Elsewhere They Are Often Made Without

Gentleness

Real images in my imagination.

MONIKA OLESKO

My family doesn't have many classic food customs. There are two parts of my childhood

and they look very different. We lived in a apartment in a house filled with other members of our

family. It was the time during my early childhood, we spent more of our time together. My mom

and dad and three of us. I remember this time as open, exciting and an independent period. I

was a child and I was always in a rush of events, activities and dramas. There were family

issues which I hardly bared, interactions with friends in my yard, later school life and my growing

consciousness. I treated myself with high prominence and tried to find the best way to live

joyfully. I thought of everything in relation to myself. Tragedies were surrounding me and they

interrupted me living peacefully, with many benefits, as I saw it. I expected less sadness each

moment, and I would try not to involve myself in what would make me uneasy. My mom and dad

weren't reminding of the good very often. It doesn't mean they caused harm to me but I was very

egocentric and petty. I remembered my feelings from when they were at war or cruelly silent,

and I would never forget these sensations though they were good at other times. It didn't matter

that they would later pay me back with peace and their sweet hearts. I had my convictions. But

surely I was easily convinced that everything was fine too.

My mom was the preferable parent in the earlier years. She seemed apparently weaker

and that allowed me to like her more or understand her position. I had hard times understanding

my dad for a long time. He was stubborn and introverted. I was not a mind-reader at all, and I

had my own problems and fears which overwhelmed me sufficiently. I think this closed mind and

blowing emotions hid my childhood memories to the level where I can't remember facts like

riding to school with my dad, having dinners or talking with my parents. Any conversations of

this time are hardly imaginable for me now. Small talks with school peers, cousins of my age, or

some more distant people are much more real to me today than my ordinary family life of each

day. This is a big blow for me now that I have such a poor view of many years of my life. Today,

my parents are also not able to describe things to me that I can't remember. They speak through

their regrets and mistakes, and mention little of facts or any ordinary events which could help me

find an atmosphere of my childhood from more external perspective--what were we doing as a

family, what was the structure of our home life, what did we talk about, or how were evenings. I

see the yard from my eyes, I have notions of me planning things or following my hunger and

satiety, my desire to run, myself sitting in the armchair, with a sandwich I made for myself. Often

I didn't have any thought of my family or siblings if I was alone. I had a sense of survival. I cared

for my acquaintances from the school, people I wanted to get in contact with and family was

upsetting me. In peak-moments I realized I am attached to members of my family deeply and

bitterly but it was a tough notion.

But my parents were very nice people. Though they are not people who naturally cause

regularity in anything. They were much more likely to cause discontinuity, probably because

they do not have peaceful personalities. Mother liked to cook from time to time and she did that

very well when she wanted to. I remember some of our dinners and the more frequent flavors.

One of the things she used to prepare were sweet steam buns with fruit. Similarly to my dad,

she had many food preferences she hardly ever gave up. But it was also about the kitchen

"success", if she became comfortable in making a particular cake, later she made it any moment

when cake was expected, and that was a permanent success. We loved these buns with

unremitting love. Mother told us that elsewhere they are often made without gentleness and the

dough is too hard. We enjoyed the perfect softness, which for us was a casual delicacy thanks

to her.

Mother was a mascot and woman for me. She was playful and goofy when she danced

or laughed with her high, melodious voice. She surprised and impressed me with her

nonchalance when she started to sing while she was cleaning the cupboards. When she

bellowed and I didn't know if she meant it to me or was it her creative rashness and personal

dialogue. She didn't try to be literally a good mom with an ample skirt where we could hide from

the world and feel safe. Later, she told me she had an idea for us in the way she treated us. She

wanted us to be free, open and independent kids, children who don't need close care and they

are not limited or taught what is it good to be. We could grow up original, spontaneous people

this way, she hoped. So we ran in the yard, we were free to make a sandwich ourselves if we

were hungry and sit by the TV or be outside for long hours without any question. We used to

choose the second option every time.

