America officially became my home in August of 1986. I arrived on a one-way PanAm flight, Belgrade-New York-Detroit, dragging behind two suitcases overfilled with books and photo albums, my heart rent with sorrow from leaving my family and friends forever, and, at the same time, brimming with anticipation.
I felt like Alice in Wonderland as I walked through the door of a small, one-bedroom rental house in one of the less developed western suburbs of Detroit that my ex-husband shared with his sister and her boyfriend. The welcoming committee consisted of two smiling humans who hugged me, five exuberant canines who jumped around, squealing and yelping, and a very reserved, long-haired feline, who did not move an inch.
That night we went out to a BBQ restaurant. I was completely lost in a daze, jet-legged, and too disconnected from the physical world to pay too much attention to the food. I smiled and nodded a lot. Afterwards, we went to the movies. I should have known that the vertigo was not only the vestige of the trans-Atlantic flight. A couple of months previously, I recommended to my (now ex) husband the movie, Paris, Texas with Nastassja Kinski. In turn, he introduced me to my new life with Howard the Duck. How fitting!
Pretty soon, I stopped feeling like Alice, and entered the story of Gulliver, alternating between Liliputians and the giants. Used to the brick and mortar houses of Serbia, I shuddered every time a truck passed by and the whole wooden structure reverberated. European washing machines heat the water to near boiling. The American machine only seemed capable of lukewarm, and all my pristinely white whites became gray and beige. I could not stand the clutter and the mess, cat and dog hair all over my clothes and the furniture, the kibble strewn around the floor, the dirty dishes languishing for hours in the sink, getting crusty, and the towels thrown down after the shower and later trampled on by muddy boots (the washing machine had only lukewarm water, right).
The front door opened into our room, and Sisyphus only could relate to my efforts as I tried to keep it tidy. The room did not have a door, except to the yard (a perfect setup for a newlywed couple) and no closet. The clothes had to be hung high up above the piano so the dogs could not get to them. One day, as I walked through the door, I was greeted by a scene from Dante’s Inferno: A dog was lying in the middle of the floor casually chewing my brown suede Bali pumps, surrounded by the beans from my beanbag frog that I received from my friends at the airport. I broke down and cried for hours. That event symbolized the irreversible change I made when I light-heartedly decided to say goodbye to the world I knew.
After all, I did not need my heels in the new world. Even when I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, I was deemed overdressed, receiving non-approving glances from other women. The first New Year’s Eve in the U.S. I spent wrapped in an extra large winter jacket speckled with oil stains, huddled around a bonfire, looking wistfully toward a garbage dump turned ski slope next door, with lights illuminating little figures snaking their way down the hill. I felt so utterly alone, amidst dozens of people whose language I spoke, but did not understand, imagining my friends celebrating this holiday at our parents’ chalet on the mountain of Kopaonik, exhausted from skiing, cheeks flushed red by the crisp winter air, raising their glasses to toast me, wishing me well, and missing me.
Only one woman can be in charge of the household, and it was not me. My sister-in-law planned the activities, delegated chores, did the family finances, and on rare occasions even cooked. She was an extremely picky eater, and dinner choices were very limited and repetitious, albeit flavorful and well prepared: spaghetti with tomato sauce, tuna casserole, baked chicken, pot roast (this one was my favorite), steak (well done for her, medium rare for the rest of us), turkey for holidays and the inevitable turkey Divan the day after. I made iles flottantes one day, wanting to contribute with at least a dessert, but she refused to try it, saying that the combination of white and yellow grossed her out. Her boyfriend got paid in lamb one time, and I roasted a leg with yogurt and garlic. While everybody else enjoyed it, she would not touch it. My eagerness evaporated and I resigned myself to eating fast food and cheap take-out my new family preferred.
My loneliness deepened with every new day. I found solace in the books piled on the shelves in the mud room, left by many roommates who once lived there. I devoured the words, getting lost in imagined worlds, trying to escape mine. While everybody slept, I stayed up, reading until my eyes could not take it any more and I had to succumb, allowing the first rosy light on the horizon to wish me good-night.
