When I Think Of
When I think of food, I think of Lidija Cvetkov. My grandmother.
I think of slices of bread, bathed in smashed and mixed egg yolks. Fried on a pan. Served with yogurt or sour milk. A tasty reward for me, her youngest granddaughter, after a whole day of solving primary school Math problems together. She would serve them, then simply sit and watch me eat. Laughing and talking about little things. I don’t know what it was that made those yellow, fluffy, fried bread slices so tasty, but I swear she made the best ones.
When I think of my grandmother, I think of food.
And when I think of food, I think of the usual family lunches. Sitting around a seemingly small, rectangular table covered with a beige, stiff, slippery tablecloth found in almost every Balkan household. Containing printed blue and pink flowers all over.
I think of a large navy blue scratched dish, filled with chicken, potatoes, cooked carrots, and a basil leaf here and there.
I think of my mom sitting next to me, already beginning to nibble from the salad that’s been served.
I think of my grandmother’s face. Her smiling like a child that has finally received the present it’s been so impatiently waiting for. A family that’s seated together around an old, wooden table. Eating and watching each other. Laughing and talking about little things.
Born on May 21st, 1944, the youngest out of 5 siblings, my grandmother grew up at a time when the word “scarcity” was undoubtedly an understatement. When appreciation spanned way across mundane acts of kindness and covered all of everyday living. When selfishness, jealousy, and ungratefulness were just words known in theory, but never depicted in practice. When the main life moto was being aware of what you have and knowing why it’s important.
I do not exaggerate when I say that my grandmother was the embodiment of all of these virtues.
Since March 22nd, 2022, I can’t see her anymore. Nor can I see her virtues.
Oftentimes when people leave, the ones that stay can do nothing but think. Oftentimes I do wonder about people, and I wonder what I can learn from them. Oftentimes I do ask myself: what does the sign of the times have to do with the kind of people that we grow up to become? What does it mean to be a child in the years of war? What does it mean to be a child in the years of peace? Who am I, as someone that was raised in the 21st century? Who was she, what was food, and what did she teach me? How did she do it? How does anybody do it?
How does one maintain their innocence, or remain true to themselves? Or how does one break free, and stick to their principles, no matter what the circumstances may be? Are the virtues that my grandmother kept and practiced so easily gone — or are they now someplace else? Someplace hidden?
Maybe, underneath all the cruelty, there is really hurt. Maybe the world has gotten so complex and complicated that people have to wear their stiff and shiny armors just to protect themselves. Maybe people do value these virtues, but do not think it makes sense to show them anymore. Maybe showing them means that you’re vulnerable, and maybe that seems scarier than anything else.
Maybe it’s not fashionable to portray the virtues that my grandmother had. Maybe people have them, but I somehow do not notice them. Or I don’t know where to find them. Or maybe these same people, are a rare blooming flower, an endangered species, living somewhere where barely anyone is able to discover them.
But I know I’ve already seen them. I know I’ve already been touched by them. I know I’ve had the gift of being in the presence of somebody who had them. That alone should mean something, shouldn’t it?
Because I know I’ll search through the fields, and I know I’ll look for the flowers. I’ll hope to see them. I’ll hope to find them. I’ll hope to recognize them, too. But somehow, I feel calm, because I think that I will.
Because when I think of…
I’ll remember what they look like.
