We Are What We Were
A Very Retro Meditation on Women & Men... More tales from Boardinghouse Reach... and a recipe
We Are What We Were
Some 50,000 years ago—a mere drop in the evolutionary bucket—women were gathering while men were hunting. This primeval division of labor is the wellspring of many behavioral oddities traditionally ascribed to males and females.
Paleolithic women, who were nursing their youngest children and trying to keep tabs on the others, became accustomed to multi-tasking early on. The best of them—who thus became the breeding stock for all of us females—could scope out hidden roots and berries, give suck to an infant and keep half an eye on the toddler wandering off toward the edge of the cliff or the wolf den, all the while carrying on a good, gossipy conversation with her best friend from the cave next door.
Meanwhile, her mate was off on a three-day run after an edible quadruped. He needed to maintain his focus and conserve his energy if he wanted to bag his quarry—no gossiping or multi-tasking allowed.
That’s why men today are so much better able to compartmentalize than women. When a man’s at work, he’s at work. He doesn’t go in to work and think about the painful conversation he had last night after dinner with his wife, or talk about said painful conversation with a colleague at lunchtime.
I realize these stereotypes may well be out of date. But are they?
On a hunt, Paleolithic men related to each other side-by-side, not face-to-face across a berry patch. Instead of focusing on each other, they focused on the muscular exertions of another mammal.
And so a modern-day woman wants to sit across a table from her husband at an Italian restaurant, whereas her husband would feel far more comfortable sitting next to her watching a sporting event on TV.
The strongest males learned to go for long periods of time without eating—however long it took to run their prey to ground, get close enough to skewer it with a spear or bean it on the head with a rock. When they did eat, they gorged themselves and then rested before bringing home the leftovers to the wife and kids.
The adult female would graze as she gathered, not only to keep her strength up but also to take note of where the sweetest berries came from and which roots and leaves seemed to hold medicinal properties. The most thoughtful of modern-day males always take this into consideration while in the company of females: they know that women need to refuel more often than men or else they get lightheaded and bitchy.
Women, on the other hand, need to understand that a quick snooze after a big meal exerts an irresistible attraction for many males of the species. It’s not a comment on his companion’s charms or the quality of her conversation; it’s just what his cells are commanding him to do. He who has hunted must have his sleep.
Finally, there’s the phenomenon referred to as “refrigerator blindness” or MPB (male pattern blindness). Men, who are after all programmed to keep their eyes on things that are running away from them, tend to have trouble finding anything that’s not moving. If it’s a slightly camouflaged berry or root—or another item of non-ambulatory food stationed, say, behind a half-gallon of milk in the fridge—chances are the man won’t be able to see it.
It takes more than a measly 50,000 years of evolution to change the genetic adaptations of millions of years. One set of adaptations isn’t better than the other; obviously, both were needed to ensure the continuation of our species. Maybe we need to think more about the sort of teamwork that will capitalize on the strengths and bolster the weaknesses that may still be inherent in each gender.
What do you think? What part of this, if any, is still true in this age of changing gender norms?
***
Adriane was a wonderful boarder. She hung out with me in the kitchen while I cooked. She kept me company in Colby’s absence. She even danced with me in the Carnival Parade in San Francisco.
I gave myself a birthday party that year, as Colby was off making one of his CDs. I ordered a sheet cake that said, “I love my friends!” I invited lots of friends. Davi and Pedro manned the barbecue, and I think it was Stewart who picked up my costume for the parade, so that I could try it on. Adriane insisted that I try it on at the party—and then she insisted, once again, that I dance.
In medias samba, laughing, dancing and breathless in the center of the room, I called out to my astonished friends, “It’s a mid-life crisis!”
I was forty-five.
A year and a half after the era of the boardinghouse was over, I called Ariadne to say hello and congratulate her on her marriage, which I calculated would have occurred by then.
“But the wedding isn’t for another two weeks!” she told me. “You’re coming, aren’t you?” When I didn’t respond right away, she added, “You promised me!”
