Urban Domestication | Those People Who Leave The Butter Out

We focused on ambiguous, approachable signs of domestication because anything too aggressive didn’t fit our still-rowdy-in-our-30s approach- Non-takeout-sourced tupperware containers, more than 4 rolls of toilet paper purchased at a time, cookbooks not just for decoration, fabric softener, the very idea of “meal prep”, a 401k. These were all things that I felt nearly allergic to. 

I still had flashbacks of a “girls’ dinner!” in my hometown with the 3 people I still talked to from high school. They were all complaining about the imminent expansion of a two-lane road and consequent property devaluation of their homes. Not recognizing, of course, that it was the appearance of countless and thoughtless cookie-cutter palette-home subdivisions that required such a need for these expansions but alas, they had already moved on to the next riveting topic; who sells the best furniture and storage solutions for their husbands’ home offices. I sat and challenged myself to say something as I mindlessly and in vain pushed my soupy refried beans around my plate, thinking these formless legumes also seemed to have no regard for my wishes or presence.

We always had Girls’ Dinner! at weird “Mexican” restaurants off the highway because one of the girls, the one with the biggest house and the most stuff and thus most pressing need for storage solutions, didn’t like to drive her SUV down the narrow streets in the city. She also had trouble ordering off menus that weren’t Applebee’s or nameless “Mexican” restaurants off highways. She was the kind of girl who still asked for the kid’s menu, the one that would turn her nose up if chicken tenders weren’t an option everywhere. The one that asked for pasta with butter and parmesan at my going-away Girls Dinner, which I insisted on having downtown at my favorite Italian spot. She got a ride with one of the other girls, of course. She was the one that at a recent friend’s wedding which we all had a plated meal, grabbed her husband’s wrist before he dug into his surf-and-turf, cutting her eyes at him and saying, “Dan…”.

“Oh, sorry babe. Um, does anyone want my crabcake?” We were in Maryland. Someone asked this question aloud at a plated surf-and-turf dinner in Maryland, with his fork quivering in mid air, the slight red of his wife’s grip fading from his wrist.

“You don’t want your crabcake?” I asked as I happily absorbed mine, bite by bite in between savory segments of steak. 

Sarah interrupted. “No, he likes them. But he knows that if he eats any seafood, I won’t kiss him for the rest of the night,” she paused for a moment, beaming, before cutting into her dry chicken breast. 

Someone else’s husband grabbed the crabcake and slightly muttered, “You should really just eat the crabcake man,” without making eye contact with anyone, knowing you choose your fights, but godammit, this was one to choose.

The girls’ domestication had reached an intensity that I could no longer feign participation in. And that was 5 years ago. I wonder sometimes what kind of banal conversation I’m not participating in now and if the soupy beans miss my gentle pushes. 

This was far from the lifestyle I had with my lover. We focused on ambiguous, approachable signs of domestication. “We should be like those people who leave the butter out,” he told me, as I pushed an unwieldy cart around the IKEA in Red Hook.

I agreed. “I’ve always wanted to be those people!” I said honestly. I felt like a refrigerator-less dairy dome was something that could only be purchased through a gift registry and for others. You don’t decide it’s time to leave the butter out; others recognize that your commitment allots this type of societally misconstrued negligence. You were settled. You were two. You can leave the butter out. 

But to me, this to me communicated a European lifestyle. A stone-floored kitchen, bare feet and a linen dress. No screens on the windows as the breeze blows in, his arm around my waist and lips on my neck as I cut the fruit we chose at the market that morning. I’d arrange it loosely on a plate with a few pieces of crusty bread, smoothed with fresh butter from beneath a glass dome left intentionally on the solid wood chopping block. 

This was the life I wanted. And the butter felt like the gateway. 

My sister visited a few months after we moved in. She had seen me shuffled from thin-walled-apartment to optimistic shoebox spaces, all with a slew of hardly palatable roommates and one cat, and so to see my renovated railroad* apartment was a noticeable upgrade.

We ducked into a vintage** shop in the warehouse district*** of Greenpoint to escape the cold. Within the confines of the naturally-lit space and Happy Folk! playlist, I felt immediately aware of the previous night’s substance abuse. “You’re a grown-up,” I told my shaking hand as it uncertainly gripped my iced coffee. “Get it together.”

I perused through the row of hanging kimonos and wondered if my ass would work in multiple pairs of vintage**** Levi’s. I wandered back over to my sister’s side and watched as her hand decidedly chose something amid a table strewn intentionally with crystals and palo santo and clever matchbooks and unused coasters. 

She held up a marble-based dish with a glass-dome top, almost exactly the size of my boob. “How about this, as a housewarming gift?” she asked happily. “You can be like those people who leave the butter out.”

We will be. We are. 

We are. 

*glorified studio

**second-hand

***up-and-coming

****third-hand