Abstract

It's early evening, a Friday night in October, and I have hauled myself off the couch to make dinner for my son and me. It's just us; the more active cooks in our family are away and the house is quiet. I've spent all afternoon immersed in scholarly literature about the history of home economics, and I chuckle at the irony as I pour premade marinara sauce over the noodles. I call up my son from the basement, where he's been immersed in his own studies, and find myself musing about our beginnings together—that spring when he arrived twenty-three years ago just as the trees were beginning to bud. I mutter about how perplexing cooking and mothering have been for me, and realize that these glimpses of me as a young mother and ponderings of how to take up increasing responsibilities as a middle-aged Indigenous “academic auntie” bookend my seasons of Indigenous feminist growth.