Down Memory Lane, One Golden Fry at a Time

 

Today, for the first time in a while, I fried potatoes on the stove, in a frying pan.  I usually bake them in the oven, it is easier, less mess and healthier, too.

Whenever I fry potatoes, I think of them as “cartofi pai” as we call them in Romanian – “straw potatoes” and I am instantly back in time as a child in communist Romania. Having “cartofi pai” at lunch was really a special occasion. My grandma didn’t approve of them because you had to use a lot of cooking oil and oil was on the ration card. So, whenever my gran wasn’t at home (something that seldom happened) we asked our mother to make us “cartofi pai”.

I can still see all four of us waiting impatiently as the heavenly smell of frying potatoes filled the house. We would grab them the moment they were ready, burning the roofs of our mouths because waiting another minute simply wasn't an option. Then came the real competition: keeping a watchful eye on everyone else's plate, ready to rescue a golden fry from any distracted sibling.

Of course there weren’t enough for everyone – we were four kids, and we had to fight for every morsel, every piece of “straw”. If we were lucky we would also receive one fried egg, ou ochi – “egg eye” in Romanian. And if we were really good, pickled cucumbers, a delicacy only my gran could make. All eaten with copious quantities of bread.

When we were kids we ate a lot of bread with or instead our meals. It was cheaper and there were times when there wasn’t enough food for all of us on the table to eat our fill. Our favorite was “piine cu unsoare” – bread and dripping. With a pinch of salt, some black pepper and paprika. And when times were really bad and money scarce, bread with mustard. I’ve no idea why even during the darkest days of communism, when grocery shops were empty, you could find jars and jars of mustard on the shelves.

So today I am thankful to the humble potato because it took me on a trip down memory lane. Even though I was a child during a difficult period in Romania's history, and my childhood was different from that of many other children, it was also a time of discovery and wonder, of small pleasures and quiet joys that I will never forget.

The Symmetry of Cakes and Words and Love

 

 

Last week we had three birthdays in our family.

My husband’s was on the third. Our daughter Maya baked him a cake. Maya’s was on the fifth. Her boyfriend baked her a cake. His birthday was on the seventh and it was Maya’s turn to bake him a cake.

Three birthdays.

Three cakes.

Each of them with its own story to tell.

Maya baked her father a lemon-pound cake. For her boyfriend, it was Black Forest. Her boyfriend baked her a cheese cake. Each recipient received their all-time favorite cakes.

In the outside world, they were talking about missiles and alarms and wars. We were reminded about things that are out of our control.

Inside our home, small gestures of love. With everything we were going through lately, it felt big and significant. My husband has this awful disease looming over him and the ruthless treatment. Maya has her own worries about her future. Her boyfriend, too. And yet, they expressed their love with cakes.

There is something concrete and practical and centering about baking a cake. Maya once told me that when she is stressed, she bakes. Strangely enough, even though I am no baker, I understand her. Baking gives you something to focus on. Baking a cake has rules. You measure the ingredients; you mix them and put them in the oven. You are in control of the process. And yes, most of the time something good and delicious comes out of it.

Me? I write. I try to transform my anxiety into words, the words into poems. I like to say that both of us create something. Maya – her cakes. Me – my poems, stories, essays. And no matter how much work we put into it, I am sure Maya’s creations are way better than mine. Well, at least tastier.

So, this is the story of our family this past week. Three birthdays and three cakes. Our love to wrap them in. And my words for us to remember.

Life's Unpredictable Interventions

I  have talked earlier about God's plans versus mine. Well, that was only the tip of the iceberg. Because, believe me, I had so many things planned, only to be shunned by...divine intervention?

I don't intend to look in the distant past, because it would be pointless, and I presume, boring. I am going to tell you about stuff that's been unfolding since, let me see, about 13 years ago...

