Yesterday the man and I agreed on a wedding date, then I came home from work and made an apple pie. Halfway through the coring/slicing/cinnamonification I realized: jeepers. I’m turning into a regular housewife.

That thought was scary enough to make me consider, semi-seriously, jabbing the the coring knife straight into my chest and adding my innards to the filling.

But why?

I think I’ve been much more concerned about the “goddess” part of the equation over the years that the “domestic” aspect has been shoved to the back of the closet and covered over with piles of jeans that no longer fit me. What frightens me is this: the man I am choosing to spend my life with doesn’t see every last bite of cake I eat as a potential notch on my belt–or me on his–but instead loves the innards I considered splashing inside a ceramic pie pan.

Now, I don’t plan on spending every night in the kitchen. In fact, tonight I will disappear inside my studio and indulge myself by writing dialogue for several hours. I feel much more like a goddess when I’m left to invent whole lives and stories and resolutions on sheets of copy paper. My own? Apparently it will include a wedding and some homemade desserts.

When I look at it that way, it’s not frightening at all.