It was true: Ariadne had extracted a promise from me to attend her wedding. But she’d fought so loudly and dramatically with her fiancé over the phone, during her stay in the boardinghouse, that I figured the wedding might well not happen, at least not with that particular young man.
Frankly, I never imagined that she’d hold me to my promise—and I kicked myself now for having spoken so carelessly. Because Ariadne clearly did care.
I was terrified about all the stories I’d heard about crime in Sāo Paulo. I loved all things Brazilian—but I didn’t really feel ready, either emotionally or financially, to make a solo trip there.
“You will stay at my house,” Ariadne told me. “Let me know when your flight arrives.”
I found a passably elegant evening gown at Ross-Dress-for-Less, and bought a police whistle at REI. Stewart kindly agreed to stay with Kyle at the little bungalow in northwest Berkeley I’d been able to buy—or convince the bank to let me buy—with the inheritance my mother left me.
***
And so it was that I found myself in the double penthouse apartment in Sāo Paulo owned by Adriane’s mother, where she lived with her three daughters.
Soon after my arrival, I reminisced with the bride-to-be about the salads we used to make together in the boardinghouse kitchen.
Her family’s two maids, who worked a full day at the house six days a week, had dinner cooked and ready on the sideboard. I half-jokingly suggested to Adriane that we should make a salad, just for old times’ sake.
“Oh, do! Yes, do!” chimed in all three sisters, each of them as blond and gorgeous as a fairy princess.
“Lovely, darling,” approved their mother—who looked for all the world like another sister, equally blond and smooth and tan and without an ounce of fat on her, anywhere.
I went into the kitchen with the fairies. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s get started. Where’s the cutting board?”
“Cutting board? Cutting board?” The words were repeated as if by a flock of magpies. Cabinet doors were flung open. Pretty bottoms were pointed into the air as the sisters looked and looked for a cutting board.
“Well,” I said. “How about a knife?”
“Knife? Knife?” It was the magpie bit all over again as every drawer was opened and examined. I realized that these girls had no idea where anything was in their kitchen, because they never did anything there.
“Mai!” they called to their mother. An undercurrent of Portuguese that sounded distinctly like swearing was emanating from the eldest sister, who was even more beautiful than Adriane.
The maids had gone home for the day, and our salad wasn’t much of a success. But the dinner the cook left for us was delicious, as was every meal I ate in that household.
Adriane had never really explained how rich her family was—although, if I had been savvier, I would have known from the simple fact that they had sent her for six months of study abroad. A very small percentage of Brazilians are wealthy; but those who have money tend to have serious money.
Adriane’s mother, who worked as the office manager of her father’s multinational construction company, welcomed me as a member of the family.
She and I were having coffee together one morning while the girls slept in, before she left for her daily two-hour workout at the gym.
We were talking about men.
“Oh, I love having sex!” said this elegant lady with perfect diction who stays at the Ritz whenever she’s in New York. She said it without any self-consciousness at all—and I thought how wonderful it is for the Brazilians that they have no Puritan heritage to deal with. “I love looking at my face the next morning—it always makes my skin look so beautiful!”
***
At the boardinghouse, whenever I cut up an avocado to add to the salad, Adriane would tell me how strange it seemed to her—because avocados are eaten for dessert in Brazil.
In tribute to Adriane, her long legs, her bossiness, and her mother’s beautiful skin—and, yes, to her cousins, and to one of her cousins in particular—I want to include a Brazilian recipe here, crème de abacate.
The perfect refresher after you dance in Carnival
Crème de Abacate
Cut three ripe avocados in half. Spoon out the flesh, roughly chop and put in a bowl. Sprinkle with 1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons of sugar and squirt with the juice of one lime. Cover and chill for 15 minutes.
Process in a food processor or blender with 6 tablespoons of milk and a pinch of salt. Pass through a sieve. Stir in 3 tablespoons of Port wine. Spoon into glasses or small bowls that will look pretty with the pale green color. Chill for at least one hour.
Eat after you’ve been dancing for three hours on the street wearing a feather headdress and sequins. Or eat just after you’ve made love.
It will make your skin look so beautiful.
