Scouts’ Honor

These days, I spend one night a week in the basement of a local church, watching six boys in blue uniform shirts and yellow neckerchiefs. I stand, hand over my heart, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, watching my sons pause their kinetic energy briefly to salute the flag. Somehow, I am a Boy Scout Mom.

When the ultrasound midway through my second pregnancy confirmed my woo-woo hunch that both little people inside me appeared to be boys, I felt like I’d just learned I was going to visit a country where I’d never been before. My firstborn, daughter, had never been a particularly girly-girl, her one princess dress was blue not pink. So we already had the wooden trains, some trucks, and an array of plastic farmyard animals, appropriate for young farmers of any gender. I was used to a highly physical child, an early climber, fearless adventurer with trees and cats, the kind of toddler who, upon meeting a new potential playmate would knock the kid down; if they got up, she’d play with them, if they cried, she’d walk away. I thought I was ready for boys.

I looked forward to raising sons in the same sort of (relatively) gender-bias-free household I’d begun for my daughter. Despite what your Happy Meal tells you, there aren’t ‘boy toys’ and ‘girl toys’, there are just kid toys that you either enjoy or don’t enjoy. I figured that without an everyday household structure that differentiated boy behaviors and girl behaviors, I had a shot. The boys loved the play kitchen we gave them for their second birthday, although I was surprised by how many times I walked into the room to find the little purple telephone being used as a weapon (”pow-pow!”).

As they got older, and their other parent, X, left us and transitioned F to M, I’m sure our family’s discussion of boys and girls was a little different than most preschoolers’ families.

“Is Nigel a boy cat or a girl cat?” “He’s a boy cat.” “How do you know?” “Well, under all his fuzzy, he has a penis, like you do.” “But X doesn’t have a penis and he’s a boy now… you told me he’s a boy because he says he’s a boy. What if Nigel says he’s a girl cat?” Sighhhhh. Five-year-olds don’t like ambiguity. It was an interesting time.

Back when my daughter was born, I had declared No Barbies, and over the years had filled her toybox with various stuffed animals and funky soft dolls. But still the Barbies appeared, from grandparents, uncles, and especially at birthdays from her friends, ensuring her fall from innocence into a world of tiny clothes, shoes, and accessories. In the same way, my sons’ friends introduced them to a world of uniforms and weapons, as well as the idea that some things were Boy Toys, from the World of Men.

When they came home declaring that RED and BLUE were Boy Colors, their sister shot them a glare and pointed out her red shirt and blue jacket. When the dress-up clothes box got separated into one pile of hard hats, firefighter hats, and neckties, and another pile of princess dresses, high heels, and silk kimonos, I made an effort to remind all the kids playing over that it was okay to wear whatever looked like fun. My house was a place where anyone could wear a Darth Vader helmet and a Cinderella dress together. As the parent in charge of soccer trophies one Fall, I selected ones without little boy or girl figurines on them just in case there were girls who didn’t like to be reminded that their soccer skills required a pony-tail. Really, I tried.

But slowly, my kids moved more into the world, and the world crept in in odd ways. Television shows I didn’t mind at all were bookended by commercials that deeply reinforced the World of Girls and the World of Boys.

Through happenstance or temperament, my daughter moved in an existence filled with Pokemon and plastic animals. Her grandmother’s indulgence in American Girl dolls came with storybooks full of adventure and resilience. Even Girl Scouting reinforced a message of empowered self-sufficiency - camping, photography, world-awareness (okay, okay, and sewing and cooking). And the Girl Scouting organization is surprisingly inclusive, its policies written to strive for common character among personal difference. I didn’t even consider that by being a Girl Scout Mom, I’d put myself on a slippery slope to someplace I’d sworn I’d never go.

