Week Two

On my mother’s side, everyone is obsessed with Hungarian food. Holidays, birthdays, any family function, that kind of food is there. Many Hungarian family’s recipes vary on certain things, some might like a bolder taste of goulash, and others may not. It just depends.  But my favorite recipe by far has to be chicken paprikas. My family always uses many spices. It is rarely bland, unless you did not make it the right way. A huge container of Hungarian paprika is always in stock in every single one of my family members’ cupboards.

I remember when I was about nine or ten, my mom tried to teach me how to make the dumplings for the sauce. She said just scoop the dough out into bite size pieces into boiling water. I did the complete opposite. I just through gobs of dough into the sizzling water with no art or form to it. Needless to say, that night at dinner, a fork and knife were actually required to eat the paprikas. My mom still refuses to let me make the dumplings after that mishap.

But besides the dumplings and the chunks of chicken, it is all about the sauce. Words cannot describe the flavor of the sauce. It is unique. I feel like this dish represents my family because we are unique. We are barely ever perfect, like any other family, but sometimes the sauce just turns out amazing, like my family can be at times. Just like chicken paprikas, my family has their good and bad 

Week One

There are definitely a few things here at Ohio University that reminds me of home. One of the major things is brunch at the dining halls. Ever since I was little, Sunday meant going to my Grandma Betty’s house for brunch. Some of my best and worst memories were shared over the table.

My grandma would always make the best breakfast foods. Whichever grandchild got to her house first had the privilege of picking out what she would make. I was lucky because most of the time it was I since my dad lives about five minutes away from her house. The usual options were omelets and toast, or pancakes. Depending on the occasion, sometimes she would make homemade crepes, or my favorite potato pancakes.

Grandma Betty’s potato pancakes were to die for. They were crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. When she drizzled syrup over them, the perfect amount of sweet was achieved. I would bring friends with me to brunch occasionally just so they could try potato pancakes. I haven’t ever heard one bad remark, and I know no one was lying because after their first one, they dragged about two more to their plate.

You could enter her house and immediately know what was being made that day due to the smell. This alluring aroma would drag you to the kitchen even before you took your coat off.

After we would eat, my Grandpa Joe was always in charge of making coffee for all of the adults. Now that he has passed away, my family never drinks coffee after brunch, probably because it reminds us too much of him. After that we would make our way downstairs to the family room to either watch the Indians or the Browns play, depending on the time of year. If they weren’t on then we watched golf, which no one was really fond of.

Each time I enter a dining hall for brunch, the smells and tastes bring back all of these memories. It’s hard not having my family around me when I’m eating my eggs or pancakes, but it just makes it that much better when I go home.