Today Alexander came back from the playground with his Romanian babysitter clutching in one hand two small azalea flowers, and in the other hand an enormous bag of Puferleţi Super Prix! At first, I thought he was munching on some Romanian version of Cheetos minus the orange powder. No evidence of the orange stain around the mouth, so I thought: Ah! These Romanians are wiser than us. No more orange shirt collars and fingers.
His babysitter, Andrea, explained that Alexander had made some friends at the playground—shared sand toys and Puferleţi. So on the walk back, he insisted he have his own bag—he, too, wanted to be just like the rest of Romanian toddlers. So Andrea bought him, for all of 2 Lei (approximately 75 cents), an enormous bag of his own puffed, processed nuggets.
To Alexander’s selfish cries of “No, mama,” I swiped one from him. Absolutely tasteless. No, not true. More like some sort of air-puffed wood glue with the merest whisper of sugar. None of the illicit pleasure I associate with eating the junk food of childhood—none of the manufactured salt or onion or cheese flavors. Not even MSG.
Andrea said, “These are the snacks of Communist childhood. Empty of taste and desire. Bland. Filler that is not even filler.”
So Alexander has now taken up Communist nostalgia. Ahh. Puferleţi.
And Sophia, upon seeing the bag, remarked, “Hey, can I have some of those…we get those at school. C’mon, I’m hungry for them.” So she too has been filling her Eastern European kindergarten emptiness with the fullness of popped vegetable product!
But, we have more interesting ways to fill such voids. Lately, my afternoon ends with a stop at our new favorite pastry stand. This one cooks the pastries al forno in the shop. So we bought two "Strudel con Mare"—apple strudels. One for the walk back, one for dessert tonight. The phyllo strudel dough was crispy, the edges slightly charred. The filling was identical to the stuff in good, fresh American apple pie. We ate one—hot and dripping apple goodness—within two minutes, all while navigating a sleeping Alexander through busy traffic in his stroller. Then decided, with one shared look of strudel desire, to eat the second one immediately as well.
Some of the apple filling oozed, then splattered on the sidewalk—which made me wonder if indeed all those splats of dog poop dotting the Bucharest sidewalks aren’t dog poop at all but errant spatters of Strudel con Mare. Which makes me think that rather than take the odd and hazardous detours around such piles and spatters I should just step into them, thereby embracing Bucharest’s sidewalk Strudel con Mare con Jackson Pollock. But no. Sadly, all of Bucharest’s strays and well-tended canines seem to prefer the sidewalk to the curb; and the occasional owner seems disdainful of any sort of poop-scooping. Alas, not spatters of apple ooze but dog poop pure and simple.
His babysitter, Andrea, explained that Alexander had made some friends at the playground—shared sand toys and Puferleţi. So on the walk back, he insisted he have his own bag—he, too, wanted to be just like the rest of Romanian toddlers. So Andrea bought him, for all of 2 Lei (approximately 75 cents), an enormous bag of his own puffed, processed nuggets.
To Alexander’s selfish cries of “No, mama,” I swiped one from him. Absolutely tasteless. No, not true. More like some sort of air-puffed wood glue with the merest whisper of sugar. None of the illicit pleasure I associate with eating the junk food of childhood—none of the manufactured salt or onion or cheese flavors. Not even MSG.
Andrea said, “These are the snacks of Communist childhood. Empty of taste and desire. Bland. Filler that is not even filler.”
So Alexander has now taken up Communist nostalgia. Ahh. Puferleţi.
And Sophia, upon seeing the bag, remarked, “Hey, can I have some of those…we get those at school. C’mon, I’m hungry for them.” So she too has been filling her Eastern European kindergarten emptiness with the fullness of popped vegetable product!
But, we have more interesting ways to fill such voids. Lately, my afternoon ends with a stop at our new favorite pastry stand. This one cooks the pastries al forno in the shop. So we bought two "Strudel con Mare"—apple strudels. One for the walk back, one for dessert tonight. The phyllo strudel dough was crispy, the edges slightly charred. The filling was identical to the stuff in good, fresh American apple pie. We ate one—hot and dripping apple goodness—within two minutes, all while navigating a sleeping Alexander through busy traffic in his stroller. Then decided, with one shared look of strudel desire, to eat the second one immediately as well.
Some of the apple filling oozed, then splattered on the sidewalk—which made me wonder if indeed all those splats of dog poop dotting the Bucharest sidewalks aren’t dog poop at all but errant spatters of Strudel con Mare. Which makes me think that rather than take the odd and hazardous detours around such piles and spatters I should just step into them, thereby embracing Bucharest’s sidewalk Strudel con Mare con Jackson Pollock. But no. Sadly, all of Bucharest’s strays and well-tended canines seem to prefer the sidewalk to the curb; and the occasional owner seems disdainful of any sort of poop-scooping. Alas, not spatters of apple ooze but dog poop pure and simple.
That said, the kids devoured what we got them at that same strudel stand: their own freshly baked wood-oven pretzels dipped in poppy seeds and salt. I think, fingers crossed, Alexander has forgotten the Puferleţi for the moment...
Wish you were here in Strudel Land,
Kerry
1 comment:
The hobo clown on the bag reminds me of an old black and white cartoon character who found a red rubber nose and a second hand patchwork coat and hat (both looking accordingly faded). Something about the notion of a bygone cartoon's vanity and shallow glee seems to me the perfect mascot for a Communist Cheeto.
And I've been enjoying the blog, hope you're both well.
Arthur
Post a Comment