Somewhere Between Bean Dip and Plum Butter I Found My Way Home

 

No matter what I am doing these days, whenever I am in the kitchen cooking or cleaning, my memories come rushing in and I find myself in a different kitchen, the one of my childhood back in Romania.

A few days ago while preparing fasole frecata (white bean dip), the image of buni – my grandmother appeared very clearly in my mind. Sitting at our old, battered kitchen table, waging a war against the beans, as usual. We didn’t have any modern or fancy kitchen utensils so the beans had to be mashed with a wooden spoon or better yet, with a fork. I am sure we didn’t have a potato masher. In our house mashed potatoes were prepared with a fork, too.

So, if you wanted a smooth dip you had to confront de beans with strength and determination. It was also a good way to vent your frustration, to work on your anger issues.

But no matter the way, the result was always the same: the smooth, nutty dip that we ate with caramelized onions spread on enormous slices of dark bread.

Today I bought plums, we have here this type – purple and huge but pretty dry inside, I buy them to make plum jam, a feeble imitation of the jam from home. But the plum jam has nothing on the champion of all fruit preserves: magiun de prune (plum butter).

I don’t remember if buni used to make us magiun. I think it was a too slow and too long process even for her and she didn’t have the time or the energy. We didn’t really care about it, because she made us jams and compote from all the fruits she bought at the farmer’s market. During long late-summer days, our kitchen was full of sweet aromas and glass jars that waited to be filled with buni’s concoctions.

Magiun de prune could be bought at the grocery store in autumn, when they used to put a big wooden crate on the counter and the saleswoman would sell us slices of magiun that she cut with a straight, thin wire. We watched her work, our mouths filled with saliva, making the wait seem longer and the magiun even sweeter. Because sweet it was. With a hint of tartness, it was dark purple, almost black and it painted our teeth and we laughed with out mouths open and the people in the grocery store would hush and tut us with low voices and judging looks. Not that we have a care in the world.

Why all these memories now, I keep asking myself? Am I getting old and gaga? Or maybe it is my mind’s way to protect itself and me from the present reality?

Not all my memories are happy. But, fortunately, the bad ones are hiding somewhere deep in my memory and I don’t have any intention to go looking for them.

For now I am perfectly content to dwell on the days spent with buni in the kitchen or on the summer afternoons eating watermelon with my siblings, challenging each other who spits the seeds the farthest.

The kitchen is quiet again, the plum jam is ready. I spread it on the bread, taste it and somewhere, for a little while, buni is still sitting at the table across me. And she says, with half a smile: “Eat up…and don’t talk with your mouth full”.