Life does NOT have to be hard. It CAN be deliciously sweet.

Print

All right, so it is very possible that I have already written about this and if so, you are warmly invited to skip this post. But boy oh boy I need to write about it some more and so here I go. And please pardon the heated tone. I have pushable buttons too, you know.

I grew up in France. I grew up in France where unless you are preparing a meal, you have no reason to open the fridge. Ever. Ok, maybe for a glass of juice at “gouter” time but that’s it. (“Gouter” – which looks terrible written in English, and funny enough, also means “to taste” – is the meal we have between lunch and dinner, around 4. It often consists of bread and chocolate. It is a good meal and no, it is not a “snack.” More info  on that right here. )

So the fridge is a tool, a tool used to prepare these meals. It is not some weird form of boredom-dulling, it is not something that we open and stare into at random times.

It is where we keep the food we use to prepare one of four daily meals.

And by “we,” I mean: we who prepare the meals. Which most of the time does not mean our kids. And definitely never, ever, EVER includes our kids’ friends.

You see where I’m going with this?

Mostly, I really love my kids’ friends. They are an eclectic bunch, a bunch of interesting people with cool ideas and who are starting to lead really cool lives. If one of them was to take me in when I got too old to take care of myself, I would probably be in good hands (and yes, I do think about that occasionally. Don’t you?)

I love it when they walk through the door, I love it when they fill the house with their raw energy, I love it when they huddle by the fireplace and talk, I love it when they spend the night. And I love spending hours at the stove making them crepes on a Sunday morning. Really, I also love it when we all agree to prepare a meal together (or when they offer to prepare a meal on their own), in which case, the whole kitchen is open game.

BUT. When, barring the above exceptions, one of them walks into the kitchen and opens my fridge … I go nuts inside.

Something wakes up in me and makes me want to pounce. And scratch. And yell “What the F#*%& do you think you are you doing???” Which I’m sure would make for an unsettling contrast to my “Good morning honey, what kind of crepe would you like?”

When someone who does not live in the house opens my fridge, my French upbringing comes up to the surface and I feel … wildly violated. I feel crazy. I feel the way most of you would feel if you walked in your house and some of your kids’ friends were going through your underwear drawer. Actually, as I write this, I am shocked to notice that really, I would rather they did go through my underwear drawer.

So, yeah. There you have it. Cultural pains.

Last night, my daughter had a few friends over. Within minutes they were all in the kitchen and I could hear the fridge open and close. I didn’t move. A while later, I walked into the kitchen and found some leftover cooked potato skin on the counter. “What is this from?” I asked, sounding oh so sweet. One of the guys – whom I had never met before – replied: “Oh, sorry. I forgot to throw it away. It’s from one of the baked potatoes I just ate.” And with that, walked towards the garbage can, really respectful and all. I could feel Tanissa’s eyes on me. She knows. She knows and she is not interested in placating my French upbringing one bit. As my kids tell me often: “Mom, you live in America, now.” But she knew. And feeling the dark cloud building within me and threatening to burst all over the bright yellow walls of the kitchen, she explained: “My mom grew up in France and she doesn’t like people going through our fridge. But she is adapting. It’s ok.”

Am I adapting? I haven’t stabbed anyone with a fork yet, so I guess I am.

But this morning. I have a strong itch to post something on the fridge, right above the handle… Maybe a picture of me in a lacy thong with the words “Unless you feel comfortable opening my underwear drawer, please don’t open my fridge.”

Yeah. That should work well.

Receive Laura’s blog by email