Moderne Frau

My German professor calls me “Eine moderne Frau” during certain class activities. In fact, he just called me that in our last class. According to our limited vocabulary, I’m the epitome of a modern woman. We had been learning how to express our favorite activities. He’d ask “Kochen Sie?” to individuals in the class and they would reply either, “Ja, ich koche gern” (yes, I like to cook) or, “Nein, ich koche nicht gern” (no, I don’t like to cook). It just so happened that most of the girls in my class love to cook elaborate healthy dishes like soy-glazed salmon and sautéed vegetables with quinoa. So, it was a very stark contrast when I replied that no, I didn’t like to cook. At all. “Ah, eine moderne Frau!” exclaimed my professor.

William looks simultaneously shocked & terrified that I was attempting pancakes.

Having moved on to more complex expressions, this past class we learned more verbs to convey our abilities, talents, and obligations. I’m asked “Frau Kletscher, können Sie stricken?” Can I knit? My Grandma Doris, my dad’s mom once taught me….but can I knit now? I reply, “Nein, ich kann nicht stricken” and then I add “ich bin schlecht”. So no, I can’t knit, I’m bad at it. Once again my professor proclaims me “eine moderne Frau.”

Am I a modern woman because my personal preferences don’t align with certain gender stereotypes? Or is it simply because I haven’t needed the skills that are traditionally attributed to women? I’m thinking the answer is a combination of both.

Alice Splettstoeszer on the family's country kitchen.

On one level, looking back into the lives of my ancestors has brought me closer to them. On another, I see just how different my life is from theirs, which can be an interesting distancing experience. I grew up in a fairly large suburb. My parents’ graduating classes were smaller than any one of my class sizes and their entire town population could have attended my high school, with a capacity of 2500, in the same year. We buy everything from the grocery store, except for maybe fresh fruit from the citrus trees in our yard. Though there are small fields of alfalfa and cotton on the Native American reservation less than 10 minutes from my house, I never grew up or worked on a farm. Most of my grandparents had grown up on farms before they moved into the center of the towns they raised their families in. But I grew up in Scottsdale nearly 50 years later. I don’t need to know how to knit or cook and have had to learn other things like computer skills.

Funny article immortalized in the Splettsctoeszer Family Cookbook.

Throughout my project, I’ve tried picturing myself living alongside my ancestors. As noted, it’s an often distancing experience. It’s hard to imagine my lifestyle on a farm: I stay out late attending or working events, then sleep in on the weekend. I cook only out of necessity and prepare simple dishes like pasta, couscous, and sandwiches—then immediately pop my dishes into the dishwasher—or else I order late night takeout with friends.  I do like to live in a clean apartment but when I’m cleaning, I’m usually also procrastinating about schoolwork. I love to do laundry…but these days, who wouldn’t when all you have to do is start the machines and later fold your fresh, warm clothes?

Visiting our family friends' farm.
Stan Ehrke showing us a baby chick.

At the Ehrke's farm.
William & Dad feeding a horse.

I’ve also never really done well with livestock. I love animals but from afar, unless there are dogs around. I’ll always remember when our family friend practically forced me to ride the small, smelly pony at our harvest festival in elementary school. I’ve become more accepting of horses since then, riding on scenic trails in the desert or on a day trip to a hidden waterfall in the Dominican Republic. But I would never own one, or any other kind of common farm animal. I know from experience that I simply couldn’t. In second grade, my school went to Dugan’s Dairy Farm, a milk provider for Shamrock Farms. I don’t have fond memories of the place, and the pictures in my class scrapbook prove it.

Things started out well.
We're shown the tubes of the milking machines.

I clearly can't take the smell of the cows behind my friend, Palmer, & I.

My face of disgust after being coerced to try milking a cow. 

