An unctuous and cloying ode to the joy and freedom of housewifery and a poison pen letter to the deluded (but more to be pitied than scorned) unisex ladies of Women's Lib whom the author blithely misunderstands and grotesquely misrepresents. Women's Lib, according to Mrs. Evslin's interpretations, sees Man as ""the enemy""; is out to destroy the family; is composed of ""a raving mob"" determined to wipe out love, marriage, babies, and apple pies. Are boredom and stagnation inevitable for those who cling to Kinder, Kuchen and Kirche? No! No, because the transfiguring imagination is omnipotent and enchantment lies in the mundane -- ""to live is to harvest perceptual realities."" From her own harvest she offers ""a fusillade of tomatoes, a frivolous lace of parsley, beets sullen-dyed with the blood of the earth"" on the supermarket shelves; in the department stores she sees ""sales ladies white as fish bellies swim out of the gloom""; in her own animated suburban home ""Chairs speak to each other. Lamps stare. Paintings brood."" And much more of such precious poesy written in support of counting your blessings, cultivating your garden, keeping the home fires burning, etc., etc., etc. Her final triumphal challenge, flung in the face of the Libbers: ""I am a sex object, I hope."" Perfumed, rose-tinted, and amazingly silly.