By Ovi Catanescu
Childhood Memories from Brăila, Romania
Ever since I was little and began paying attention to how food was divided at the table, I had the impression that my older brother, Adi, always received larger portions than I did.
Whether it was my mother, Nana, or Ica serving the food, it always seemed to me that Adi got more.
And in my little boy’s mind, the explanation was perfectly simple: if he received more food, it meant he was loved more.
If you asked Adi today, he would probably tell you exactly the opposite. Since I was the younger brother, all the attention and affection in the family were directed toward me.
The truth is that feelings like these are quite common among brothers and sisters. Children sometimes measure love in their own peculiar ways, without understanding that parents can love their children equally even when they treat them differently in certain situations.
But back then, I knew nothing about child psychology.
All I knew was how to look at Adi’s plate.
Ica and Her Chicken Ostropel
Ica was our maternal grandmother.
At the time, she still lived in the Hipodrom neighborhood of Brăila, but every day she came to our home to take care of us and prepare our meals.
And when I say she came, I mean she walked.
The entire distance, both ways.
Every day she stopped at the market to buy whatever my mother had asked her to get for the meals she would prepare.
Poor Ica walked miles, carrying two shopping bags loaded with meat, vegetables, and fruit.
And in the evening, after finishing everything she had to do, she walked all the way back to her home in Hipodrom.
The next day, she started all over again.
Today I realize how much work and love were hidden in those daily journeys. But to us children, it all seemed perfectly natural.
Ica arrived, food appeared on the table, and life went on.
One of her extraordinary dishes was chicken ostropel, a traditional Romanian dish made with chicken in a flavorful garlic and tomato-based sauce.
In those days, chicken wasn't sold in neatly wrapped packages the way it is today.
Ica came home from the market with a live chicken.
Someone had to slaughter it, prepare it, and pluck out all its feathers.
I no longer remember who did all that every time, but one thing remains perfectly clear in my memory: the smell.
It was terrible!
And yet, out of that entire process, which was hardly pleasant for a child's nose, came something absolutely wonderful.
Ica's chicken ostropel!
Back then, I considered it an ordinary meal. But as I grew older and had the opportunity to eat chicken ostropel in many other places, I realized that none of them could compare with hers.
For Ica, it was probably one of the simplest dishes she prepared.
But the taste, quality, and presentation were worthy of a Michelin-starred restaurant.
Ica knew nothing about Michelin stars.
And she didn't need to.
She had a talent I don't believe you can learn in any cooking school.
And one day, that extraordinary chicken ostropel would become the reason for an incident I have never forgotten.
Adi's Portion
It was an ordinary school day.
Adi and I were getting ready for classes, and we were both sitting at the kitchen table, where we usually ate.
Ica had prepared chicken ostropel.
I don't remember exactly how much food was on my plate, but I clearly remember thinking that Adi's portion was bigger.
Today, I'm almost certain it wasn't.
But at the time, I was convinced otherwise.
I began to protest.
Ica tried to calm me down, probably explaining that the portions were equal or that I had no reason to be upset.
But I wasn't willing to accept her explanations.
As the argument continued, it became a dispute between Adi and me.
Ica had run out of arguments.
I no longer remember what Adi said to me, but I know that at that moment I felt I could no longer tolerate the injustice that, in my mind, was taking place right before my eyes.
And then I did something I still cannot explain today.
I used my fork in a most convincing manner.
I stabbed Adi in the hand, near his fingers.
A Few Seconds of Silence
Complete silence fell over the kitchen.
For a few seconds, nobody said a word.
Adi was stunned.
He probably never imagined that his little brother was capable of such a reaction.
I stared at his hand.
Blood had begun to flow, mixing with a little of the ostropel sauce.
It's an image I can still remember today.
But I didn't have much time to contemplate the results of my outburst.
I immediately realized that I had done something serious and that, once Adi recovered from his astonishment, I would have to face him.
So I chose the only solution that seemed reasonable at the time.
I ran.
The Great Escape to School
I got out of the kitchen as quickly as I could and ran toward school.
Adi came after me.
He knew that classes would begin in just a few minutes and that, sooner or later, I would have to show up at school.
But Adi had forgotten one important detail.
Although we attended the same school, my classroom was located in a separate building on another street within the same school complex.
Adi waited for me at the main entrance on Griviței Street.
I, however, had other plans.
I reached the building where my classroom was located and climbed in through the window.
Not through the door.
Through the window!
I don't know whether any teacher would have approved of my method of arriving for class, but under the circumstances, it seemed like the safest possible entrance.
At least for the moment, I was saved.
After the Storm
During classes, I probably spent some time thinking about what would happen after school.
I expected a serious conversation with Adi.
Or, more likely, a confrontation.
But I don't remember anything happening.
Everything simply settled down.
Adi was calm, and the incident never had the continuation I had feared.
And what seems important to me today is that this was the only incident of its kind in our entire lives.
We never had another violent confrontation between us.
Many years have passed since then.
We grew up, followed our own paths, and life carried us through many places and many challenges.
But I can still remember that kitchen, the plates of ostropel, the fork, Adi's astonishment, and my desperate escape toward school.
And most of all, I remember Ica.
Our grandmother, who walked miles every day carrying two shopping bags filled with food for us, without complaining.
Her hands preparing our meals, and that chicken ostropel whose taste I have never found anywhere else.
Back then, I wondered whether Adi received more love than I did.
Today I understand that love wasn't measured by the amount of ostropel on our plates.
It was also measured by the miles Ica walked every day for us.
And when I think about it, Adi's portion probably wasn't even bigger.
But what can I say?
At that age, fairness was sometimes measured with a spoon.
And unfortunately, I chose a fork.
The Owl Never Forgets.