The Man Cave by Sharon O'Donnell

I am just a little bit tired of the phrase ‘man cave’. It implies that men need a place to get away, to hide out, to escape from all that surrounds them – but women don’t have that same need. I actually read in one of the on-line definitions of this phrase that a man cave is a place men need to go because women have “control” of the rest of the house; the male needs somewhere he feels he can be in control.

Give me a break. If indeed a woman is in “control” of the rest of the house, it’s because she has to be or the family structure would fall completely apart. Perhaps none of these males will vacuum, cook, do laundry, or even put toilet paper in the bathrooms -- and somebody has to do it. And I would love for men to share with us the enormous task of keeping and coordinating the calendar and schedule for the family. It’d be wonderful to have another human being in the house who knows when doctor’s appointments, practices, school events, and everything else is besides me. Sometimes I feel if I were to die now, the doctors would have to somehow de-program me so all the family-related information I have stored in my brain would not be lost. If something ever happens to me, somebody please tell someone in my family that the dog gets his heartworm medicine on the 24^th of each month.

Look guys, we will gladly give up some control if you would take some of it from us. “Control” is another way – a guy’s way – to say ‘responsibility’. Evidently because we control the house, we decorate it as we see fit, while they want their own space to decorate with sports pennants, beer bottles, and posters of Sports Illustrated swim suit models. We decorate with the family in mind, guys – to make our house a home and good memories for our children. This means yes, we have to use some good taste and to make things comfortable and wholesome for our kids. You’d better believe there are times that I’d love to take down the painting of the California coastline or our framed wedding invitation from the family room, the Biblical scripture about “I am the vine, you are the branches” from the dining room or the practical spice rack in the kitchen and instead put up a huge poster of Brad Pitt, John Stamos, or a shirtless Matthew McConaughey, but I refrain from doing so. Probably would have done that in college, but I’m not in college anymore – and neither are the men who want to retreat into a man cave. Actually, in college, it was a poster of Tom Selleck. Mmmmm Magnum PI!

But I digress. Being in a cave suggests that men are tuning women out. Since when do they need a cave to do that? A special room in which to continue to be oblivious and clueless?

All right, I know that everyone needs a little time away, as the group Chicago once sang about in a song. But why is it just the men seem to have this need acknowledged and addressed by giving them a room all to themselves? Another definition of man cave from the Internet is “an emotional sanctuary for men when they're stressed and need ‘space’”. Ha, ha, ha. There is nothing emotional going on in a man cave – just the opposite.

My husband doesn’t have a man cave, primarily because we don’t have the extra room in our house to have one. Over my dead body would he have a man cave before I got a laundry room! We do have some sports banners and photos in our family room, however, complete with a new big screen TV. I’m glad he wanted to share that with the rest of us instead of trying to put it in a man cave. Don’t think my teenage sons would have liked that either.

Of course like anything else connected with men, the phrase ‘man cave’ now has some rather graphic sexual connotations, unfortunately. Hell, they can’t even respect the term ‘man cave’ enough to not turn it into something risqué.

I’ve read several articles about the ultimate man caves, but there's only been one time I've been in one. It was at the home of my youngest son’s football coach for an end-of-the-season party last fall. He graciously opened it up to women and kids because it was the perfect lay-out for a social gathering, particularly because the door opened up to an outdoor pool. There was also in the room the mandatory big screen TV, a pool table, and lots of sports banners. Outside by the pool, there was – I kid you not – a tiki bar with a bamboo roof. Jimmy Buffet was playing when we got there. Only one problem: sometimes it’s hard to turn a man cave into a family place. As all of us parents and kids were sitting there talking and eating pizza, the Jimmy Buffet song, “Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw?” came on. Now some of us parents noticed right off, but we didn’t really know the coach well enough to go censor his music, thinking that he’d realize his mistake quickly. Well, he must have been in the midst of a very interesting conversation with someone because he didn’t seem to notice. Parents glanced around at each other uncomfortably, as if to say, “I’m not going to tell him, you tell him.” But suddenly, the coach made a beeline for the CD player and changed the song, turning to the parents and laughing. “Whoops,” he said. A little violation of man cave protocol, I guess. So beware of mixing family events and man caves.

