family relationships Archives

Medlar

On October 12, 2021

Adriaen Coorte “Three Medlars with a Butterfly” (Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons; Adriaen Coorte, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

Medlar, palatable only when allowed to rot, is unusual to find at stores in the United States. It is a winter fruit from the misty mornings of my childhood, one that had almost slipped my memory. Where I grew up, peasant women foraged medlars during the year’s unhospitable months and offered them for sale at the corners of deserted farmer’s markets. I used to crave this fruit. The medlar’s slightly zesty taste and creamy texture provided me with comfort and solace.

***

One winter morning, when light was sparse and warmth was very much wanted, I climbed the stairs to the attic kitchen. I pushed the door open and, when sure nobody was there, I walked over to the window of modest proportions, its head tucked into the slanted ceiling and its sill resting on a floor of wooden beams. I sat down, pressed my hips against the chilly sill, tucked my chin into my knees, and looked through the iron bars that formed a perfect circle. The sky above me was the soft rustling of bare branches and the flipping wings of sleepy doves. Down below, the wooden clogs (halami) of Roma women clip-clopped along the empty street as they were preparing to do their cleaning duties. The women’s calls tore the threads of greyish fog, which muffled the bright colors of their dresses and lightened the brownish tint of their skin.

Bulgarian Pickled Vegetables

By Penwhisk

On March 6, 2020

In Politics

Eggplants and peppers roasted on a stove with an open flame

Peppers and eggplants are oftentimes roasted to make Bulgarian pickled vegetables.
(Image courtesy of Anton Darius on Unsplash)

Come September, our family kitchen would be transformed into a small-scale facility for making Bulgarian pickled vegetables. My mother and father joined efforts to secure winter food reserves for all of us. As part of their benefit package, the employees of the electronics plantwhere my father worked could order produce directly from the state-owned socialist farms. My father consulted with my mother about the quantities to be ordered. Then, he requested as much as he saw fit.

A few weeks later, large sacks of potatoes, peppers, tomatoes, and carrots crowded the hallway of our house. Eggplant, cabbage, and cauliflower were hauled from the market to join these other fresh guests. The sink in the kitchen swelled with pickling jars waiting for my mother’s scalded hands. The large, wobbly table crept into the middle of the space. Across its surface, pepper corns, garlic cloves, bay leaves, and salt crystals swarmed around bottles full of vinegar.

My mother’s face would lose its dreamy look. She wasn’t to make any plans until the gaping jars were filled and sealed to my father’s satisfaction. Her books were to remain closed; the invitations of her friends ignored; and her concert tickets wasted. She wasn’t to answer personal letters, which my father opened well before she suspected their arrival. My grandfather and grandmother didn’t interfere. What went into a jar full of vinegar was between a husband and his wife.

Poisoned Cake

By Penwhisk

On June 28, 2019

In People

A home-baked cake in a baking pan lined with parchment paper.

As far as my parents were concerned, this could be poisoned cake …
(Image courtesy of Anna Wlodarczyk on Unsplash)

Poisoned cake was a grave danger of which my parents warned me early on. As soon as I could talk in proper sentences, they told me that a neighbor might offer me a piece. Refusing any food that anyone outside the family suggested I should eat was one of the big rules of my childhood. My parents offered no explanation as to why someone might put poison in a cake and offer it to children. Their anxiety claimed my blind trust. They fed me their own fears.

The baker of poisoned cake could only be a woman. In the world of my childhood, men didn’t bake cakes. On week days, Bulgarian men went to the jobs that the communist government had assigned to them. On week-ends, they smoked Bulgarian tobacco and gathered to work on each other’s Soviet-made cars. Clouds of smoke enveloped both humans and vehicles. I often wondered who or what exactly chained-puffed on the cigarettes: the men or their cars. Cooking in general, and specifically baking, was a female task. Therefore only a woman could come up with the idea of making poisoned cake.

