The Futility of Cute

Well, first Rage Against the Minivan posted about her conflict over the amount of time and money spent on home design versus the enjoyment of indulging in creative outlets...

and then Up Mama's Wall wrote,

I was sort of enjoying myself, getting a certain satisfaction from the Martha-like perfection of the goodie bags, but underneath lurked a simmering resentment and impatience, a little throb telling me that my cutsie-pootsie project might not be the best use of my time.

As I stuck the stickers I started to suspect that such things, these bourgeois arts so trumpeted by women's magazines and Martha Stewart and a thousand design blogs, were just a giant diversion of creative energy.

And I sometimes think about the things I most enjoy doing and how they are gone in a second, chewed and eaten and how they, quite appallingly and literally, end up as a pile of poo.

But I could rationalize that these edible creations are valuable in that they are symbols of love and sustenance for the people for whom I make them. That I also quite literally give life and strength in the things I cook. Yeah, yeah, that's good. That beauty is valuable just for itself and just for the moment no matter how transitory.

But I get caught up in it. And I think I learned very early that cooking is the kind of art that will bring you the most and most immediate praise. It's pretty disgusting to acknowledge that I sometimes cook because I want the pat on the head. Not just to love others but to fish for love myself. Gross.