“But I’m not Hungarian!” I protested.
David rolled his eyes, “Of course you are!” he countered, “You’re Hungarian by association.”
“Even so, I’m not exactly a housewife.”
“Yes you are.”
“How so?”
“Do you even know what a housewife is?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Look it up in the dictionary.”
“Fine,” I stormed off and looked up housewife in the dictionary.
I hated to admit it, but he was right. I didn’t know the definition of housewife. I thought it was an archaic 1950s stereotype, but according to Merriam-Webster, a housewife is a married woman in charge of a household. It is also a pocket-sized container for small articles (such as thread), but I digress. According to the dictionary definition of housewife, I am, in fact, a housewife. I’m a married woman, and I am in charge of a household. As far as being Hungarian goes, I may not have been born Hungarian, but I’ve certainly been embraced by the Hungarian community. My husband David is a bona fide Hungarian. He was born in Hungary and lived there until he and his family escaped the communist controlled country when he was a small boy. The iron curtain has since fallen, but David has remained here, which is why he is married to me and not an actual Hungarian housewife somewhere in Hungary.
I’ve been meaning to start this blog for a long time. People are constantly asking for my recipes and questioning why it has taken me this long to start a blog. Truth be told, I’ve been blogging for more than six years for friends and family but this is my first foray into a more public blog. The idea of starting a blog both fascinates and terrifies me. I am fascinated because I love writing and this is a great medium to share what’s on my mind. I’m terrified because I’m not very good at putting myself out there for the world to judge. This is a big step for me. If you’re here, I’m assuming it is because you want to be here and not because someone is forcing you to be here, but either way, welcome. I hope that you enjoy what I have to say.