I know this is supposed to be a food blog, but I can’t help but be troubled by the continued effort of many U.S. states to colonize my uterus.
It’s had my panties in a bunch all afternoon. Well, actually, now that I think about it, maybe not. Missing the 9:07AM train gets my panties in a bunch. Realizing I’m out of flour after I’ve already started creaming the butter and sugar for chocolate chip cookies gets my panties in a bunch. State-sponsored uterine outposts are another matter entirely.
*I thought I’d try to inject a little levity with HTML humor, which is always a hit and not in any way stale.
Although this is probably wishful thinking, it may just be that the nation’s legislators need a basic refresher as to why it is perhaps a problematic idea to require women to carry non-viable pregnancies to term in order to deliver a fetus alive and then have it die. And I know many members of the Georgia legislative and executive branches read TNS religiously*, because I’m always having to block their IP addresses after getting deluges of spammy comments like, “Dudz rule, chikz drool!” and and “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live! Jesus 4 evah!”
I am, therefore, willing to take one for the team. Normally I don’t like having to explain basic principles of women’s rights, because it’s not my job to convince you my view is correct; the onus is on YOU** to stop being a dickrag. But this one’s for you, Georgia legislators. Governor Deal, you pay attention too.
**Not you in particular, you’re not a dickrag. Unless the person reading this is a member of the Georgia House or Senate, in which case: yes, you.
- Actual autonomous human persons
WOMEN ARE NOT
- From Venus
- Humanoid incubators
- “Little Ladies”
- Your mother
- Bad drivers
- Men Lite
Further extrapolation may be required for people who, like Georgia State Representative Terry England, were tragically born with their heads lodged in their asses. Acknowledging that women are autonomous human persons means acknowledging that we have bodily sovereignty. Acknowledging bodily sovereignty means acknowledging that uteri are not public fora. My uterus is not a bus station, shopping mall or national park.*
This means that had Rep. England’s mother had access to technology that could have detected his advanced case of head-in-ass syndrome – also known as the capet intragluteal mutation or “Pat Robertson’s Disease” – she could have chosen to abort the fetus rather than bring it to term. Which would not really have been a tragedy for Rep. England, who would never have known any better, and might really have benefited the great state of Georgia. Plus, his mother wouldn’t have had to watch him die the slow, painful public death that inevitably befalls anyone suffering from the syndrome.
*Unless I deem it so, but then there would definitely be rules about overnight camping, as well as a carry-in-carry-out trash program.
I’m fairly certain that the time for reasoned discourse ended once someone proposed a bill that would allow the state to SHOVE A WAND INTO MY VAGINA, and that it is now the time for ACTION. (I’m sorry to be so yelly, but, you know, IT’S MY FUCKING VAGINA.)
Thus, when I wake up tomorrow morning and check the news before heading out the door to work, I want to see women tearing shit up in Georgia, Arizona, New Hampshire and any other state that clings to the misguided notions that women’s bodies are state property and that uterine parasite* disposal is anything other than private business. Riot French-style! Flip cars over and set them on fire! Flip your legislators over and set THEM on fire!
*Yes, I know, some of these parasites grow into your children…who then transform into extra-uterine parasites. Face it: your kids are adorable and funny and the best thing that ever happened to you and precious bundles of joy from the lord, but it’s not like they’re offering to get part-time jobs to help out with the mortgage or anything.
Now that half my readers have clicked away in disgust and the other half are convinced that I’m a man-hating feminist who wants to put the nation’s children to work in the coal mines, I’ll let it go. I’ve done the most that any American citizen can really do: complain about shit on the internet.
For those who made it this far, I’ll reveal the real reason my panties are in a bunch right now: the subpar corn spoonbread I produced for dinner tonight. Brian barely ate half of this, and those of you who know Brian in real life know what a damning critique that is.
I wanted something creamy and puddingy, with lots of corn flavor. I also wanted to incorporate the flavors of Mexican street corn – the lime, the chile, the cheese, the mayo. So I took a basic Edna Lewis spoonbread recipe and folded in whole corn kernels, sauteed onions and poblanos, and some cotija. When the bread came out of the oven, I opened a crater in the middle and spooned in a little lime-cilantro mayo, hoping it would get all melty and allow the flavor to soak into the hot spoonbread.
Pretty much nothing worked as I’d hoped. The spoonbread was much more dense and bready than creamy and ethereal. The mayo just stayed put, forcing the diner to either smear it over the top (yuck) or scrape it off. Thank god for some seared scallops and dark greens with red pepper flake, or we would have had to kill and roast one of the dogs to stave off hunger.
Needless to say, I will not inflict this recipe upon you. Some things sound like a much better idea in theory than they are in practice, like electing Terry England to public office.
ETA: It’s Wednesday morning, I just checked the New York Times, and there was NOTHING about feminist revolt in Georgia. I will go down there and start one myself if I have to.