I did not belong. I missed my friends and family. I missed the bed I shared with my sister, knowing that she sensed my absence. I longed for nights out on the town with music and wine. I felt wistful thinking of all the college nights spent in a smoky dorm room, discussing movies, books, and plays. I wrote long letters, my attention never far from the dimensional portal cleverly disguised as a common mail box. I lived for those moments when I would reach into it and find letters from home, blessedly as long as the ones I sent. I wrote a diary and cried every single day.
I craved the warmth of Mother’s kitchen with all the comforting smells that made me feel secure and loved. And the only way to bring that warmth across the ocean was to cook something that smelled and tasted like home, something I could enjoy by myself. It had to be cream of wheat: lightly sweetened, luscious, milky, warm, and filling. A simple dish to make for a cold Michigan breakfast, while the others were eating some sort of sugar frosted kibble poured from a box with a cheap plastic toy at the bottom. Mother made cream of wheat for us since we were babies. It was a favorite in the morning, and at night, just before bed.
I would heat a cup of milk and as soon as the the surface started to shiver, I would add three tablespoons of farina and one and a half tablespoons of sugar. Once in a while I would add a small handful of raisins. After a couple of minutes of stirring, I would pour it into a bowl and sit at the table with a smile on my face, inhaling with all my might the creamy, milky porridge that smelled like home, my childhood, and Mother. And for a moment I would forget where I was.
Since those days I always keep farina in my pantry. I made it for my daughters since they were babies. I make it for breakfast, sprinkled with chocolate chips, as Mother got them addicted to, with a cold glass of milk to cool the sticky heat. It has become a comfort food for them, too.
Our French Fridays with Dorie group is making four different recipes this month from the book . I have already made the Pumpkin Flan and Pommes Dauphinois. The other two are the Roasted Chicken for the Paresseux and the Semolina Cake. For some reason I did not know that semolina is the same thing as farina, or cream of wheat, until I read the comments from the bloggers that are participating in this event. But when I found out, I had to make the cake and invoke just a little magic from my past.
The process was extremely simple, and the instructions easy to follow, as usual. I had only a nine-inch pan and the cake came out somewhat thin. The caramel soaked into the semolina and did not ooze over the edges when I inverted the cake. I used regular raisins instead of golden ones, because I did not think ahead. But the dessert was satisfying, creamy, not too sweet, with a touch of bitterness from the caramel and a bit of fruitiness from the raisins. The Beasties approved, which is the ultimate sign of success. I curled up on the couch with a still warm slice, and let the memories take over.
The recipe for the Semolina Cake is on page 438 of . To get a peek at other posts about this month’s dishes, go to French Fridays with Dorie and enjoy. And for the recipes, get the book. It is really beautiful.
Trying to get up the nerve to make the pumpkin gorgonzola flans so I came over here for more inspiration to just get it done…the flavors seem to strike a dissident note with me whenever I think of them together. I wasn’t sure I was going to make the semolina cake, but how could I not now that I have read your lovely post on it all? I must make it next week. I have never had Cream of Wheat, so this should be interesting in more ways than one, right? Okay, into the kitchen I go for those flans…your writing is so wonderful, I just had to steal away and take myself off for a little journey I knew I would find here. Have a great weekend!
Lovely post! It’s amazing how food can conjure the memories for us, isn’t it? When I think of home, I remember my dad’s simple soups made from asian vegetables (chrysanthemum leaves with ground pork or water spinach with tomatoes etc.) and caramelized pork–all served with rice. When I was pregnant last fall with my third child, all I craved for was dad’s cooking, and luckily, he lived only an hour away. On the weekends, we packed the kids up to visit my parents so I could bring home these large containers of dads’ homemade “take-out”. Sure I could have made them myself, but there is nothing better than food prepared for you out of love. I’ve already instructed my husband what my desired last meal would be. Nothing five star or gourmand, just caramelized catfish and the vietnamese sweet and sour fish soup-my version of not just comfort food, but love food.
