The summer between seventh and eighth grade was the last summer when just being a child was enough. Sure, I had a huge crush on David Cassidy (which thirteen-year old girl did not in 1977?). I wrote some really bad melodramatic poetry about unrequited love for Zoran, the eighth grader with the most beautiful cornflower blue eyes and dark brown curls (my beloved did not know I existed, but if Petrarch could have pulled it off, so could I). I went to the movies with friends to watch Bruce Lee. I had a crush on him, too (which thirteen-year old girl did not in 1977?), which inspired me to start taking karate classes in the fall. That earth-shattering event brought to my attention an arrogant high-schooler working on his black belt. He immediately captured my willing heart, and made me forget all about David, Bruce, and Zoran. Not that he knew I existed.
I spent a month of that summer in Novi Pazar, the town of my birth (I was barely two months old when my parents moved to central Serbia, to be with Njanja* and Deda Ljubo**, Father’s mother and stepfather. Njanja’s younger brother Deda-Zhile still lived there with his family, and we often visited. His daughter Mira, by relation my Aunt, was my age, and Boba was four years older.
I was always fascinated by this town which reminded me of Baghdad’s 1001 Nights with its mosques and minarets, cobblestones, small shops selling copper dishes and gold, the smell of freshly roasted coffee, the high brick and mortar walls with gates facing the street, men in red fezes smoking unfiltered cigarettes and drinking tea for hours, the busy markets crowded with haggling shoppers and people with strange sounding names.
That summer, Mira and Boba’s mother was in the hospital, and it felt completely natural to me that their father and Boba would take care of the household chores and cooking (even though my Father did not know how to boil an egg, and the memories of him feeding us when Mother was absent were akin to the famous french toast scene in Kramer vs. Kramer).
Mira and I spent our time sitting on the blanket in the courtyard and sewing clothes for our Barbies, or playing endless games of badminton in the street. In the late afternoons we would visit cousins and friends, play outside, or walk into one of the town’s pastry shops for a piece of baklava and fresh lemonade.
We fancied ourselves adventurous explorers, and went climbing the hill above the house, picking wild flowers and bunches of mugwort (we loved the pungent smell of this relative of wormwood, which is actually used to make a bitter liqueur called “pelinkovac” used as a digestif or a remedy for tummy ache, depending on who you asked). Every so often we would gather enough damsel plums to fit into our shirts, and bring them to the kitchen to bake the pie, completely improvising, not having a clue of the proper methods. We insisted everybody try the finished masterpiece, and ignored the bulging eyes and stuffed cheeks of our culinary guinea-pigs. If that had been Food Network, we would have been told to pack our knives, but they bravely encouraged us to continue on in our creative endeavors - I guess it was a step up from the previous attempts in cooking with dirt, water, leaves and flower petals, as pretty as it might have looked. We haven’t seen those ingredients on Chopped. Yet.
We would proudly prance home, hauling our newest loot, legs dusty and scratched by weeds, fingers green, hair wind-blown into a rats’ nest, only to be seduced by the smell of Deda-Zhile’s cabbage, simmering on the old wood-stove with vegetables and pork, guiding us like a beacon and awakening our grumbling bellies. We would try to scrub off most of the dirt, racing to the table, eager to dip our spoons into still steaming bowls. The middle of the table held a basket of freshly baked bread cut into thick slices and a saucer of small, thin, green, very hot peppers, called “feferoni”. We did not care what hurt more – the heat or the spice. We dared each other, tears running down our cheeks, feeling on top of the world, high on being thirteen.
Deda-Zhile died of prostate cancer in the 80s. But every time I smell cabbage with pork, it brings me back to that summer of innocence. I recall his patient smile. I see a devoted father, a tall man with graying hair, drooping mustache, and slouching shoulders bent over the stove, stirring “pekmez”***, envisioning his daughters happy and at moments less sad missing their mother.
