Watching The British Baking Show on Netflix brings back so many memories of cakes, pies, and Torten my Grandma used to make. Turns out they actually have names, and it’s not just the pear-thing-with the-funny-shape I remember eating as a child. Pastries from the UK, Belgium, Poland and the rest of the world -even Austria where I happen to be from- are introduced in the baking competition, and I am having a good time watching it.
When people ask me, “Where are you from?” their reaction to my answer is always the same. “Aaaaaaaaaahhh,” and then they list the names of famous people from Austria. 90% of the time it’s, Hitler and Schwarzenegger.
According to my Grandma, the best chicken noodle soup starts with sharpening the ax and getting the old woodblock ready. Then you pick out a chicken and after you catch it, you talk to it nicely, you pet it one last time and you say THANK YOU, after all, it has given you plenty of eggs throughout the years and now it will continue to give you one last meal. You cover the chicken with your old cardigan and carry it to the old barn, where the axe and the woodblock are waiting.
“Mama said we are Republicans,” one of my helpers told me the other day and I could not help but smile. “How old were you?” I asked curiously and he said he didn’t know. Somewhere in between child and teenager, he became a Republican, because his mother said they were.
I was born 4,500 miles away in a small village in the Alps. One foot one the Italian side, the other on the Austrian side my Grandma always joked. I met Gastarbeiter/Migrant workers), who were guest/gast in our country, invited by our government. Most of them came from the former Yugoslavia, a few Turkish men followed the invitation as well.
One of the rare occasions I will show myself. Banged up knee, no front teeth, one of Grandma’s ridiculous haircuts, yet the boy on my side could not resist my charm and became my boyfriend for one summer.
I went to the grocery store yesterday, and the amount of heavily loaded grocery carts people were pushing around shocked me. “Are we the only house with a pantry in our neighborhood?” I wondered. I concentrated on my own shopping list and tried not to be affected by the hoarding behavior around me.
Lent was a big deal in our Catholic boarding school. 40 days of fasting was the motto, which didn’t bother us too much, we were used to it. Boarding school food is a bit like hospital food, and fasting comes naturally.
They all greeted my Grandmother nicely, paid respect to her and connected through her with a friend, who wasn’t there anymore. I sat quietly beside her and listened to the stories these men had to tell.