MICHAEL LADANYI
Gypsies And Cabbage
Always there was talk of death and
sickness when I'd pass by the
yellow kitchen as a child, heading
down the long hall toward the
bathroom or the side door that led
onto the driveway. Sometimes, I
would linger outside the large archway,
listening to my grandmother, mother,
several aunts and neighborhood
women, while enveloped by heavy
aromas of Hungarian kielbasa and
cabbage, potato soups with enough
paprika and garlic to roast the mouth,
thick meat pies and boiling puddings,
straining to grasp a word or two, as
they drifted into the hall in thick, hushed
tones, that stuck, then dripped, from the
walls of that solemn room like ancient
languages lost in shoddy translations,
or perhaps, they had died with the last
of their kind. They spoke like gypsies,
in fact, I believed then that a few were,
their words accented with short nods
and waving fingers. My stomach would
growl, sparking strange emotions that now
remind me of hunger and wanton sex
combined. It never failed, I would
lean too far, and quickly find myself
floating in seas of, "Isn't he so handsome!"
and, "What a smart boy!" The room would
transform, like a cunning doppelganger,
becoming a bright place of smiles and
laughter, though, I never forgot the
different worlds of that room, and now,
usually find myself most comfortable,
between those scented memories.
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