That was ages ago. And I imagined that matters would only improve from there. By the time my son arrived, I vainly believed that I should be able to not just defrost food but conjure it — by means of the web or a 3-D printer or at least a game male, close at hand, whose ego had been serendipitously formed by Emeril or "Top Chef.” But instead, to my horror, home cooking had made a hideous comeback. Noble food philosophers preached the retro virtues of slow, real food instead of the quickie, frozen stuff that had once spelled liberation to me.
那都是很多年前的事了。我以为从那以后情况只会变得更好。到我儿子出生时,我还以为自己应该不仅能解冻食物,还能召唤食物——通过互联网、3D打印机,或至少通过一个尽在咫尺、心甘情愿下厨房的丈夫——艾梅里尔(Emeril)或真人秀节目“顶级大厨”(Top Chef)意外地让他以当奶爸为荣。但可怕的是,家庭烹饪卷土重来。高尚的美食哲学家们鼓吹慢慢做成的真正的食物的好处,把能快速做好的、原本让我看到解放希望的冷冻食物打入了冷宫。
And worst of all, as the mother-cookbooks make painfully clear, the daily work of feeding children doesn't fall to the sages. Neither does it, notably, fall to the dads, whom the cookbooks commend for having signature dishes or being grill-masters, but not for punching the clock at breakfast, lunch and dinner. No, cooking belongs, inevitably, to the moms. I've tried to find outrage among my sister mothers about this reactionary development. But here's the unkindest cut: It turns out that other women — traitorously — now like to cook. They find cooking expressive and fascinating. No one but me wants to be a born defroster anymore. "I hear you, but I like to cook," said one feminist the last time I tried my bold association of foodism with rank misogyny.
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