In a village in the outback of Montenegro, a four foot hunched-back Baba clings on to my leg while stroking my forearm. She has mistaken me for her granddaughter. And at this moment there is a fresh loaf of bread in the oven, so I’m allowing this mistaken identity. This warm greeting makes me feel nostalgic and I from now on just want to be held in her arms as she strokes my head and feeds me warm bread. But she releases me from her clammy grasp and I’m left admiring her from afar. Her mauve floral scarf covers her peppered hair, which leaves her face vulnerable for my eager observation. Her face is laced with deep groves which only get deeper as she parades her single snaggle tooth smile at me.
As she’s slowly making her way to the stove, she grabs her walking stick. Like her hands, the stick is raw and unrefined. Pieces of bark and slivers protrude as she nonchalantly clasps on for support.
I’m not really sure what to do, so I sit on wobbly stool beside the grandfather, whose laying on the bed staring at the beige water stained ceiling. The room is bare and silent, as the only noise being produced is the static coming from the miniature television set sitting on the window sill. The static is broken with words from the grandfather. He starts speaking about dates, casually listing the birthdays of every family member. I ask him what his birthday is – he doesn’t remember.
I watch the Baba at the stove – walking stick in one hand, she spoons out some liquid from a pot, pauses, adds salt, pauses, tastes again, seems satisfied and turns off the burner. I ask if I can help – she denies my offer. With one hand gripping her walking stick, the Baba returns with a pot of hot soup in the other and a loaf of steaming, luscious bread balancing on top of the lid. She takes a bowl, and ladles out two large scoops of this chocolate brown, chunky soup. A chill goes through my legs, but I ignore it as I’m mentally consumed by the bread.
I look down at the soup. Strange, I think to myself. The meat are various shades of brown and grey which sit stiffly in my bowl. My hunger leaves me investing only mere seconds to identify the mystical meat. After a couple spoons, the taste of the meat triggers my childhood memories. I know this taste. I’ve tasted this taste. I’ve felt this sloshing around in my mouth before.
Now mindful of the soup, my bites are small and my chews are slower. Which is unusual for myself, as I take pride in my inability to savor my food with a technique I like to call vaccuming. The next spoonful of soup was of great interest because I have never seen this object lay lifelessly in my spoon before. White, tubular and squishy, I chew it while I ask the grandson what soup this is. Sheep soup. I swallow down the remaining fragments of meat and form a smile of appreciation. The Baba proudly continues describing how the soup is made. The conversation starts right off with the specifics of the sheep. Intestine, liver and kidney.
I swallow the chunk of meat and muster up a grin, which results with another ladle of stew in my bowl. I stare at my bowl calculating the ratio of stew to bread. I eat half the loaf – my calculations were correct. Though, I was not aware that these calculations would dub me in the village as the “healthy eater”.
thelonelyserb 