The kitchen had a window just by the main door of the house and in warm seasons the

window was ajar. So the place was a bit magical because once in a while I could smell a flavor

coming out from the window. A symbol of my mom cooking and preparing a meal for all of us to

our pleasure and satiety. She thought we might be hungry and approached us with an inspiration

for the activity of the afternoon. Once there was a chicken with crunchy tasteful skin, lightly

seasoned. I hastened straight from the outside to the kitchen window and stole part of the

chicken. I remember myself biting the meat with my teeth and my fingers dirty with fat and

seasoning. Simply happy to be fed and free of rules. Another time mom prepared an apple cake

covered festively with powdered sugar on its erratic surface. This was a memorable moment for

me because apple-cake didn't belong to her tastes. The occasion was the visit of our family.

Uncle Andrzej was my mother's younger brother who still lived up north in their parents' house

by the lake. He came together with his family which then consisted of his wife and very small

daughter. They sat by the table in our oblong kitchen. The table was decorated with vase with

flowers and sweet apple-cake elevated on the platter, as the crown of the situation. Uncle was

always fat and seemed very uncomfortable sitting in medium-size room on a normal wooden

chair from our modest kitchen decor. Mother served coco in mugs for everyone joining this

ordinary moment. It was probably spring and the weather was nice. The fairylike atmosphere

from the cake, coco and the flower vase surrounding the quite unusual visit of our close family

from up north is one of my most cherished and fostered memories. It has no external

significance but is one of these rare complex pictures of my life from early years. So many

months and weeks are remembered without any particular picture or feeling from me. I have a

poor fantasy of my childhood in general. Perhaps I am not sufficiently distanced to these

moments now and they appear minutely in the intensiveness of my present life of 21-year old

person.

I have a much clearer attitude to my second part of childhood which started at the age of

12 when we moved to our own house located in an beautiful area close to the water, fields and

forest. The house was built during my brother and I's life, so it was long awaited moment. We

had a bottle of wine hidden in a closet and laying in between old clothes and rugs for last few

years of anticipation. We shared this slim bottle of honey color wine by the table on first

christmas after moving in. By the time of the drink, we hoped to have finished settling but finally it

became less important and we allowed ourselves to confirm the fact we lived in our house.

It occurs to me now, that during this period I was more attached to my parents.

Especially my father who became an important person in my life and education. He grew dear to

me and was an authority for some years after. I was a teenager and I was growing nervous and

impatient. I was expressive and relatively extroverted girl who couldn't stand much pressure.

From this point, somehow I didn't find my mother to be cheering or comforting. I rejected her in

order to become more stabilized, I thought. We both became very demanding and couldn't give

each other much respect or understanding. I believe, that then I couldn't give much respect or

understanding to anyone I knew closely, because the worse part of their personality was

unveiled and I didn't want contact with any personal darkness. I was very intolerant of human

defects, in very general terms. Mainly just I couldn't understand the reason of such behavior,

though I didn't count myself. My closer attention was given to my father not long after. My

memories of customs from then are of pictures of my father in the kitchen, getting quick

nourishment or attempting to make a classic dinner. Occasionally it's of my mother cooking and

me observing her or helping to a small extent. Yeast cake was our unfading star. Same as

steam buns, mother made it deliciously as both have similar preparations. I believe my mom

understands yeast and her respect translates into baking in the same way some people

understand children exceptionality and are good guides for them. Maybe she understands it

because she genuinely appreciated the taste of any baked good with yeast from the early years

of her own childhood. In her family house yeast had the same duty as she willed it to us. For my

mom, growing up in a small village which has its own merit, yeast cake was often the best that

could quench the children's never ending desire for treats.

