NOTES FROM THE HINTERLAND
SWEETS AND MEAT
By Laurie Meunier Graves
In these enlightened times, Americans like to think that the divide between
the sexes grows ever more narrow, and indeed, there is some justification
for feeling this way. Gone are the days when the only options for women
involved home and family, when women chattered endlessly about cleaning
house, casseroles, and children. Today, young women go boldly forth where
women of yesterday only dreamed of going, and these young women quite
rightly assume that they are as competent, creative and capable as men.
Maybe they will get married and have children, and maybe they will not.
Maybe they will be doctors or editors or lawyers or business owners. After
many long years of struggle and hard work, women are finally taking their
place beside men.
Yet, for all the progress that has been made, certain differences remain,
and sometimes the gap is wider than we might like to think. As is so often
the case with such things, the differences are not something that anyone
would have predicted. Forget Venus, forget Mars. Instead, think sweets and
meat. Men drool over steak, sausages, and pepperoni. Woman pine for
chocolate, raspberry cream turnovers, and more chocolate. Is this nature or
nurture? I’ll leave it to scientists to answer the question. However, while
there are always bound to be exceptions, these differences do exist, and
they cut across class and ethnicity and locale.
My eldest daughter, who is an editor in New York City, has described, with
some amazement, how a male co-worker, who shall remain nameless, keeps meat
catalogs on his desk. Meat catalogs? Why would anyone want to study
descriptions of meat and gaze at the accompanying photographs? It is almost
inconceivable. Perhaps somewhere in this big world, there is a woman who do
such a thing, but it's my guess she is a rare creature.
In the hinterlands, the situation is pretty much the same. My husband Clif
has a zeal for meat that never fails to amaze me. To him, sausage and
pepperoni are supreme foods. He will turn down a fragrant and delectable
pesto and artichoke heart pizza for a greasy pepperoni express. With an
extra helping of pepperoni. Fortunately, we are friends with a couple where
the situation is exactly the same; he wants the pepperoni, and she wants the
pesto. When we go out together, we order a large pizza, half-and-half, and
everybody is happy.
However, the perfect example of my husband’s meat obsession came the other
night when we were settled on the couch for an evening of Public Television.
It just so happened that there was a documentary about none other than the
lowly hotdog, and it featured various hotdog stands across the country. Normally, food shows and articles are a torture to me. Inevitably, my mouth
waters as I watch and read. With this show, I was unmoved. It was about hot
dogs, for heaven’s sake, covered with various soggy toppings: mustard,
ketchup, sauerkraut, chili, tomatoes, and onions. But it was quite another
matter for my husband, and as the show progressed, I could feel him
fidgeting beside me. Finally, “Man, a hot dog would taste good right now.”
Alas, there were no hot dogs in the refrigerator, and he was caught in a
painful dilemma. Should he continue watching the show, or should he go to the
local convenience store and buy some hot dogs? The show won out, but just
barely, and Clif made do with leftover pizza. Needless to say, the next day
hot dogs were on the menu, and without the slightest trace of guilt, Clif
ate three in a row.
The supreme food for me, of course, is chocolate. Chocolate is the food that
makes my appetite sigh, that fills me with longing, that sends me on an
endless quest for the perfect shop. In my spare time, I daydream about it,
and my fantasies go something like this: I am in a strange town with narrow,
cobbled streets. (This stereotypical vision implies old Europe, but so be
it. It’s my fantasy, after all.) Suddenly, there is an unmistakable odor in
the air; it is the smell of chocolate. I follow my nose, and I come upon a
seemingly endless row of candy shops, where the chocolate is lovingly
conched, and everything is homemade. My reputation as a chocolate connoisseur
with an impeccable palate has preceded me, and in shop after shop, the
workers clamor to give me free samples. As I nibble and taste, they
anxiously await my opinion. But it is no good. I must sample something from
every shop before I can pass judgment. And so it goes, down the long, long
street. I pause only for sips of water to cleanse my palate.
Unfortunately, in central Maine this fantasy is a far cry from reality. Yes,
there are good chocolate shops, but they are scattered across the state, and
they are not within an easy drive of each other. However, all is not lost. Not
far from where I live, there is a restaurant called The Senator, and it has
a chocolate dessert so smooth and rich that it nearly brings tears to my
eyes. It goes by the modest name of Senator’s Peanut Butter Cup, and it has
as much relation to the Reese’s version as a workhorse has to a
thoroughbred. Yes, they belong to the same species, but there the
resemblance ends. The Senator’s Peanut Butter Cup has a crisp shell of
chocolate covering a whipped mousselike filling of chocolate and peanut
butter. First there is the snap and crunch of hard chocolate followed by a
delightful cream that both soothes the tongue and satisfies the taste buds.
It is one of the best desserts I have ever had.
I could go on and on and give more examples of the sweets/meat dichotomy. My
own brother’s love of prime rib versus my sister-in-law’s love of Jordan
Almonds. Super Bowl versus Valentine’s Day. My nephew’s preference for
chicken rather than dessert. The chocolate parties to which I have been
invited, hosted, of course, by women. But, enough is enough.
Let me conclude by pointing out that these ruminations on sweets and meat
have made me reconsider my actions and have led to practical, everyday
changes in my own life. In the past, whenever I wanted to buy my husband a
little treat for, say, his birthday or Christmas or Valentine’s Day, I would
inevitably turn to chocolate. I now realize that this was a somewhat selfish
choice guided by what I would have liked to receive rather than what my husband
would enjoy. No more! From now on, Clif will receive little gift packages of
sausages and other spicy meats. And on real special occasions, I might even
buy him a hot dog.
