we live. Why I am a mother. We all return to dust. Dehydrated strawberry dust. That’s why the strawberries grow underground. Akin to Sisyphus, one must imagine a trad wife influencer happy.
Your editor and wife,
Connor
Connor Stanford is a Junior Theatre Studies major who astral projects into Nara Smith’s body every night. You can reach Connor at [email protected]