Almost 6 years ago, after raising our 5 children, we adopted two older (15 and 16 year old) girls from a Moldovan (borders on Romania and Ukraine) orphanage. They had prayed all their abused lives for a family, for enough soap to wash their hands, for a pair of shoes that fit, and a blanket that might help keep them warm as they cuddled together 3 or 4 to a cot just to make it through the freezing winter nights…there was no heat in their building.
Even though they were so needy, they were overwhelmed by America, by our family, by having parents, etc…and the food…they had only had cooked cereal of some kind once a day and maybe twice if they were lucky…and sometimes went 3 or 4 days with nothing…so our food and choices were very difficult. They salted everything to death or drowned it with ketchup to get rid of all flavors…spices were horrible. And BBQ…with sweet meat was enough to gag on.
They have adjusted. We are all doing well. But, I have tried for years to figure out what their orphanage porridge was made from…so that I too, could offer this as a comfort food. I have tried oatmeal, rice (like a rice pudding), etc. They said it was made with milk and something??? and a little sugar. Maybe you have found this for me??? I never thought to think about Cream of Wheat as their cereal.
Your post is beautiful. You sound just like my girls in so many ways…except they had a lovely home and family here to love them and help them…which was all sometimes way hard for them. And to this day, they hate clutter, clean out their closets often, getting rid of even new items…they prefer simplicity. Too many clothes is just more stuff to care for and unnecessary. And they speak English well, but the subtle meanings still elude them, making communication, at times, very difficult. But they are thankful to be here…time and love are curing most of the hard things…but they still crave some of, even that “nothing”, what they left behind.
Thanks for sharing. I even cried a tear for your hard time here away from your comforts and your family.
I found your site by a backlink to my own and just wanted to say that you have an absolutely stunning gift for writing. Although judging by your About page, everybody already tells you that!
This post was a genuine pleasure to read. I just added you to my feedreader and I’m very much looking forward to following you.
Dan
Casual Kitchen
I’m grateful to you, Lana, for another beautiful story, and this one touches my own Mom Food memories: I still love cream of wheat with milk and raisins and honey. Mmmmmmmm.
Also, Krissy, thank YOU for sharing. What a beautiful gift you’ve given to those girls, and I’m so glad you recognize that even good stress is stress nonetheless.
That was an incredibly beautiful post. Thank you for sharing your story…it makes me want to make the semolina cake again. hmmm
@Kayte, thanks, again! Try this cake, It’s easy, it’s comforting, and it’s humble. But make sure your pan is 8 inches in diameter – otherwise, the cake will be too thin (still delicious:)
@autumnwater, it’s all about food. Lucky you to have your dad so close when you need his touch. I am so intrigued by your choices of the last meal: Caramelized pork? Water spinach? I guess I need to delve into your blog and let you teach me about all these differently comforting dishes. I am excited!
@Krissy, your story touched me tremendously. My husband and I cried while we read it. I admire you so much and I feel so happy that those Moldovan girls ended up in such a caring environment. You are a true hero.
@Dan, what can I say? I am grateful to whatever backyard, backtrack, backward action that brought you to my site:) I appreciate your words – coming from you, they mean a lot.
@Serene, I am glad to find somebody who has fond memories of cream of wheat. Both of my husbands hated it. I guess their mommies made it with water instead of milk, and salt, instead of sugar! I would hate it, too! Blach!
@Allison, thanks! I guess the public is divided on this one. But I loved it! And if you love cream of wheat, there is no reason to make it again, and again, and again…:)
One of the best things about joining this cook-a-long has been reading the stories that participants share along with their cooking experiences. Lana, autumnwater and Krissy, thanks so much for your moving stories.
Lana – I really enjoyed reading your post. I have always found cream of wheat (farina) to be one of ultimate comfort foods taking me back to my childhood.
I’m so glad you shared your story! It was very touching. I’m glad this recipe brought on such strong memories.
Oh what a beautiful post and how beautifully u have woven the most delicate memories together and culminated it with dessert , the gorgeous cake!!
I have nevr had cream of wheat all my life but i baked this with semolina and it was lovely!!
Am sure u enjoyed urs and i know u did and that slice looks totally inviting and delicious!!