*pronounced Nyah nyah – I was an imaginative kid who did not want to have a “grandma” or “baba”, and I named her Njanja
**Deda means Grandpa in Serbian
***pekmez is a type of a plum jam, thick and not too sweet
SLATKI KUPUS (SERBIAN CABBAGE WITH PORK)
Ingredients:
- 1 head of cabbage, 3-4 lbs
- 500gr (1 lb) boneless country style ribs, cut into chunks
- ½ onion, chopped
- 2 carrots, sliced
- 2 celery stalks, chopped
- 1 green pepper, chopped (I do not like the taste of green bell peppers, and opt for pale-yellow, semi hot peppers, deseeded)
- 1 cup tomato sauce (I prefer homemade)
- 2 tsp salt
- ½ tsp freshly ground pepper
- 1 Tbsp paprika
Directions:
Cut the cabbage into big chunks. Line the dutch oven with a layer of cabbage. Place the chunks of meat on top. Sprinkle the vegetables over the meat and cabbage. Add salt, pepper, and paprika. Add another layer of cabbage. Pour in the tomato sauce and enough water to cover the meat, cabbage, and vegetables. Heat on high until it boils. Turn to medium-low and simmer fro 1-2 hours, until the meat is tender. Serve with fresh baked bread and some hot peppers for the kick.
Lana, such a perfect fall dish! What a great detour through your your memories, too. Blessings to Deda-Zhile, so tied to your food memories and others. Love the post, and as always, thank you for such a great recipe and story. I’m looking forward to seeing more!
Loved your story. It’s amazing how profound food tied memories are isn’t it? I hope when you smell the cabbage and have your recollection it’s a comforting moment. David Cassidy…..very funny!
Lana, this is such an amazing story. I love reading about your childhood in Serbia, and of course, this recipe is so tantalizing. Cabbage and pork- so universal it seems, creeps into most every cuisine around the world.
Stories of family and growing up always warm my heart, especially when they show the parallels between cultures that seem so distant.
I can just smell this cabbage dish cooking on the wood stove! Isn’t everything better on a wood stove? Thanks for sharing your story and your recipe!
What a lovely story, Lana. Its amazing how food brings out such great memories. Thanks for sharing your memories and a great recipe to go with it!
what an amazing blog Lana. I love the story! I just showed it to my husband – he was in Serbia last year on a research trip and loved the food – I suspect I’ll have to make this for him soon!
what a wonderful story Lana, I can just imagine that delicious dish on your table, fresh bread in hand ready to dip into symphony of flavors….sigh
Thanks so much for sharing both the story and the recipe, they go so well together!
I love your memories of a dish so closely associated with something I’ve mostly just thought of as a side dish for a burger…this exercise has really opened our eyes to the amazing cultural dishes that are wrought from that little head of leaves. Loved your story. Hope you and your mother are doing well and you will be home soon Lana.
Mmm, that looks delicious. And like something I might find in my Portuguese grandmother / aunt / father’s house on any given night, making me want to eat it NOW! Great swap
What an absolutely warm, comforting dish to go with a story of the same. Your kitchen skills have clearly come a long way, this looks to good to pass up~!
Lana, this is similar to our cabbage dish as well. And I would have loved to see the town you resembled to Baghdad in 1001 nights. Sounds so Ottoman! Is it still like that ? Probably not.
HAve you thought about writing a memoir?
First of all – Christianna sound like a very cool person that i’d like to meet. Second – I love that you speak to all women when you reflect back on 13. It’s a familiar feeling. That is why I think Taylor Swift is so successful – her lyrics really speak to women from 9 to 109. I love the verbal portrait of you as a child. As always, a pleasure to read!
I to am a cabbage fan, and David Cassidy is dreamy. GREG
David Cassidy…swoon! You’re such a wonderful story teller, bella Lana. This cabbage dish is so comforting. Have you posted your Deda’s pekmez recipe? I’m so sorry he passed away to prostate cancer. xxoo
Beautiful post, Lana – I was totally captivated by your memories. I admit that I too had a huge crush on David Cassidy – I had posters covering every inch of my bedroom walls!
I’ve been dreadfully out of touch, but hope you are well and that you had a wonderful time “back home” on your trip. I’m going to read back over your last few posts now to catch up
Sue xo
Svetlana moja. ne bih ti kao majka oprostila da u tvojim secanjima iz detinjstva Ujka Zile ne nadje mesto, jer njegovo dobro i veliko srce za svakoga otvoreno to zasluzuje.
MAMA
I really like your addition of tomato sauce and pork to the dish…sounds so nice and warming!
I love your stories so much. What an incredibly interesting childhood … and I had a crush on Bruce Lee!!! So much so that in adulthood I took up kung fu!
[...] we spent many summers together, playing badminton, sewing clothes for a couple of precious Barbies, and climbing hills above their house in Novi Pazar. We try to get together at least once a year if I am in Serbia, in hopes that our children will [...]