I do have a friend who is interested in agriculture. She wants to own a farm one day in—you guessed it—Minnesota. She loves raising animals and even had a club devoted to raising cattle for competitions during her undergraduate years, when she also majored in agricultural studies. I think there is something modern in that, in using her formal education and global travels to live as a farmer or rancher in today’s world. I wonder what my professor would think of my friend. While I take his “moderne Frau” label lightly and I’m certain he means well, I still feel it is an interesting, almost old-fashioned, reflection of his views; especially in a college classroom in Los Angeles in 2014. I have grown up in a generation where I have the time and means to pursue skills like knitting, cooking, gardening, etc. at my leisure. My life doesn’t depend on them. That is what modern means to me; having choices and the freedom to pick the lifestyle I desire. 

Gone Fishing

There is something so satisfying in the smell of fish sizzling on the griddle. It always meant a delicious home cooked meal from someone’s catch that day was about to be served. Once the fresh fish had been cleaned and cut, it was then dredged in the flour mixture. As soon as it was placed on the hot griddle, the fish would set off a loud hiss. That sound would always bring everyone closer to the kitchen from where the mouthwatering smell wafted.

Grandma Joyce frying the day's catch.

Growing up, fishing had been the boys’ thing. My two cousins, Adam and Jacob, Uncle Bruce, and Grandpa Larry would all head out in the morning in the truck towing the fishing boat behind them. In the afternoon, they would return from a day out on the lake with a cooler full of fish. Part of me always wanted to tag along, but I didn’t think I’d be any good at fishing. Even at that age, I knew that feeding your pioneer family in the Oregon Trail computer game was completely different from the real thing.

One day, my curiosity urged me to follow my uncle and the big cooler of fish around to the back of my grandparents’ house. My cousin, Mackenzie, and I watched as he cleaned and cut up each of the fish they had caught. I had come too close, though, and blood spurted down the front of my clothing; my new white shirt with Esmeralda on it from Disney’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame was eventually ruined as the blood and fish oil stained it. I was really bummed but had at least been able to satisfy my curiosity.

Years later, I finally learned how to fish and experienced the fulfillment of a meal produced from what I had caught.

It was a warm breezy morning the day we headed out to the lake for a simple fishing lesson. I helped hitch up the boat and drove in the truck with my Grandpa as my Grandma, Mom, and little brother, William, followed behind in their van. I remember that drive as one of the most picturesque drives I had ever been on in Minnesota. It sounds so cliché, but the sun was truly shining in the clear, light blue sky, illuminating the green fields and woods. I experimented with my first digital camera that I had received for Christmas, desperately trying to capture the perfect moments we passed on the country roads. Subtly rolling hills of green crops. The sun glinting off the tall, vibrant stalks. Dust swirling in the middle of the dirt road from the previous truck. Barns in all shades of well-worn red.

Grandpa Larry and I backed the boat into the water from the boat landing dock and met the others around the other side of the lake. We picked them up and sped off to a quiet spot where we might fish undisturbed.

Caught in the stinging mist from speeding across the water.

I had never seen fishing poles so short until my Grandpa pulled out several from the boat’s storage. But they got the job done. We used mealworms to bait the small sunfish and then waited for them to bite. I want to say we were really good, but I think the sunfish were just plentiful that day.

William and Grandma Joyce with their flopping catch.

My Grandpa Larry and I very excited over my first catch.

We headed home in the late afternoon with our bountiful catch back down the scenic country roads. Each of us took turns cleaning up from the day spent on the lake. By the time we were all done, my grandparents had the sunfish cleaned and cut, ready to be cooked. William, ever the eager assistant in the kitchen, helped Grandma Joyce dip the cuts into the egg mixture then dredge them in the flour.

My dad, Bruce, watching William prepare the fish.

Soon, the griddle was sizzling with the breaded fish and that wonderful smell wafted back through the screen door into the townhouse. Even those of us who weren’t cooking had gathered in the kitchen, our mouths watering, awaiting the delicious meal and recounts of the day we were about to share.