The Boy Scouts as an institution have planted their flag square on the mountain of homophobia and intolerance. They’ve spent millions of dollars to defend their right to be there, and lost millions of dollars more in support from organizations who won’t endorse their positions. Their requirement that Scouts be “morally straight” has stripped years of accomplishment and recognition from young men who later acknowledge their male lovers. It means no matter how much I love my sons, I cannot be a den leader like some of the other moms. The requirement of a belief in God would now remove my late grandfather from an organization he loved, having spent years as a Scoutmaster, leading his son and many other young men on the path to Eagle Scout. That day when the ultrasound threw us into guyville, we sat for hours and debated the circumcision decision. We were wholly united and adamant: No Boy Scouts.

What I hadn’t counted on was the day one of my sons came running out after school, yelling “Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease can I be a Cub Scout?”

Maybe for him it was an opportunity for that sense of belonging. Maybe it was the promise of events and camping. Maybe it was the spiffy uniform (this). I told him I would consider it. That night I sat and, as the Grinch would say, puzzled until my puzzler was sore. I talked with his classmate’s mom who would be the den leader, a woman who I knew and liked. She understood what the issue was, and tried to reassure me that at the local level the institutional policies had little effect on the great experience of Boy Scouting. In the end, I came to a conclusion that it’s about my son’s life, not mine, and that until I see evidence that he is being taught intolerance, we’d give it a try. At meetings, he looks sharp in his uniform. I always feel vaguely unclean.

Once his brother discovered there were snacks at the meetings, he joined up too, and I’ve watched them rise from Bobcat to Tiger to Wolf. I’ve sewed badges on shirts, and proved to them that moms can build the little wooden Pinewood Derby cars just fine. I accompanied them to Boy Scout daycamp last summer, and we all learned to shoot bb guns together (!). This is about them, not me.

It’s still awkward, though, at area-wide events with families we don’t know, when one of the other parents asks if their dad was a Boy Scout. I launch into the history of Boy Scouting on my side of the family, while inwardly wry that until my sons were four, their dad wasn’t even a boy, let alone a Boy Scout.

Beyond the registration fees, I do not give money to an organization that requires its members to be ‘morally straight’. I question my own cognitive dissonance, and bristle at the implication that I am not good enough. I’m hopeful that in a year or two they’ll move on to some other activity, guitar lessons or some sport, so my two-activity-per-kid policy lets this experience pass out of my world as fluidly as it appeared.

If not, as they get older they’re going to hear from me about the organization and its policies. They’ll have to set their own moral compass. For now, I stand, reciting, hoping someday my children get to live in a world where “liberty and justice for all” is true.

Written by Darby Blue

How do you deal with sending your kids to organizations whose policies you don’t support, such as religious organizations or even, sometimes, Grandma’s house? How do you raise kids to appreciate tolerance when intolerance is taught in so many organizations?

For those of you without children, you likely face the same issues for yourself, such as in the workplace. How do try to live your beliefs when it can be so difficult?

Please join the discussion for this topic on our forums!

Cheap & Dirty? You are what you eat

I remember eating dinner once with a friend’s family and hearing my friend’s 17 year-old step brother say, “It’s hard to make good food with bad ingredients.” Once I could hear again over the din of my gay-dar, I realized how right he was. I had made that discovery at 34, only a year or two before he made that dramatic statement across a crowded dinner table. I allowed him his early insight because he is a child of privilege. The son of two doctors. I grew up middle-class. In a family of 6, food was for survival. And not much else.

However, once I made this discovery, I couldn’t quite look at dinner in the same way. I knew if I spent a bit more on certain ingredients, meals would come alive. Food wasn’t entirely about survival anymore. It had started to become about pleasure. Spending a bit more on a good olive oil, using fresh ingredients instead of canned or frozen (both of which have their place), or buying good cheese; combined, all of these things made for a great experience.

This all may sound a little strange in the midst of a recession. Aren’t we supposed to be cutting corners? Living more simply? Saving what we can so we don’t get into trouble again? Have you learned NOTHING food_geek?

Well, perhaps.