Boris Fishman Savage Feast

By Penwhisk

On May 6, 2019

In Books

Beets, the main ingredient in Borshch, one of the dishes in Savage Feast. (Image courtesy of Congerdesign on Pixabay)

In his memoir with recipes Savage Feast, Boris Fishman tells stories about family meals and vexing conversations revolving around them. The meals are made up of dishes from the Belarusian Jewish heritage of his parents. The conversations test Fishman’s patience and ability to explain to his mom and dad from the ex-Soviet Union his aspirations as a young man who was born in Belarus but grown up in the USA. Most importantly of all, he is struggling to make understandable both to them and himself the issues in his protracted relationship with Alana, an American woman with whom he shares an “attraction that would make Gabriel García Márquez sit up,” but which unfortunately proves insufficient to sustain a satisfying long-term relationship.

Right in its prologue, Savage Feast sets up multiple questions that on a single weekend kept me reading right to the book’s very end. Would Fishman eventually reconcile his ex-Soviet immigrant heritage with his American identity? Would he be able to find a partner with whom he enjoys a healthy, harmonious relationship? And would he share at least one meal with his Belarusian Jewish family, savoring delicious dishes without being upset and disappointed at their inability to understand him?

I appreciated the honesty and directness with which Fishman relates his frustrations in the interactions with his parents. In my experience, Eastern European families don’t openly acknowledge problems and disagreements. This makes it close to impossible to resolve thorny issues and patterns of dysfunction. It falls on children to tackle troubling matters in order to clear the path to their own well-being. A lot is at stake here and I couldn’t resist gobbling up Savage Feast so that I could find out whether Fishman would succeed.

Bulgarian beans and lentils

By Penwhisk

On January 21, 2019

In Journeys

Stuffed zucchini at Hemingway restaurant in Plovdiv
Image by Penwhisk

There must be a mistake. I am standing in front of a restaurant in the center of Plovdiv, reading through the menu. My eyes move hungrily from line to line looking for a dish of Bulgarian beans and lentils. There is none that I can see. That is hard to understand. Beans and lentils were at the heart of my grandmother’s cooking. For me, they are indispensable to Bulgarian national cuisine. In my disbelief, I seek help from a young waiter, who happens to be standing by. He raises his eyebrows:

“Bulgarian beans and lentils? No one has ever asked me for those, not that I can remember. We have grilled meats, kebapche, fish, shopska salad, as well as cucumber salad with yogurt and walnuts. This is what people want to eat. No one goes out for Bulgarian beans and lentils.”

My mother is standing at a safe distance a couple of steps behind me. I sense her embarrassment. When I join her, she looks at me.

“Don’t you realize that asking for Bulgarian beans and lentils comes across as an insult? Bulgarian taste has risen in sophistication above beans and lentils. They are a thing of the impoverished communist past. Why do you always want to provoke? Must you come back home after ten years and make people uncomfortable with your unsettling questions?”

Mon Chéri

By Penwhisk

On October 5, 2018

In People

Image courtesy of Stella de Smit on Unsplash

A Mon Chéri was my first bite of capitalism. I couldn’t have been older than five. Unease gripped my throat as soon as I bit into the crisp, thin chocolate exterior and liqueur ran down my chin. Just a second later, a sticky wave of panic washed over me: my top would stain, and my grandfather would yell at me back home. My clumsy fingers quickly shove the rest of the praline into my mouth. I stole an anxious glance at my grandmother’s stained dress but the alcohol got to my head and within seconds, I felt slightly elated. The neat, white curtains couldn’t stop me from glancing through the window. The hollyhock blossoms out in the garden on the other side nodded conspiratorially at me. Their vibrant colors looked even more radiant and tempting.

Baking Soda

By Penwhisk

On August 13, 2018

In People

Image courtesy of Karim Ghantous on Unsplash

“I need a drink with baking soda … my throat is burning and I can hardly swallow.” This was my grandmother’s signature phrase. Her custom was to deliver it with urgency and pathos at the entrance to my parents’ living space in our family home in Plovdiv. She would lean forward through the half-opened door, her hand timidly resting on the door handle. My grandmother’s craving for the unassuming white powder hovered over the table in our dining area.