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Oh Lana, thank you for sharing your story. I want to read more of it. You write so well– I was in tears. I know what it’s like to be homesick, but thankfully I’ve been able to go back to the UK every year. And even more thankfully, my family came with me. But I get pangs of pain thinking about the moors and the scottish coastline.
I am so glad you stopped by and visited me Lana, otherwise I may not have read your touching story. Thank you for sharing it with us. It is so wonderful how comfort food takes us back home and makes us feel safe and secure. Your cake looks beautiful!
I’m leaving another comment because I’m not sure my other one went through…I am so glad you stopped by and visited otherwise I may not have read your story. Thank you for sharing it with us. It is wonderful how certain foods evoke memories in us and make us feel the comfort and security of home. Your cake is beautiful!
I love your writing, particularly the way you weave your memories with the descriptions of food. Of course, I can tell the the food is part of the memory. Thanks for sharing.
I’ve left the semolina cake for last this month. I’ll end up making it for the Thanksgiving dessert table.
I know it can be extremely difficult for immigrant to come here away from things that are familiar to them. I think thought you have more appreciation for little things you took for granted when you were back home. Glad that you have items that are comforting. Lovely cake. you can’t go wrong with Dorie.
[...] This post was mentioned on Twitter by Cooking Update, William Cooks. William Cooks said: Great essay about farina, the ultimate comfort food. #food [...]
Lana, I so enjoyed your post. How very brave of you to start a new life, in a new country. To leave your family behind has to be devastating. Thanks for sharing your beautiful story. Your cake looks gorgeous!
Lana, your story was riveting. Thank you for sharing it! I’ve really enjoyed reading your blog and I’m looking forward to your future posts!
@Teresa, I agree! I look forward not only to experiences with the recipe, but to the stories. Even more to the stories.
@Cher, thanks:) Very few foods can take me back so far into my childhood
@Chunklet, Thank you for reading:)
@Mia, thank you! I am glad you enjoyed the cake. You should try cream of wheat – it is quite comforting.
@Rebecca, thanks for kind words. I, too, try to go back home once a year, although I have not gone now for over three years
You are so lucky to have your family with you.
@Elaine, thank you for visiting me in return:) For me, food is always the biggest prompt for memories. And the cake was delicious, even though o bit on the thin side (my fault – the pan was too big).
@Betsy, thanks! Your words made me so happy:) I loved the cake, but I love cream of wheat, too.
@Lisa, I agree! The cultural shock can be quite traumatic, but I learned to appreciate a lot more things I took for granted before.
@Kathy, if I had to cross the ocean today and start a new life, I would not have been that brave, 22 is a great age for adventure:)
@Steph, thank you! I hope you come back:)
[...] was inspired to make farina today by Lana’s gorgeous essay over on Bibberche. I really recommend that you check it out. Go ahead! Be [...]
I’m so glad you found my blog Lana because in that way I found yours! I read this blogpost holding my breath…feeling your feelings because what you described about your move to the US is the same way I felt. I moved only 4 years ago and I still can’t call it home despite having now a husband, friends, a job and a house (and 3 weird cats). When I get nostalgic or I simply feel I am not fitting, I go back to the ingredients and the food I love. Farina, or semolina is one of those. I love baking with it. I’m glad you tried this semolina cake. It’s one of my favorite and most comforting desserts ever! Great job
Lana–
I am just now catching up with your blogs and this one was particularly striking. I feel as if I’ve taken a trip into your heart. It is now easy to understand why you create such a wonderful world with food, and why your family is blessed with your gifts. You are such a marvelous writer that I read your blogs for the sheer pleasure of it. I’ve never read a food blog in my life, but your writing goes so far beyond that–your description of homesickness was universal. Farina was also one of my comfort foods as a child and you have made me long for a bowl, cooked just right.
Thank you so much~!
Thank you for sharing that, Lana. As others who have commented here, I also moved to the US (14 years ago now) when I was young and sought comfort in familiar smells & flavors. It’s always good to remember how powerful that can be.
-K@saffronandhoney
Nothing can bring back the memories of home like food. And we need to keep those memories alive. That’s why we are in the community of people who love to cook:)