With Love, your Rolling Pin.

November 14, 2015

I think I have some explaining to do. I told you I was going to spend the summer in Skagway, Alaska, and I did, it was amazing. I worked at the local brew pub, joined a softball team, hung out on some glaciers, laughed and loved life with some amazing individuals, ate more meat than veggies, danced with the northern lights and finished the season with a four day backpacking trip on the iconic Chilkoot Trail. It was life changing. I was uncomfortable at times, faced some fears, got homesick more than once and had sore feet most of the summer, but do I have any regrets? Not one. I wouldn’t trade my summer in Alaska for anything.

I was told if you work hard enough in Skagway, one can save a decent amount of money. Enough to say, live in Hungary for two months and work unpaid? Gosh, I sure hope so because here I sit in the little town where my mother and grandparents lived for many years before immigrating to the United States.

My grandparents started with nothing. They didn’t speak a word of English and had coins, at best, when entering the United States. But they worked hard. They worked countless hours to make a life for themselves and my mother. They worked hard enough to eventually purchase a small, second home in their hometown so they could once again be close to their family. Our family. They are still here today. I can’t speak to them very well because Hungarian has not yet become my strong suit, but we get by, quite well actually. My communication tactics will require a completely separate entry, so more on that later.

My grandparents are no longer with us, but my family is fortunate to still have access to the little Hungarian house they bought some twenty years ago. After retirement, they would spend six months in Hungary and six months in the U.S, loving each place simply because of the people they could surround themselves with. I get it. Why not live in two completely different places? I’ve only been in the country for two weeks and I understand the allure. Perspective, differences, lack of one thing, but more of the other. Could it be the best of both worlds?

I know, I was supposed to explain something to you. I was supposed to explain the reason for my being in Hungary, but I got sidetracked. I got sidetracked by the rolling pin and worn out apron still hanging on the kitchen wall. I got side tracked by the fifteen ceramic and plastic rooster decorations oddly placed in this fifty square foot kitchen. My great grandmother’s wooden salt container still has its place on the counter and still holds salt to this day. Much of what my grandparents brought over from the United States in multiple, large suitcases, hasn’t been touched, I think on purpose. When they passed, we didn’t have to sell the house like a family typically does. No estate sale. No urgent packing. Their belongings in Hungary remained. They still do. And now, everything around me reminds me of my grandparents. Sometimes I can still smell them.

Everything in the kitchen reminds me of my grandmother. I know what every gadget and device was used for. I know what every cutting board endured to give us the delicious meals she made. Her scratched pots, dull knives and paprika stained tupperware are all still here. Her passion for cooking is still in the kitchen. The only thing missing is her.

I don’t have many regrets in life, but I do regret not cooking more with my grandma. I would give anything to watch her roll out noodles again. To watch her slice a cucumber faster than a food processor. Okay, maybe not that fast, but she was pretty damn quick and precise too! Every slice was the same thickness and all she had to use was your basic Chicago Cutlery kitchen knife. I use a mandolin nowadays. She is probably cursing at me from afar.

Okay, the point is, I came to Hungary to cook. I can’t cook with grandma anymore so I am trying to find the next best thing. Her hometown, her family, and her hometown restaurants. I am here to cook and learn so I can cook and serve Hungarian food in the United States. That is my goal. That is my restaurant. Grandma taught me a lot, but I want to learn more. I want to bring more than just recipes overseas. I want to bring the culture, history, devotion, simplicity and pride that is so apparent in Hungarian cooking. I have been tasting paprika (true, Hungarian paprika) since before I was born (aka, in the womb) and my taste buds aren’t even close to getting tired of it. Each time I taste it, it’s like the first time, the best.

For the last week, I have been cooking at a small étterem in town, next to Josephine, who is not too much taller than my grandma and not too many years younger. She has similar facial expressions when cooking and similar techniques. I’d say I’m in the right place. She doesn’t speak English and I don’t speak much Hungarian, but we are getting along just fine. So fine in fact, I have mastered the art of flipping palacsinta. It’s a delicate dessert requiring precise execution and close observation. It’s all in the wrist. One chance to swirl and one chance to flip, that is all you get. I’ve got it down. Grandma would be proud.