My grandfather traveled occasionally, and when he did, I would get to sleep next to my baka in her bed. There was nothing better! I’d get all snuggled up in her big down comforter and ask her question after question. She’d indulge me and answer, saying, “Okay, but this is the last one I’m answering and then we have to get to sleep.” Before she could object, though, I’d ask another one and she’d answer that one, too. I loved our late-night talks. She had this wonderful way of meeting me at my level but without ever patronizing me.
In the morning, I’d wake up to find her gone, and her side of the bed already neatly made, the white duvet with its tiny pastel floral print folded into tidy thirds and the matching square pillow fluffed. I’d rush to quickly make my side of the bed, but it never looked as neatly made as hers. I couldn’t be bothered with making the bed perfect when I knew a perfectly great day was waiting for me. I’d run outside and see her in the garden watering the strawberries and tending to her roses. Sometimes she’d even talk to them, whispering to a wilting flower that any other person would have seen as hopeless, snipped off, and tossed. “You’re still lovely,” she’d say. My baka would look up from her garden, notice me still in my pajamas, and send me to get dressed for the busy day ahead.
Our busy days were all the same. We’d get on our bikes and ride to the market. (My grandmother didn’t get her driver’s license until she moved to the United States when she was in her seventies, after taking driver’s ed in a foreign country with a bunch of sixteen-year-olds.) I’d follow my baka’s bicycle over dirt roads into the center of town, while we sang silly songs at the top of our lungs the whole way. When we reached the downtown, we’d bump over cobblestones and trolley tracks and then arrive at the busy open-air market.
Once there, we’d talk about our cooking plans for the day and weave our way through the tables of fruit and vegetables looking for inspiration. The produce prices were sloppily written on pieces of torn cardboard propped against piles of fruit, as old women shouted out, “Try this! Try this!”
My favorite part of the market was the bakeries. It’s no accident that carbs are my love language. Croatians are so passionate about bread that there are love songs in which the lyrics compare a lover’s kiss to warm bread fresh out of the oven. In America you might say, “He’s a great guy,” but in Croatia we’ll say, “He’s good like bread.” The market had a couple of little free-standing wooden shops where bakers sold gorgeous, oval-shaped loaves of bread that were crusty and golden on the outside and soft and white on the inside. The bread was freshly baked that same morning and we’d always buy two loaves—one for home and the other to rip up and eat warm on our way home, because it was too delicious to wait. Once we collected all the ingredients we needed that day, we’d put everything into the big basket on the front of Baka’s bike and head back to her kitchen.
I wasn’t one of those kids who merely liked helping my grandma cook for the sole purpose of getting my hands dirty or sneaking a few extra tastes of whatever she was making. Even at a very young age, I paid attention to every detail, as if she were revealing the secret behind a magic trick. When I was a toddler, I saw my grandmother make chicken by pounding the meat very thin, then dipping it in flour, then egg, then bread crumbs, and, finally, frying it in a pan. I spent hours outside searching for long, thin stones that looked like chicken cutlets, and then I dipped them in sand, then water, then sand again, and “fried” them in a puddle of water. Since as far back as I can remember, I would follow my baka around the kitchen and imitate everything she was doing. I was talkative, curious, loud, and always in her way. Yet she never got annoyed with me or told me I was too young to help. On the contrary, she encouraged and motivated me, praised my attempts, and allowed me to do some serious cooking when most people would’ve been scared to even let me near a stove. By the age of five, I was making tomato soup, and by twelve, I was making full meals—which my mother appreciated, because she never particularly enjoyed cooking (though she’s really good at it!).
Baka could make even the most complicated dishes seem simple when she was in charge of the kitchen. I never saw that woman read a recipe or even use a measuring spoon. She somehow knew that a little of this and a little of that would make the meal exactly how she wanted it. My grandmother made everything from scratch. Growing up, I didn’t even know that soup came in cans. I thought soup came after Baka got a dead chicken from a friend’s farm and then plucked it in the front yard while I screamed at her from a distance in my most dramatic voice, “Tell me when you’re done and it’s all cleaned up! If I see a single feather, it will ruin my life forever and I’ll never eat anything again!” She’d laugh at me while singing and plucking away.
As my baka and I cooked and baked in her little kitchen, she would tell me stories about her childhood. I soaked them up. Her childhood memories were much more interesting than any children’s book I’d ever read. She told me about growing up in rural Croatia with seven siblings; an abusive, alcoholic father; and no money—not even enough to buy her a pair of shoes. As a child, she would wake up early every morning, while it was still pitch-dark outside, help around the house, then take the cows out to pasture and bring them back before finally getting ready for school. She had to quit school after fourth grade to stay home and help her parents with the cows and with taking care of her younger siblings. Sometimes I think the reason she had such a tolerance for my exuberance was because through me she was able to experience the carefree, playful childhood she never really had.
As a young teenager, she was forced to leave home and move to a nearby city to live with a wealthy family and work as their servant, while sending her earnings back to her parents. One Christmas, the family she worked for told her they no longer needed help and that her employment was over. She headed back home, but her father rejected her. He didn’t want to worry about another mouth to feed. So back to the city she went, looking for another family to serve.
Baka was a warrior. I found out at a young age that she was also a worrier. From as early as I can remember, my baka would tell me, “Kristina, you and I are so much alike. We both love to make up silly songs. We both love climbing trees and getting messy. We both love cooking. We both love people and showing them how much we care by creating things for them. You got all those traits from me and I’m glad you did. Those are all good things. But you also got something I wish you hadn’t. You worry. You worry too much. I’ve spent my entire life worrying. I don’t want the same for you.”
As I grew older, she told me more about her life, about marrying my grandpa, who had lived through his own set of challenges, having survived being in a Communist concentration camp after World War II. She shared with me the hardships they faced as they started their life together and struggled to make ends meet. She endured many trials, but none compared to losing four of her six children. Her twin girls died within a day of being born; they were premature and there were no incubators available at the time. Her last baby died during a traumatic childbirth, a birth that almost took my grandmother’s life, too. But the hardest loss of all was Daniel’s death. Daniel was her second child, a boy just a year younger than my mom. Through tears my grandmother told me the story of his sweet little voice, only five years old, begging her one evening, “Mom, can I please sleep next to you in your bed tonight?”