Not Your Average Nerd

Chapter Three

“They’re nifty.” He grabbed my luggage out of the trunk and rolled it in front of me.

“Nifty.” I repeated. “That’s a word you use to describe something belonging to an old woman named Mildred or Myrtle. ‘Oh Mildred, that smock you have there is quite nifty.’”

“Would you like for me to use another word such as ‘hip’ or ‘radical’ or something along the lines of that?” He asked, flicking my right lens with a smile on his face.

I chuckled. “No. Now that I think about it, you’re speaking in English to me versus Romanian. If you keep up the English you can use whatever words you want to describe things.” It was so much easier to communicate in English than Romanian. After living in a place for so long where I never needed to really speak in Romanian except for those few times my family would call, it seemed to be harder to speak as smooth and quick as I used to. My Romanian was still damn good, but not nearly as sharp, fast, and amazing as it used to be.

 I followed behind my father up to the house. Once we reached the door he turned around to give me a look. He didn’t even have to explain said look for me to understand it. You are entering a strict Romanian-only zone. I thought as he opened the door. The first thing out of my mother’s mouth was a loud squeal, followed by a Romanian curse. Yep, I’m without-a-doubt back home.

“Have you not eaten?” My mother asked, turning me around in a circle. Her eyebrows pointed toward the ground even though she couldn’t get rid of her smile. “You look even skinner than when you left.”

Oh, great. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Back in the place where I was ridiculed about being so thin I could fly away on a windy day and my mother announces to me that I look even skinner. I kept my smile wide even though I was thinking un-happy thoughts in my head. I bet it would have upset my mother to know I was mentally cussing in English instead of Romanian.

“Look at you though my drăga, you’re not the eighteen-year-old child you were when we dropped you off at the airport. I look at you and see a 24 year old woman.” My mother said (in Romanian, of course,) while grabbing my face between her hands. As soon as she released me she grabbed my arm and dragged me into the kitchen where a large feast was set up. Leave it to my mother to turn our simple kitchen into some sort of Romanian buffet.

There was so much food I didn’t know where to start. There were so many smells that I hadn’t smelled in years swirling around my nose, making me extremely thankful for being a Romanian. I began at the counter closest to the refrigerator where three pots of soups were and made my way around the kitchen. Like I said, it was set up buffet-style.

At the table I began with the Ciorbă de legume (vegetable soup), sucking it down so quickly I had to remind myself at times to actually chew the vegetables. Campbells soup, eat your heart out.  I even took a couple of spoonfuls of Ciorbă de praz (leek soup), forgetting that I despised leeks. After the soups I helped myself to the Salată orientala, which was basically a Romanian potato salad with bits of egg plant. I knew I ate my fill of food just from the soups and potato salad, but I still forced down more food. Hey, my mother did complain about my weight, right? I figured, why not show her that I do eat? I ate at least two helpings of Ardei Umpluţi (stuffed bell pepers), half a thing of Sarmale (cabbage rolls), and a little dish of Gocana de ciuperci (mushroom stew). During dinner my mother kept trying to push plates containing meats toward me, which I kept denying. I couldn’t believe it when she even attempted to sneak hints of beef into one of my stuffed bell peppers. If I hadn’t have looked down at my fork before shoving it in my mouth I would have eaten it without knowing. Even after eating so much food, which I thought she would have been proud of, she still had to complain about my vegetarianism.

“You eat like cattle animal! So many vegetables in your stomach, you could plant seeds and grow trees. Why no meat like any other normal Romanian?” She asked as she picked my plate up. I would have taken it myself but I was at a point where if I moved, I would have re-seen my Gocana de ciuperci and it wouldn’t have been pretty.

Like always, I sat there and shrugged whenever mamă would ask me questions I didn’t really know how to answer. I mean, how do you respond nicely to a question as to why I’m a vegetarian? ‘Oh well excuse me, how dare I not want to eat meat. I’m sorry for finding the idea of slaughtering an animal so I can eat it and digest it repulsive? I must be a bad Romanian. You should have me deromanianized.’ If she was in a good mood at the time, she let it go. But if she was in a pissy mood when she asked, the conversation would last hours.

Anica, who I hadn’t seen since she was seven, walked into the kitchen and hopped up on the island counter. “I thought we were having pizza?” She asked, arms crossed, legs swinging off the edge. Anica was a thirteen year old who looked identical to my mother with small facial hints from my feather. She looked nothing like I did at thirteen. I had frizzy hair, glasses, braces, and zero style. Her face was clear of acne, seeing aides, braces, and her hair was straight, down to her shoulders and cut into layers. Unlike my awkward look at thirteen, Anica looked stunning. Hell, if she wasn’t my sister I would have assumed she was a freshman in high school. I could only imagine the hell my parents were given by her already.