Notes on the Table 3
It was cold, it was winter, and I was at my maternal grandparents’ house. It was maybe after the pig had been sacrificed for Christmas. The meal was served in their small, small bedroom.
It’s something that I’ve been thinking about a lot and now I believe I figured out one of the meals from my childhood that made a powerful impression on me and that, somehow unconsciously, I’ve tried to re-experience over the years. It was cold, it was winter, and I was at my maternal grandparents’ house. It was maybe after the pig had been sacrificed for Christmas. The meal was served in their small, small bedroom, because it was the warmest room in the house.
Next to the bed, the table hosted a range of Romanian traditional dishes: pickled cabbage, which has become my favorite; polenta dipped in sour yogurt; French fries cooked in pork fat, soft and crumbly; and presumably some form of meat that I can’t really recall.
The layout of the table was so rich, so generous and simple at the same time, that it imprinted itself on my memory forever. The warmth coming from the ceramic stove counterbalanced the cold trying to enter from outside. I was seated on the bed, and they fed me almost as if I was unable to do it on my own, with such generosity and love.
The combination of flavors still remains one of my favorites of all time. Nothing could have gone wrong then. I felt tucked in by their love and protection—nurtured and safe.
Below, a picture of my parents at my grandparents’ house, abandoned now.
