The year was 2019. I was bored. I was probably avoiding my manuscript, which at the time was a memoir about the shock and disillusion of early motherhood. The dryer was filled with clean clothes, but why would I fold them when I could ignore their existence? There was surely something more productive I could do with my time that didn’t involve household chores. That’s when I remembered the stack of vintage magazines stored in my son’s bedroom closet.

I’d bought the mags—issues of Châtelaine from the 1950s—at a market in Picton, Ontario in 2013. My husband and I had fled to the town during a camping trip. That’s the year we realized a Union Jack Mini Cooper wasn’t the appropriate vehicle to rent for an outdoor adventure. That’s the year we realized you had to book a camping lot months in advance if you really wanted to go to Sandbanks. That explains how we found ourselves in a trailer park and woke up soaking wet, because apparently you have to install tarps under and over your tent when it rains. That’s the year we stopped pretending to be outdoorsy people who could sit still in nature. So we went on a wine tour and bought time capsules in Picton.

The vintage Châtelaines were a trip to the past where a stay-at-home mother wouldn’t be ignoring the clothes in the dryer. She wouldn’t be watching Suits while mindlessly scrolling the lives of strangers on Instagram. She wouldn’t be shocked by life with a baby. The stay-at-home mothers and housewives of the fifties, according to the mags, enthusiastically ironed their husband’s shirts, loved to cook, did wonders in the garden and entertained like a dream.

I flicked through the issues with a mix of fascination and disgust. I loved the fashion and glamour of the era. I loved the coquetterie. I was amused by the ad of a woman placing a cigarette on her husband’s lips, with well-dressed children playing in the background. I rolled my eyes at the page that encouraged husbands to buy their wives a pressure cooker for Christmas. “Saves up to 75% cooking time.”

I came across a recipe for a cake called “Delight Fantastic.” A good housewife had supper and dessert ready for her husband coming home from work every day. Since I was a sloppy housewife according to 1950s standards, I thought why not. Why not pretend I’m a good little housewife who lovingly places cigarettes in her husband’s mouth and prepares “elegant n’ easy” cakes in three steps.

All I needed was three boxes of Jell-O, a brick of Philadelphia cream cheese, mini marshmallows and lady fingers. I documented my journey and posted it to Instagram, because that’s what good little housewives do in the 21st century. Just kidding. That’s what a thirty-something woman will do for attention.

I interpreted the recipe as follows:

1. Make the red and green Jell-Os and give some to your starving 4yo before dinner.

2. Mix yellow Jell-O with cream cheese and hope the lumps magically disappear.

3. Line your pan with lady fingers while drinking cherry-flavoured Bubbly.

4. Gently fold mini marshmallows, green and red Jell-Os cubes into the cream cheese mix.

5. Pour questionable batter into pan and chill in fridge for an unknown amount of time.

6. Serve a piece to your reluctant husband and son, who now hate you for putting them through this.

The recipe didn’t mention how foul-tasting the cake would be. Plastic, Technicolor dog food. That’s what it was. I made another Jell-O dessert a week later. I hoped this recipe, which called for pouring strawberry-flavoured gelatin mix into an empty can and inserting a banana down the middle, would be a better fit for my family. It was another disgusting disaster.

There I was, thinking I’d flicked through the vintage women’s mags with a modern woman’s feminist lens. Despite my eye-rolling and my reproducing 1950s Jell-O desserts for Instagram laughs, I realized I was looking for something more. I was trying to connect to a feeling of effortlessness and ease. The 1950s housewives seemed to have it together. They looked amazing, their homes were squeaky clean, they tended to their multiple children with a smile, they enjoyed cooking supper. Mother’s little helper who?

Effortlessness looks good on paper. Especially when the paper is glossy. But effortlessness isn’t always possible, because real life is hard. Just when you think you have everything figured out, shit hits the fan and you must learn to ride a new wave with shit on your face.

That wasn’t a very elegant way to put it. I know. But that’s what you get from this 2020’s housewife.

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