COLUMN: Feminism round the kitchen table

Kitchen tables are the perfect place to observe family dynamics – the nuances of seating arrangements, who’s cooking, who’s washing up and who will be first to abandon the meal when their father tells them “women have everything now, what is the need for feminism?”

The latter, almost always, is me. The only daughter, the only woman under the age of 60 and the only one interested in gender-politics that sits at the table of my immediate family. I shoulder the burden of the fight all alone.

Dinner time often becomes a battleground as simple conversations with my boomer parents and my brother – who sees all feminists as manhaters – veer their way into the dangerous waters of patriarchy and misogyny.

This is the war that is educating my family on feminism. The table marks no-mans-land, the passing of condiments is the leverage, and food even becomes the hostage.

I have not always acted rationally or respectfully, but reason goes out the window when you are faced with two men telling you: “but women aren’t oppressed, what a wonderful time to be a woman – you are so lucky.”

Anger races in my veins, my hands clench the table.

I launch into a well-rehearsed argument explaining that: “yes, it is far better to be a woman now then 100 years ago, but female oppression still exists.” I despair over the gender pay gap, the demonisation of women in tabloid media, and issues of femicide and gender-based violence in the UK.

It is not just that they remain wilfully ignorant, they thrive in my torment.

Talk is not the only thing that divides us. The patriarchy is subtly embedded in my family through the routine motions of family dining. The head of the table remains a distinctly masculine space. My brother is always offered the better wine and the harder crossword questions, whilst the “pointy, tall structure in Paris” style questions are directed at me.

Equal rights at our table also do not extend to portion sizes nor to washing up. “But darling, you’re so good at washing up,” my father tells me.

These are the sacrifices I make for communal eating in my household.

Even the presence of guests does not disrupt this beautifully pained navigation of a deep generational and political divide and a lifelong commitment to winding me up.

“Watch out she’s a… feminist,” my father says like it is a branding – a cross to bear and be announced to the world.

Occasionally my 74-year-old aunt, whose views better serve the 18^th century, joins us.

“I think more men get cancer these days because women are too busy with their jobs and do not cook their husbands the proper, nutritious meals they need,” she says nonchalantly.

The table is silent. Everyone turns to me, grinning.

Yes, this is still the hill I would happily die on.