while fighting the mother of all custody battles, i had the pleasure of not only being interrogated but interrogated on video. LOL! i have no idea what they did with that tape, (i assume they had some psychiatrist study every little nuance of my mannerisms. i haven't seen it on youtube yet).
some of the questions were a little "out there" to say the least but one (actually two but for the life of me i cannot remember the other one at the moment but it will emerge, eventually) brought back a sweet childhood memory. the attorney asked me if i cooked with my girls in the kitchen. puzzled i said "no, not usually". "my kitchen is small and when i am cooking i just prefer to get it done without interference. however, one kidlet knows how to make scrambled eggs." she then asked if it would make me mad, or how i would feel, if i knew that their step mother was teaching them to cook. it made me laugh, and i said that i didn't care one way or the other, which is true. in my head i was thinking, its her mess to clean up so go for it lady..."
but something came drifting back later as i was pondering that stupid question. my grandparents lived in a lovely old brownstone in the middle of downtown Salt Lake City, Utah. i can recall everything about that place, and those quirky people. my grandparents apartment had a very small kitchen. my "Nana" would cook dinner every weekend. usually t-bone steak bought from the family owned grocery store just one apartment building and a driveway away. they were exotic, friendly Greeks (i think). one box boy who worked there had a crush on my older sister and he would sing the Beatles song "michelle my bell" to make me blush and run away so he could talk to her "alone" in the canned vegetable aisle.
as the excitement would raise in the apartment, the young one.... me. the alcohol level raised in the adults, and the temperature would rise in the small apartment as my grandmother lit the gas stove and began to cook the most delicious food in the world, she would hit her limit of noise and lack of personal space. this beautiful Danish woman who never raised her voice, would square her shoulders toward everyone crammed into this hot, loud, little apartment kitchen. Standing in her apron she would raise whatever cooking tool she had in her hand and say, "Get out of my kitchen!" We all squealed, grown ups included and we ran for our lives.
i realized that i am so much like my Danish Nana. i am so happy to be. it makes me giggle. she was a wonderful grandmother... i named my last daughter after her. i have learned to stretch the time between the raising of the wooden spoon and the adamant warning to get the hell out, i have taught my daughters a few things here and there but i plan to keep my Danish roots,
"Get the hell out of my kitchen!"
i love you nana and miss you. i long for a picture of you.
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