CHEF FOR A DAY

I love to cook.

So did my ex-husband, and his desire to cook for a living is probably one of the reasons we are apart now. I never felt at home in my own kitchen. He was good at it, but so was I.

A grand and spacious room, with wood cabinets everywhere and enough counter space to feed an army, I would attempt to make it mine by bringing my own creations into the fold. Pots and pans of the finest make, utensils and machines everywhere, ready to be used for feasts and banquets. A "Butler's Pantry" hosted yet more dishes and urns and glasss ware.

As a young bride, I had my own Irish culture to share, but was anxious to learn his. No one would teach me their recipes, handed down from family to family, only sparingly and begrudingly shared with me.

"How else will our daughter learn your history, your culture?"

I used to plead "Show me how to make this!" and after badgering I would be shown.

Once.

One year I received a tin full of hand written recipes. I thought it was a wonderful gesture, until I tried to make each item and learn every card had one crucial ingredient missing.

I learned how to cook Italian from the chefs on t.v., not by the one I was married to. Nothing was ever done quite right, could have cooked a little longer, needed more salt, you used too much sugar.

Along with everything else that was wrong with me, so was always something I cooked.

"There, I fixed it for you," he would smirk.

So I stopped.

I stopped doing a lot of things.

It was the manifestation of a lot of other problems, and I knew it was time for me to go.

I am in a much smaller kitchen now, an 1/8 of the grand size I used to get lost in.

It is compact, new and efficient, the design of a bachelor and someone who didn't entertain or cook for many very often.

A sailor's galley, it is reminiscent of how he thought his life would be.

"Let me cook for you," he said, and he wanted to, so I let him.

But there came a time where I wanted to do for him.

Nervous and anxious, I made what I made best, and it was excellent. Slowly but surely, I got comfortable in the kitchen again, creating small feasts and small treats, baby steps similar to the steps I had taken with my new life.

Even my children were surprised.

"When did you learn how to make this?" they would ask.

"Have you been practicing? What is this called, I didn't know you could cook so good!"

Nothing new. It was always there, fighting to escape.

He invited it out again.

My kitchen is now cozy and warm, inviting and homey. I feel more at home here than I ever did in the mansion.

But I've come to realize the reason behind my serenity now in this room where much love is shared, in the form of sauteeing, baking and blanching.

It is appreciated.

Sincere and heartfelt appreciation goes a long way.

I've also learned to never let someone bully me again.

I don't intend to spend my life in the kitchen, and neither does he.

But it's nice to be able to visit there once in a while.