The Thanksgiving Cake by Sharon Johnson O'Donnell

There are other signs of getting older that don’t have to do with wrinkles, weight, or age spots. As a woman ages, her priorities somehow change, too. With mothers, this usually means something involving her kids. This first became obvious to me on Thanksgiving about eight years ago. My father’s side of the family always meets in Fayetteville, North Carolina, a city about an hour away from my home, on Thanksgiving for a family get-together. He comes from a family of 12 children so you can imagine how many people are there.

This is the one time a year that I see all these relatives, so I’ve always tried to make a good impression. I usually wear a new sweater and I even attempt to style my hair so it won’t frizz so much. I noticed the relatives of my generation made this same effort to look their best for this annual ‘scrutiny of the relatives’. Except for an easy casserole, my cousins and I left the cooking to the older generation – our moms. They are the ones who baked the homemade from-scratch cakes and added secret ingredients to the delicious potato salad.

But that year, I decided to make a homemade carrot cake with cream cheese frosting just like my mother made a few times before. But she hadn’t made it in years, and I missed it. So the night before Thanksgiving, I grated carrot after carrot, realizing I never thanked Mama nearly enough for all the stuff she’d cooked over the years. I eventually got all three layers out of the cake pans with only one of them sticking, ripping out a chunk of cake. I pieced it back together like a jigsaw puzzle and discovered if I positioned the cake just right, nobody could tell.

By the time I was ready to make the frosting, it was past eleven. I plodded on, determined. The frosting, however, did not cooperate, looking too thin and runny. The cake looked nowhere near like Mama’s. Or for that matter like any other cake I’d ever seen. I decided the only thing to do was to get up the next morning and make a second recipe of frosting.

The next day, I began my baking in earnest once more. The second recipe did the trick, covering the three layers with thick, swirled frosting. I still had to chop the nuts and put them on the top and sides of the cake. I checked my watch. We were running late. If we were going to get to Fayetteville on time, then I knew I had to make a choice: I could either spend the time getting myself ready or perfecting my cake. And this is where I knew I was getting older – I chose the cake. Instead of putting on a nice outfit and getting jewelry to accessorize – instead of using a curling iron on my hair -- I threw on an old pair of jeans and got my cake ready to go. A new generation had arrived. The torch had been passed. I was now one of the women at the Thanksgiving dinner who cared more about how their food was accepted than what anyone thought about the way they looked. I mentioned this to a friend of mine who suggested perhaps this new perspective means we’re now more comfortable with ourselves – more confident in who we are – and that we don’t base our identity so much on how we look. And indeed this might be part of it. But the other part is, of course, as we get older, we see ourselves in different roles.

No, it’s not about who makes the best pies or cakes; it’s about creating heartwarming memories of family gatherings – times to be recalled fondly by our children years from now, so vividly they can remember how the sweet potato pie tasted or the wonderful aroma of turkey filling the house.

The carrot cake was quite a success with only a few crumbs left on the plate. As a cousin complimented me on it and asked for the recipe, I smiled, shrugged my shoulders, and lied through my teeth: “Oh, it’s pretty easy to make.” I’ve taken the cake to the get-together every year since then and make it for a few other holidays too. My sons all like it, so I feel that it’s something special I can make that they truly appreciate. I like to make this cake every now and then when my oldest son Billy comes home from college for a weekend bringing a bag of dirty laundry and textbooks with him. It feels good for him to be home. And then I say, “There’s a carrot cake on the counter,” and I hope that shows him how much I love him and that home is even more special to him.

So, as all of you ladies do your baking this Thanksgiving, remember it's more than about following a recipe but the memories you are making for your kids. Remembering that makes all the measuring, grating, stirring, and chopping worth it.