Betty Crocker came to me in a dream last night. Her hair was ash blonde, swept neatly back and contained in an animal print headband.
“Nice touch, Betty,” I said, pointing to the headband. “Wild, but not endangered.”
“Thanks,” she said, briskly. Betty did everything briskly, ready to file all the details away alphabetically in a 3×5 index card holder.
“What are we making today?” I asked.
“Gingerbread,” she said. “Ginger is the spice that gives us strength” – this she illustrated with a small barbell, “encourages rhythm and speed” – she flipped on a synthesizer and started up a rumba beat – “and surprises the mouth by being both sweet and hot.” She shimmied a bit, a beautiful sight in her snug knee-length straight skirt, twin set and narrow taupe pumps.
“I’ve always liked latin music,” she told me. “Gives me a sense of freedom.” She swept the headband away and shook her hair loose, making a bright golden Breck-girl halo all around her. She swiveled her hips and smiled. I saw that she had a martini – very dry, I assumed – in her left hand.
“Betty!” I said, shocked. Around her, the gingerbread was assembling as if by magic: flour, eggs, fresh ginger (not dried), nutmeg, allspice. In her right hand she held a nutcracker, wooden, carved into the shape of a goat’s head.
“You’ve got to honor the right gods to make a decent gingerbread,” she said. She winked at me and began cracking nuts. No nonsense in that Betty Crocker body – dancing, mixing, drinking, arms spinning around her 
like an Indiana Shiva; she’s juggling the eggs, nuts, a cup of oil, a jigger of gin, and not missing a beat. This was pure Betty but with a difference – a soupçon of something richer – a dollop of heavy cream, a pepper grinder, a cookie sheet slick and gleaming with Wessonality.
The drums accelerated to a bembe beat with Brazilian overtones; Betty’s apron fell away and I saw her, domestic goddess, high priestess of sex and baked goods, spread eagle brand on the kitchen table.
“Preheat your oven,” she said, briskly, and handed me a whisk.
Cuentos 
This could almost be a description of my sister-in-law! Perfect, zesty domestic goddess!
It’s like hot-food-love-sex-goddess-allspice-toasty fun. Tasty.
ellie
Happy New Year! Truce and Ellie, glad you liked my domestic goddess — and I, too, have a sister-in-law and assorted friends who are both perfectly domestic and perfectly sexy too! (Hi Kate, Hi Martha — Betty is a hibrid of the two, I believe.) and Ellie, re the upcoming publication — I’ve still got to send them my bio — been very distracted by the snow and all. Now it’s back to work and back to the drawing board. I will emulate the goddess and do it with good cheer. Briskly.
Anyone who can cook like Betty Crocker would seem “hot” to me.
Perhaps that’s because that photo reminds me of the picture of my mother at twenty.
Hi Loren – I love those old cookbooks – the pictures were priceless and the pretty blonde ladies have held up very well. These two remind me a little of the Nancy Drew girls; I may have to go detecting to find some in second-hand and antique stores.
Still one of my favorites.
Glad to see this again.