Mămăligă

Is the humble staple dish of Romania, made out of yellow cornmeal flour, water, salt, and butter. Like for others: polenta, rice, bread, and potatoes.

This is how it was. He, (my father) would bring the few simple ingredients to a boil in a large pot and once it was bubbling, he removed it from the stove.

He would then sit, set the pot wrapped in towel on the floor, place it between his feet, and stir vigorously with a rolling pin until the desired consistency.

When ready he would turn the pot upside down onto a wooden board. He would let the Mămăligă cool down, then cut it into slices using a sewing thread.

Mesmerizing to watch. At times he fried the slices and served them to us with more butter, crumbly sheep's milk cheese, sour cream, and crispy fried onions.

That was usually offered as a treat after the Mămăligă was enjoyed earlier, softer, like firm porridge, accompanied by lamb stew, or other meat dishes.

And even as dessert. Hot, soft, mixed with sour cream and plum jam. Slices of Mămăligă fried in butter, served with cream, cinnamon, vanilla, and sugar.

And even while being here where my ancestral identity is clearly felt, somewhat heavy, stagnant, slightly burdensome, there is comfort to be found.

Yes here, away from traditional roles of back home on the western continent, there is also a sweet detachment, liberation of sorts, paradoxically, renewed aliveness.

And so is ‘the dish’, scrumptious, yet heavy textured. Pushing and pulling at heartstrings. Seducing while dejecting. A ‘plate’ hosting an old contradiction.

Intimate nearness and subtle alienation. A vividly remembered bond, then disconnection. Stern foreign faces, peculiar and uncertain sense of belonging.

And perhaps it’s merely that common story told on a loop, a tale of every dish, every plate, every body. A hanging by a thread. A sensuous dance of love with autonomy.

On repeat.