Father was a tough person who sometimes forgot of his severity and, in turn, fooled

around with himself, with us or, if these were omitted, with dogs. He had many principles and

beliefs like that hard work or tough conditions are circumstances that shape any human in a right

way. He had a few examples of his peers who had sweet easy-going parents and, later, couldn't

find a ground or any motivation to live actively. But he was also inconsequent and seem to be

very infirm about his attitude. Father didn't follow all of his own moves and could be a nice,

introverted person if he forgot about his theoretical philosophy.

I think he was too intelligent to stick strictly to his own experiences from childhood which taught

him respect for tough demands and conditions. He noticed the complexity of human emotions

and how children sometimes react to experiences unrealistically. He permanently contradicted

himself in words, moves, and what he allowed us to do. We were suspended in this contradiction

and affected by his philosophy, denying each word.

Father used to have many consistent habits. His approach to food was especially

particular, as he couldn't refuse this necessity like he would try to with books. (He read a few

books when he was a young man, gained destructive opinion on them and stayed to

newspapers, non-fiction literature, or science literature, or similar, for rest of his life). He liked

parsley, bread, butter and spices, products he knew very well and no chemical additives. He

liked to exaggerate, to feel stronger every taste and ultimately get a good nourishment.

From the time at Jutrzkowicka, our first apartment, I learned how to eat some very simple

things. I copied his habits because I thought they are good if eaten with such enthusiasm by my

secretive father. Sour cream poured on a plate and wiped with a slice of fresh bread, nothing

else. I knew it must be a poor kind of a meal but I had determination to learn to like it.

Finally I ate it with an appetite. I made same unusual salads as my dad did, ate cereal

with sour cream and sugar, ate straight from the pan laying on the paper from the previous day. I

ate with him from one bowl what he didn't like very much and hoped I would find a desire for my

own plate by personal sense of tact and intuition. Father used to correct me each time I didn't

use a plate when I was making a sandwich, saying no one understands such behavior and it is

prerequisite impulse to use a dish. Dad was very impulsive himself, even though it wasn't

apparent. He made a dinner with no patience and mildness. Pieces were thick and solid, pepper

was preferable to other more delicate tastes, and he mixed things with no exact intent. He

laughed at himself just a little bit but above all he kept still face and a good opinion on his meals.

Generally they were healthy and solid and my dad defended himself with those characteristics.

There are many things I want to remind myself of my childhood and to think about them.

It has a therapeutic effect on the author to find time for getting back. I think my parents are very

interesting and loaded people but as any close contact it has much of weight in its primordial

nature. I cannot summarize these words correctly. It is possible that I didn't get any pros or

cons, nor a concise description. Though I see my home more audibly now. I believe customs

and food are seen at my home with considerable flexibility. They happen to shape in blend of

individual preferences and current conditions of life. We've always appreciated our meals, and

the quality of food was important. Especially my father insisted on eating good products and

preparing simple meals in order to avoid being "poisoned". It speaks much for his attitude to

world, which is offensive and demanding but appreciative. Mother is more open person, she gets

along with people very easily, she doesn't criticize people. In her early fifties she likes to sit in

the armchair covered with a wild animal leather, cross her legs and look still on her decorative

apartment. She has many favorite things and her life space is designed to be pleasant for eye

and to "guide her with good energy", as she would put this. This structure is always comforting

to me and I think of many of her habits as my home customs. My parents are very different

people and it is sometimes a trap to be in between both their personalities. It was hard for me to

find any reasoning because of such asunder. My siblings coped with model of our house in a

quite different way to me and we grew up different people. I think often of our home "customs" as

words, moves and strange reflections I could only hear from members of my family. I treat them

as extraordinary people.

Wild Strawberries, Ingmar Bergman, 1957. Scene of parents resting by the water.

Bibliography

Elzbieta Bielecka. 18 Nov. 1990. Parent. Home, Pabianice, Poland.

Tomasz Olesko. 18 Nov. 1990. Parent. Home, Pabianice, Poland.

Pabianice, Poland. 18 Nov. 1990. Life Experience. Hometown, Poland.