I was an absurdly anxious child. At the age of six I dreamt that I was being held hostage by the "people who live under the quicksand" (they're a lot like the Children of the Corn, except less plausible). Upon waking I swore off sand of all kinds for a week - better to be safe than sorry. Less humorously, I also aquired a fear of the dark, of sleep, and of solitude. My saintly Uncle Carl had to stay by my bedside for years until the memory of the dream faded.
Perhaps as a result of one too many fire safety lectures in the second grade, I also felt the need to be prepared at all times for the inevitable destruction of my house. Before bed I would lay out, by the door, the items that I would take with me in the event of a fire, flood, or general wrath-of-god-kind-of-thing: my "safe" which I'd bought at the penny candy store, and which was entirely filled with change, a.k.a. my life savings; two treasured stuffed animals, Bunny the Rabbit, and Poopsie the Dog; lastly I had a rotating cast of toys occupying the last spot. I struggled with the decision every night. Would Sparkle-Bright the pony understand that, no matter how much I wanted to, I simply couldn't carry all of my toys in my weak, eight-year-old arms when the apocolypse struck? Would my Pound Puppies find a way to make it on their own? Yes, I was the child who never, ever should have read The Velvetine Rabbit. Or seen The Nutcracker. Or watched cartoons. I obsessively anthropomorphised all toys, and then flagellated myself over my inability to love them all equally (because each and every one could feel my indifference, and suffered greatly for it. I was, after all, their world.)
My priorties, while angonizing, were at least clear back then. If you were to tell me now that I had to leave my home, my family and my friends, and could only bring one suitcase with me, I would wring my hands in frustration and sit down on the floor, determined to not make any choices whatsoever. Perhaps this is a sign of "decision fatigue". Perhaps this means that I am not as wedded to material goods as I once was. (Oh who am I kidding - I would gently cradle my glorious iPhone to my breast and rush out the emergency exit.) Actually I think this speaks to the fact that such decisions are not really part of an adult's life. We have back-ups, insurance, couches to surf on should the need arise. Rarely do we have the occassion to contemplate the few items that constitute our identity. My Grandmother, however, had to make just such a decision.
I've heard various versions of the story, but what I've been able to gleen is this: at some point my grandparents determined that it was no longer safe for my Grandfather to stay in Communist Czechoslovakia. Whether this was because he was a "Dutch spy" or a frequenter of the black market is up for debate; all I know is that his arrest was imminent. So my Grandmother had the difficult job of packing her life into a small suitcase. Mind you, the official cover story was a "family vacation". The suitcase could not be too big, or the jig would be up. Of course, none of her relations could be told; this would be dangerous to her before she left, and to her family after her departure.
What do you bring with you when you leave your homeland, perhaps never to return? How do you encapsulate a life into a carry-on? My grandmother took two things: her cookbook and her cookie cutters. To this day I amazed at her decision. How eloquent, to bring your country's culinary traditions with you when you flee. And how painful to think that, while you may never break bread with your sisters and brothers again, at least you'll savor the same tastes they'll be experiencing.
I've told you all about the roast chicken. I haven't discussed the ritualized cooking of my Grandmother's chicken paprika recipe that I shared with my Father. And just this past weekend I sat with my Aunt and cousins and listened to them reminisce about my Grandmother's pitacki (this is in no way spelled correctly), and her potato pancakes. My grandmother left a culinary legacy to all of us. When we cook as way to nurture, or dine as a way to commune, we honor her immense courage and yet also her whimsy. We relish her quirks - the way she always understood when I was "full for dinner, but not full for dessert", or her reluctance to share her culinary knowledge until she saw me as an independant, self-sufficient woman. If only I had reached that point sooner.
There are so many things I never asked her, so many stories I wanted to hear. But at least we have her cookbook. I saw it at my Aunt's house after the memorial service. It wasn't at all what I expected - I think I envisioned some sort of ancient Czech tome, whereas this was actually more of an Eastern European Betty Crocker. Although I can't read it (I never learned Czech), I feel the meaning of it: go forth, young woman, and cook. Create, envelope, console. This is what food does for us. It pipes in directly to memory, and gives us a way to express love that we can wholy make a part of ourselves. It is a love that sustains. It is an act of gratitude. This, grandma, is what you gave to me. Thank you.
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