my mother Archives

Baking Soda

On August 13, 2018

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.

Walnut cake

By Penwhisk

On February 16, 2018

In Holidays

Image courtesy of Peppe Ragusa on Unsplash

At an art show in Kassel, Germany, I saw an artwork by the US artist Mary Kelly that brought my mother to my mind. As its title suggests, Love Songs: Multi-Story House (2007), the piece was a domestic structure, whose walls and roof were transparent and whose interior was illuminated by fluorescent light. On the walls, I could read statements by women from different age groups and cultures. Mary Kelly’s project was to be viewed as a dialogue between participants in the 1970s Women’s Liberation Movement and the generation that followed theirs. Among the voices transcribed on the walls, I could hear my mother’s, who in the 1970s lived behind closed borders in Communist Bulgaria, cut off from women in the West, and away from the support an organized movement could provide. One of the statements, “When I got into college, I didn’t even know how to boil an egg. My mother made sure I didn’t know how to cook,” reminded me strongly of my own mother.

Food with a Slice of History

Tag: my mother

Baking Soda

Mother’s Day Story

Walnut cake