Why “Fascist”?

I guess this explanation comes a little late, but given my borderline attention deficit nature, it’s right on schedule, really.  

I was initially met with cocked eyebrows and pursed lips when I had introduced the title “Fascist Foodie”.  “Isn’t the term ‘Fascist’ a little extreme?”  “Like, war-time food?”  “Do you kill people in restaurants?”  No, no, and sometimes.

In my experience, the ethics and ideals of your kitchen are yours to write, to dictate and enforce.  Even my husband questioned the term Fascist.  However, I merely pointed out the number of times he’d been threatened (or mercilessly stabbed) for an infraction as simple as lifting a pot lid, or even just being too close to my work area.  I work alone, unless others become implicitly INVITED to join.  I am Il Duce della Cucina.  My title is self-proclaimed and questioned by no one within my domain under pain of death, or laxative-laden appetizers.  In the true spirit of fascist totalitarianism, I always reserve the right to change my stances, as well as the goals I set for myself and my domain, without the need to justify anything to anyone other than my ever-inflating ego.  Although, my ego is also known to deflate faster than a mishandled soufflé when met with my (many) failures, such as… mishandling a soufflé.

I partially envy those who are able to share their space, their experience, but I’m thankful for my lone-wolf mentality, too.  It’s made me branch out more than I think I would’ve if I was second-guessed by a person next to me.

My Aunt by marriage seems to share this approach, and I wasn’t able to properly reconcile my own relationship with the home fires until I could be an outside observer.  Her boundaries are clear.  Expectations of all present are clear.  Her food is amazing, and (I believe) she achieves that by coming from an intimacy with the raw ingredients, knowledge of strengths and limitations, and an understanding that no one would dare cross one of those boundaries and interfere with the Process.

It’s like, I can’t imagine having a shared Facebook account with my husband.  My kitchen is a space where I create and define part of myself.  A part of myself that loves food, and all the idiosyncrasies that come along with it.  It is a relationship.  We’re pretty exclusive.  At times: torrid, passionate, sinful and tawdry.  At other times, well, we have a disagreement, get frustrated, one thing leads to another and I storm out and end up calling out for some Thai action on the side.  You get the picture. 

Create your space and define your boundaries.  You can create these boundaries without being a bitch, but that can also be part of the fun.

*since there was no food to take photos of for this post, here's a pic of cats in a bathtub: