Maybe it’s my caretaker-of-the-family, motherly instincts, but there’s something slightly comforting about doing ‘women’s work.’

Of course, men can cook and clean, too, but around the holidays, it’s best to trust the women with jobs such as cooking feasts.

I’m barefoot in the kitchen, my hair in a messy bun, sleeves rolled up, chopping apples and strawberries into little bits for a fruit salad. I turn the grapes over in the bowl with my hands. My mom turns on the burner and I start warming up 12 tortillas, 2 each for the 6 of us. The cups need to be filled with ice, the peppers have yet to be sautéed, the Christmas plates must be rinsed and dried, and my sister is getting guacamole everywhere.

Finally, everything is finished. We all eat and talk and laugh and dirty up the dishes.

The men and my sister leave the kitchen, leave my mom, Deanann and I with the job of clean-up. I rinse off the cream-covered spoons and the plates with ranch splatters. Wet queso squishes under my fingers, and I scrape it out with my bare hands and put each cup into the dishwasher.

I blow strands of hair out of my eyes as my mom rinses the big pans and I dry. I reach for a lid for the bean bowl across the kitchen, my foot closing the drawer that’s been left open at the same time. I have soap up to my elbows, my fingertips are pruny from the scalding water.

And yet, I feel good doing the duties of womanhood. The soft chatter between the three of us as we clean is nice and I feel grown up and like a central part of the family. Because I know one day I will be the central part of the family.

I know I’m usually all for feminism and breaking out of the patriarchy, but today I’m okay with ‘women’s work.’