But say it’s Friday night. You order a pizza ($20) and pick up a 6 pack of beer ($10). You’ve just spent $30 on food and drink that will feed maybe 2 people. Do you have any idea what ingredients you can buy for $30?? I catered the following 5-course dinner party for 15 people just before Christmas:

Course 1. Fresh fig wrapped in prosciutto with balsamic and honey glaze
Course 2. Roasted beet salad with chevre, fresh dill and lemon
Course 3. Seared scallops with cauliflower puree and wilted arugula
Course 4. Pork tenderloin with oyster mushroom and green pea risotto
Course 5. Rum & raisin bread pudding with butter sauce and fresh whipped cream

Five courses for 15 people cost me $100. One hundred dollars! Six dollars and 66 cents per person. For five courses!!

So how WAS that pizza, anyway?

I’m not saying that you need to break the bank on everything. But the following are things for which I will pay good money. For the most part they are like an investment because, properly stored, they will last awhile.

Olive oil: I have a relatively inexpensive bottle for cooking and an expensive bottle for garnishing soups, making vinaigrettes, and finishing tomato sauces

Butter: I like the taste. I also tend to like things that are bad for me. And a little goes a long way.

Dijon mustard: French’s mustard = blech

Good rice: Basmati, Jasmine, Arborio

Black olives: nothing from a can

Balsamic vinegar: the older it is, the sweeter and more flavourful it will be. Look at the label, it should show how many years it’s been aged, displayed either as a number or a number of barrels. 8 years and up is good.

Peppercorns: I don’t buy pre-ground pepper because while there is heat, there is little flavor. And I like controlling how big the grind is. Some things, like steak, should just have larger chunks of pepper.

Salt: Sea Salt, not table salt. I like it a bit coarse.

Maple Syrup: the real stuff

Spices: Everything! I prefer whole seeds - like coriander, fennel, cumin, etc. They stay fresher and hold far, far more taste than their pre-ground counterparts. Grind them in either a coffee grinder or mortar and pestle (but only as much as you need for whatever you are making).

Fresh herbs: Nothing lights up a dish like fresh herbs either thrown in at the end of the cooking process or added, freshly torn, to the plate. It can be difficult to buy fresh herbs in quantities that won’t go bad, so I usually have a small garden (indoor in the winter, outdoor in the summer) of my favourites… Italian parsley, thyme, basil, cilantro and chives.

Having certain ingredients in the house, for me, is an invitation to start cooking. Sometimes, when I buy something special, like truffle oil, I’ll just uncork the bottle and smell it. It smells rich and earthy and extravagant and it makes me want to find a reason to use it. Good ingredients can be a source of inspiration to create something wonderful. And they are extra special if you are creating it for just yourself.

Roasted Beet Salad

1 bunch of organic beets, with beet greens attached
Good Olive Oil
Salt & Pepper
1 lemon
1 package of chevre (goat’s cheese)
Fresh dill

Preheat oven to 375F
Cut off beet greens and save for another dish (they are delicious cut up and sauteed briefly in olive oil or butter).
Peel beets and cut into quarters.
Drizzle with olive oil, season generously with salt and pepper and wrap in aluminum foil, shiny side IN. Place in oven for approximately 45 minutes - 1 hour. You’ll know when they are done by sliding a knife into the center. If the texture feels consistent the whole way in (firm, but not crunchy), they are done.
Remove from oven and allow to cool. They can be served either warm or cold.
Get yer rasp out and remove the zest from lemon. Mix zest with beets.
Squeeze a little lemon juice and drizzle a little more olive oil over beets - enough to coat
Roughly chop fresh dill and mix with beets. Quantity depends on how many beets you have cooked, and how much you love dill.
Taste and add more salt or pepper, if required
Plate beets either alone or on a bed of arugula, also dressed lightly with olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper.
Place several small pieces of chevre on top and around beets. Or don’t and make it vegan.
Garnish with larger piece of dill.

Serve and enjoy.

Written by food_geek

food_geek was once a successful finance professional. Tired of money, nice things, equity, and the possibility of retirement she decided to pursue a career in the food industry at age 35. She is now a sous chef at a small restaurant in a tiny Quebec village where she works the fry station. She looks forward to being promoted to Manager, Drive-Thru. food_geek has been cooking professionally for 30 months.