A Recipe for Harmony
My dad and I have this enduring tradition to always fight around Christmas time. It is funny how problems choose to escalate either on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. The spark is always something small about the amount of salt in the soup or the choice of a TV show to watch. These inflate into personal criticisms and how one does not understand the other and never will. Eventually, we all calm down and harmony settles. Until the next year.
It was Christmas morning, 2014, and I walked back home from the café my friends and I always went to. My small town was so lively, blinking with Christmas lights. All grown-ups I used to play with as a child were back from university and their families were so happy to have them around. I could feel the Christmas spirit. I walked up the stairs of my house and as I opened the screeching door, I expected my dad to yell from the kitchen “Annie, is that you?” But no, there was only silence. The car was parked outside so, I knew he was there. I went to the kitchen and saw him smoking and watching TV. He did not even move. I closed the door.
The day before, I told him that he was too ignorant about his health and he should stop smoking and get into a healthy habit. He, of course, attacked me about my tendencies to call the shots around the house, as I was graduating soon. And I, of course, responded with sarcasm, which was not very well received. Not having eaten anything from the amazing dishes my mom had been cooking all day, I entered my room. Mom, the mediator, came in and tried to persuade me back to the kitchen. I firmly turned down the offer. Then, she tried to persuade him to come talk to me, but he did not pay me a visit. And this was why he decided to ignore me the next day.
I also knew that the last thing we wanted was my mom to come home, exhausted from work, to Uncle Scrooge and the Grinch.
As he chose to give me the cold shoulder, I was determined to show no signs of weakness by apologizing. It was around 1 p.m. and we were alone in the house, my mom was working all day and I had no idea where my grandma was. “It is about to be a long one”, I thought, as I entered my room.
An hour later, I heard heavy steps and my dad opened the door. He said that there was a very nice recipe for kiflice that he found. These are popular Central European pastries made out of crispy dough, filled with jam, and sprinkled with icing sugar. They resemble plump and short cigars. I knew that this was a request for peace, as he would not normally embrace my horrible sweet tooth. I also knew that the last thing we wanted was my mom to come home, exhausted from work, to Uncle Scrooge and the Grinch.
I accepted the offer and went downstairs to grab some strawberry jam to fill the pastries with. When I came back, I heard some of my favorite rock music from the 80s. The bridges were being built. We started chatting about life, while taking turns kneading the dough. He told me a couple of the funny stories I’ve heard more than a million times but laughed as if I was hearing them for the first time. Everything was fine.
While I was growing up, my dad was definitely the bad cop. He was a stern parent who always expected too much. He, however, encouraged me to study what I wanted and do what I felt was right. However, as I grew older, I realized that I do not agree with him on many other matters. I always said what I thought and criticized him if I felt that I had a point. He never acknowledged that he has made a mistake or has overreacted. That’s why, I chose to exhibit the same behavior as a sign of strong ego. So, we have never succeeded in accepting the other’s point of view.
However, I know that no matter our, sometimes huge, differences of opinion, we will always find ways to reach each other. There isn’t anything too big that will destroy our relationship.
Three trays of cookies later, and my mom came home. She opened the kitchen door and saw my dad and I drinking rakija and ruining our dinner by eating the kiflices. Instead of criticizing us for not eating from the proper meal she made in the morning, she sat in between and hugged us. As usual, when her heart gets a little tickle, her eyeholes start leaking. Naturally, I too, started bawling. At this embarrassing moment, my grandma finally decided to show up. She saw us hugging and making fools of ourselves and she burst out laughing.
By midnight, all of the kiflices were gone. Mom and Grandma still could not believe that my dad and I baked something so delicious together. I said that the pastry was good but not great. In fact, we still need more time to find the right approach to the recipe. Hopefully, we will get it right next time.
