Rolling Out the Path to Home
I was five when my grandma taught me how to make mekitsi, a type of salty pastry, served for breakfast in Bulgaria. The rolling stick made the mekitsi flat and reduced the cooking time. We found ours under my grandmother’s bed where I spent my afternoons playing.
Grandma lived in a two-story house. On the first floor was the living room, part of which served as a kitchen. In the corner by the sink was the stove. On the wall next to it, Grandma measured my height by carving strikes on the whitewashed wall. Every time we made mekitsi, I saw how much I had grown.
The dough came under my nails and squeezed my skin as it was drying.
Barely a meter above the ground, I had my own apron — red, with yellow ribbons, and an embroidered butterfly in purple. When I wore it, I imagined a long, royal gown. The fire cracked and my grandma and I labored. From left to right — the strainer tossed at grandma’s hands and then in mine. The flour fell and formed a mountain in the tray. Grandma kept pulling my sleeves up but I was soon covered in crystal white. We evened out the flour across the tray, forming a hole in the middle. I poured yogurt and started mixing while grandma was adding water. The warmth of the water turned the particles into glue. It tickled me. The dough came under my nails and squeezed my skin as it was drying. I punched the lump and a white could of flour exploded in the air and onto the Persian carpet. I poked the dough with my finger and watched as it regained its form.
Аs grandma was preparing the frying pot, I leaped around the room, lifting up the rolling stick and trying to reach the ceiling. I climbed the chair, leaned my body over the table, and started rolling out. My grandma stood next to me in case I fell out of balance and landed in her arms. The dough spread-out first in a circle, then in an ellipse. With the kitchen knife, I shaped squares, triangles, quadrilaterals. I hung the mekitsi on the rolling stick as if they were on a clothesline and carried them to the stove. Grandma laid them in the oil where the white flats turned into golden puffs. My cheeks burned red from the heat of the fire. I looked up and saw grandma smiling at me.
Two decades later, grandma and I still knead together on Christmas. We use the same rolling stick. It is dark brown, with cracks in the wood and the ends are lighter and round. The memory of that day is my portable home. It exemplifies family love, safety, and Bulgarian traditions. I do not know how many more Christmases I will spend at home with relationships and career pulling me abroad. However, as long as I keep kneading and teaching others, I will be home even a thousand miles away.
