Ciorba cu Perișoare

Son. Son! Take off your headphones! You must learn! You must... understand that there is art in the making of ciorba cu perisoare. Ciorba cu perisoare! Soup! Baiat prost! The way you cut the potatoes, the kind of stock you use. Stock, not broth, you hear me? Stock. And of course the bors. Gah! You cannot find good bors here in the states. Good bors comes from one place, and one place only. From, from Romania. From your---

Ciorba cu perisoare. Your Bunica taught me to make this soup on Christmas Eve. Food was scarce. Learning to cook was no small matter. It was a perfect Christmas Eve. Pass the carrots. It needs a little more.

She would say to me:

"Now put in the potatoes. Very good, Alexandru. Your first Ciorba. You must teach to our son one day, just as my mother taught me. It was so long ago."

Soon afterwards, it was a warzone... a revolution. But your Bunica was a communist. Communist had got her a life outside Bogati. Outside the farm. I wanted more.

The protests were loud, they screamed:

"I hear you! People living in other countries have more wealth. They are living better. We are blighted by a lack of basics. Liberty!"

Early that morning I could here the protests going on outside and I was going to join them. I wanted to make something... something beautiful. Pass the leostan. Thank you. You are a good boy. I went to join, but a small strong hand gripped the back of my collar. Your Bunica, holding your baby uncle in her arms. Blood coated the streets red that night... your Bunica lost everything in the revolution, all she kept was Stefan, your baby uncle and dreams of Romania as it was.

She would put her arm around my shoulders and tell me to look out. Look out at Romania. Look out at the parks and the people. Look up at the sky. It was one of those days where you could see a tiny bit of blue.

Your Bunica loved poetry. She would read it for me and my brother. She would say to him:

"Baby Stefan, sleep for mama. Stefan, hear the poets. Shhh, now sleep. Dream of Romania."

And to me:

"It is a war zone here. Hear the Romanian poets, Alexandru. Hear Romania. Look."

After I left to America I found the recipe for Ciorba cu Perisaore that your Bunica had slipped in before I left. She would have loved you. I am so sorry.

When you were born, you were born in this new place, where I had a life of my own, where we were never hungry, never cold. I tried. I tried to bring Romania. For three years, there was no "Come to the table," only "hai la masa." Only "Te iubesc," only "Tata." But I stopped. Because it was easier. Because...

Romania faded away. And I'm sorry. Because you are more than this city.. You are more than this place. You are more than American. You are from Romania! Look out at the parks, and the people! Hear the poets! You are from Romania!

Son, your Bunica, she died. Sometimes I wish I had never left. 

So, soup. It's art that's been passed through the generations of our family.  Bunica taught me how. Her mother taught her, and her mother taught her. It's rope that ties us. Your bunica lives on through the making of ciorba cu perisoare. Romania lives on. In me. And in you.

Go on. Have a taste.