As I grew older, I learned to recognize the slight variations in tone and wording depending on the person who my grandmother addressed. I sensed that my grandmother’s need for baking soda revealed something crucial about her personality. It also had to do with her position in our family.

Mother’s Day Story

By Penwhisk

On May 7, 2018

In Holidays

A basket with pastries in the form of little peaches

Image courtesy of an acquaintance

A dear acquaintance emailed me this snapshot, which brought to my mind a story about Mother’s Day that’s waited to be told. The image reminded me of a home-made pastry that used to fill me with longing when I was a child. On birthdays, my schoolmates would bring these little peach-shaped cakes as a special treat for the class. I would follow the tray with my eyes while it was passed around the classroom. My mouth would water and, when it was finally my turn, I would carefully lift a peach and place it on a napkin in front of me. The sugar crystals would stick onto my fingers and I would lick them first, before I picked up the little cake once again to carefully examine it. The color captivated me. My mother never used food coloring and I couldn’t even imagine how it worked. How was it possible for someone to make a little cake that looked like a peach? In my mind, one must be able to work magic in order to conjure a flawless fruit, perfectly ripe but free of the slightest sign of decay. When I would finally put the little cake in my mouth, the sponge would be soft and sweet. The two halves of the fruit were attached with some jam, which tasted even sweeter. When I was done eating the treat, I would smack my lips in honor of the class-mate who had a birthday. I was elated whenever someone would bring a tray with these home-made delights to share with the class. It was even better than having a birthday myself.

Reading Anya von Bremzen’s Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking

By Penwhisk

On March 29, 2018

In Books

Fountain Druzhba Narodov in Moscow
Image courtesy of John McNickname on Flickr

On a walk in the woods, my dear, thoughtful neighbor recommended Anya von Bremzen’s Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking. A friend of hers, who was not really a reader, raved about the book, and my neighbor was pleased to confirm that the tip was right on. With my curiosity piqued by a piece of reading advice from a person who doesn’t easily yield to the pleasure of spending long hours with books, I rushed to the library and checked out von Bremzen’s book. Over the week-end, I couldn’t put Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking down until I flipped its very last page. It was like meeting someone new and immediately clicking with that person, wanting to find out everything about him or her, and being in awe with every single detail. Or running into a friend whom I hadn’t seen for ages and quickly recognizing how much I enjoyed their presence, cancelling my mid-afternoon obligations in the blink of an eye, and sitting down for an engrossing conversation over a delicious cup of tea and freshly baked Italian plum cake. Does this sound like an indulgence? Well, it really is the best possible kind I could think of.

Sugar Cookies

By Penwhisk

On March 22, 2018

In Journeys

Image courtesy of Austin Ban on Unsplash

The Bulgarian communist production system had its own version of the 1970s sugar cookie. The sugar cookies of my childhood came in a clear plastic bag with blue and red letters in the Cyrillic alphabet, which said something about zoo animals. I’m certain that there was a hippopotamus and a monkey, maybe even a giraffe and a kangaroo. The rest of the animal shapes I don’t remember. Despite being a fan of these cookies, I have no recollection of their taste. I enjoyed holding them in my tiny hands and running my finger over their surface to feel the texture. The animal shape was the sole effort to appeal to the consumer that the communist centrally planned production system made. The cookies had a neutral scent and the pale color of slightly under-cooked dough didn’t tempt me. My goal was to get hold of as many cookies as possible so that I could arrange them and keep them away from my brother, who was known to devour anything, regardless of its taste.

Food with a Slice of History

Tag: family relationships Page 1 of 2

Medlar

Bulgarian Pickled Vegetables

Poisoned Cake

Boris Fishman Savage Feast

Bulgarian beans and lentils

Mon Chéri

Baking Soda

Mother’s Day Story

Reading Anya von Bremzen’s Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking

Sugar Cookies