The Feast of the Death
One hundred and fifty kilometers away from Sofia. One thousand inhabitants. A remote village, famous for its vines. The last house on a cobblestone road. A white facade and a traditional brick roof. A wooden sign on the front door and the warmest greeting ever. Welcome to grandma’ s. Kids are spoiled here!
Every time I looked at this sign, I felt as the younger, female copy of Ali Baba. The two sentences, written on top of it, were my real-life version of “Open sesame.” The single difference being that the treasures hidden in my cave were much more delicious. Do you really need gold and gems when you have my grannie’s croissants with golden crunch for breakfast, her crispy banitsa for lunch and the fries with extra cheese for dinner? The magic sign offered me the sweet escape, my youthful soul was longing for. Enough with my mother´s veggie dishes, multivitamin juices and sugar-free desserts! It was time to get spoiled!
June was the most delicious month of my eternal childhood summers. The seasonal feast of guilty pleasures used to begin with the obligatory two-tiered cake for my birthday. Three layers of chocolate, extra cream and a single cherry on top. The cake party never died in the weeks that followed. My twin cousins’ birthday was in mid-June. The Holy Bible of Twins, my cousins invented, explicitly prohibited the use of two identical birthday cakes. No resemblance in flavor or appearance was allowed. That was why I always ended up with two pieces in my plate, happily benefiting from the numerous pretensions of my cousins.
There was a slight shift in the festive mood in the last days of June. The old white cooker never stopped working and at first glance, everything remained the same. As usual, my grannie spent most of her days in the vintage kitchen, bending over the hot gas stove. However, there was something different in the smell, coming from the recently cooked loaves of bread, meat dishes and boiled wheat. The house smelled as baking soda, cinnamon and grief. I wasn’t allowed to try the oddly specific foods and to be honest, I didn’t want to. They were way too boring for my 7-year-old eccentric taste.
“It´s their time to celebrate,” my grandma used to say, looking at the black and white portrait of her dead parents. I didn’t quite get it but I was always up for another celebration.
Spending the last Sunday of June in the local memorial park was not on my summer list. But, I didn’t have a say in it. My grandmother was a strong and devoted woman. She lost her husband, the first and ultimate love of her life, in the Second World War. She raised her two young children on her own, relying on the mercy of God and the good will of her neighbors. Faith was her driving force and she insisted that my cousins and I thoroughly follow all Christian traditions. All Souls’ Day, included.
The feast of the death, as I used to call it, was my least favorite June celebration. I was supposed to wear black and avoid smiling. The summer heat, mixed with the unbearable grief, was driving me crazy. Hundreds of old and young people gathered around the graves of their beloved ones, in an unrealistic attempt to be with them again. Numerous plates full of food were put on the stone cold earth. An even number of red carnations appeared in the marble vases. Paraffin candles lightened the sorrowful faces of many. The superhero in me wanted to steal Harry Potter´s magic wand, bring the stones back to life and turn the feast of the death in a real-life celebration. I couldn’t stand the pain.
The pain became irresistible when the unwelcome guests disturbed the peaceful memorial setting. I was only seven but I already knew that the unwelcome guests were an inseparable part of every celebration. Whether it was my crying baby niece, the annoying old neighbor or the creepy lady with the four cats, there was always someone to ruin the mood. The invaders this time were the local Roma children. Barefoot boys and girls with sunburned faces entered the memorial park, running and shouting. They started grabbing the food from the graves quickly and with ease, as if they were made for doing so. Not a single trace of guilt or fear in their determined eyes. Just hunger, in its most extreme form.
The extreme conduct of the Roma children turned into a source of folklore sayings. According to a popular Bulgarian idiom, when you overeat, you are “as full as a Roma kid on All Souls’ Day.” Many people from my village and the region still use the phrase as an ironic reference to the misery of the Roma children. Every time I hear this brutal comparison, I shiver in disgust. I imagine the sweating faces of the young thieves, desperately trying to reach the next level in their survival game.
###
Yoana Blagova studies journalism and political science at the American University in Bulgaria. She believes that food should not be taken for granted.