First of all, if you are new to my blog, you must know that I have been living in Israel for 27 years. That I am a Christian. And that I had a difficult time adjusting to my life here...After a while I simply didn't pay attention to the exterior world, it was too much for me and I would've gone nuts. After a while, everything seemed, I don't know, routine. One step in front of the other type of life. Keep on going for the sake of my family...

Anyhow, in the beginning I thought someday I would be able to return to my home-country, Romania. I said to myself the deadline would be my daughter finishing high school. I made plans and the thought of returning home kept me breathing easier. You know, the light at the end of the tunnel.. 

But...

In 2013 my husband was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. It came from nowhere and for a while, we were paralyzed by the news. Then, little by little, we made peace with the diagnosis and my husband received his (first) treatment. We had to let go of our dream to return to Romania. The doctors said that with this type of lymphoma there is no definitive healing, only remission. One has to learn to live with this awful disease. Like a form of chronic cancer.

So, yes, karma, God, the Higher being, universal conscience, call it whatever you like decided that we are to stay in Israel. At least here the treatments for lymphoma are the latest and very effective.

I said, OK, it is what it is. At least, I have my holidays. I can go and visit Romania whenever I want, recharge my batteries, soothe my soul and come back here.

Wrong again.

Along came Covid and besides the world-wide no fly no holidays no fun situation we had our own situation at home. My husband got sick with Covid in the hospital, while going through his second round of chemotherapy . Yep, it came back. For the second time. The Covid hit him hard, his defenses very very low because of chemo...

And then we thought we will have a reprieve. We were optimistic. Dare to dream. 

My husband was thinking about traveling to Romania for the 50th anniversary of high school graduation. I said I'll go with him, I needed a reprieve from all the wars we had lately.

But, ironically, again somebody had other stuff put aside for us.

My husband's lymphoma was back. He found out during the time we were already packing for Romania. Meaningless to say we were crushed. Oh God, not again!!!

So, you see my point here. No plans. Not anymore. Not ever. Just wait for whatever life has to throw at me...

I still want to do so many things, even now. But, I fear I won't be able to to any of them. If life keeps interfering with my plans, I may never do them at all. 

I no longer trust life enough to make plans.
Every time I begin to hope, something happens — illness, war, fear, another diagnosis waiting around the corner.
So perhaps it is easier not to dream too loudly anymore.

Easier than living with the heartbreak of watching those dreams collapse again and again. Better this way. To avoid heartbreak and that sense of doom that keeps following me everywhere.

  

Alone in Holy Land - The Book

It is finished!
Do you remember when I told you that I intend to gather all my old blog posts in a book? Well, it is done!

These posts, my blog, accompanied me through years of loneliness, immigration, motherhood, fear, absurdity, survival, and rediscovering myself. I never intended them to become a book. But somehow, together, they did.

I don't intend to sell the book, not at present. For now, I am offering it here, on my blog, free of charge. If you want it, it is yours. 

And maybe after you read it, come back and tell me what you think.  

(the cover is the work of my daughter)

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1xoKCv5QAiUxy_vRVRenGiVzt9jgkjTFG/view?usp=drive_link

Click on the link, it will take you to the book. 

 For me, writing is life. Writing is breathing. Writing is waking up in the morning. Putting one foot in front of the other. Surviving. Since I remember I used to cope with life by putting it on paper. Words helped me through some very dark periods of my life.

So, I'll carry on writing.

I don't know if anybody draws anything out from my ramblings, and, in a sense, I don't think I care. Not anymore. Sorry, I don't. I used to. It was like, oh my God, I am writing and people are going to read it and oh my God what are doing to say? Are they going to be interested at all in what I am writing?

Maybe it is the journalist in me, always writing with a purpose in mind, like making the world a better place. Kafkian, I know, and oh so pointless.

So, I'll be here, writing away. 

If you want to be part of this, I don't know, journey, circus, whatever, you are welcome.

If not, that's Ok , too.

Me? I have to write in order to survive.