Men Norsk Mor -- My "Norwegian" Mother
The smell of Norwegian baking just reminds me of Christmas and home. At Christmas, my mother would bake for weeks filling the little railroad flat at 434-53 rd Street with smells of cardamom, almond, and butter. In that small kitchen in an old gas oven she worked her magic. My mother had a well-worn stained Norwegian cookbook. She was an American girl from Waynesboro PA who was transformed into a Norwegian speaking, acting and cooking woman when she said "I do" to a former Norwegian sailor from Arendal. By the second grade I was allowed to cross streets by myself. I would walk home from school with Barbara. Once in the vestibule I’d ring the bell. The buzzer would sound to unlock the inner door. Like going into the inner sanctuary of a holy place, an aroma better than the finest incense would greet my little nose. Sniffing as I walked the hall to the kitchen, I would try to guess what had been baked ...