Tuesday night, I learned the joys of spray starch for ironing. wonder of wonders! It is wonderful! Now I just need an ironing board. This gave me an absurd amount of joy.
I did not learn many of these once-basic domestic skills from my mother. I can't picture her ironing, actually. For some reason, I don't mind ironing, though I do need a board to make it nice.
She did teach me a lot of other wonderful things, like how to make Peanut Butter Playdough, sewing, knitting (sort of), and the simple, profound joy of being able to answer a compliment with "thanks, I made it." She taught me how to be an artist and craftsman and create beautiful things, too many at a time. And definetely how to overextend myself and make big messy piles all over my desk and then somehow, in a way no one else will ever understand, deliver it all in the end more skillfully and naturally than a real "organizer."
I'm always so proud of my mom. Cooking and cleaning and boring house chores aside, how many other people can say their mom knows how to tat, do blackwork, build a website, run a conference for non-profits, make jam, run a girl scout troop, and, most impressively in my book, get a priest to swear at her?