The Guilt

My cousin Liz and I went for a walk one day to the local playground with her two small children, Attila and Kris.

"So, how is the art stuff going?" she asked, as she simultaneously pushed a stroller, filled a sippy cup, and adjusted Attila's hat to keep the sun out of his eyes.

I sighed. "Overwhelming as usual. I've been going to a billion networking events, gathering sponsors, writing proposals, keeping the books straight, coordinating venues, attempting to apply for grants, distributing flyers, dealing with website issues, answering technical questions, creating tons of promo graphics and copy, and that's just the freaking film festival!"

"Well, what else is happening? I mean, school is over, so you can relax a bit, right?"

I chuckled at the thought of relaxation. "I've doing crazy amount of freelance graphic design and animation stuff, which means writing MORE proposals, and I'm still working full time at the architecture place, attempting to write short stories at least once a week, writing several online columns, and pitching around a couple cartoon series ideas at conventions. Oh, and I just signed up to be a writer on a short film like a moron, so we are shooting next week."

"Don't burn yourself out, cousin!"

"Eh, I'm happy. I wouldn't have it any other way. My friends and I call it 'the guilt'; when you feel guilty going to a movie or just 'hanging around' because you should be working."

"'The Guilt'? That's just another way of saying that you're a workaholic."

"Yeah, well, what can I say, I write ad copy all day, 'The Guilt' spins a little better than 'Workaholic'."

"You know, I think it's genetic. I used to act just like you when I was at the radio station, and I thought everything would change once I had kids. But believe it or not, it got worse."

"This is not possible."

"Oh, you haven't experienced guilt until you have felt "Motherly Guilt". That is the fear and anxiety that you will be the worst mother on the planet. And unlike a day job, this guilt does not go away. No paid vacation. No full dental. Just constant unrelenting guilt."

"This sounds very unappealing."

"So, yeah, instead of hanging out by the water cooler or running to Starbucks on my lunch breaks, I go crazy trying to balance Attila's swimming lessons with bonding time with my inlaws, while trying to go to Gymboree with Kris, and inevitably at least one of them catches something from another kid, so then I have to deal with one sick kid and one kid that wants to play. Oh, and of course, then I wonder if it's my fault that they're sick, and if I am feeding them all the right organic foods, since I know this is the only time in their lives I am going to be able to make sure they eat right, but every day you find out that something else is bad for you and causes problems. At the end of the day I find myself wondering if I accidentally spent more time with Attila than Kris, and did I do enough learning exercises with them, and then I wonder if I did TOO many learning exercises with them because I don't want to stifle their creativity, and then I wonder if I should be the one reading to them every night or if I should be encouraging them to read or if I am putting too much pressure on them."

"You should be the spokesmodel for birth control."

"The thing is, I do this because I love my kids, and I would do anything for them, I just wish it didn't come with so much anxiety. Sometimes, the only thing that makes me feel better is YOU."

"Wow...really?" I was touched.

"I mean, I must be going a good job, because your mom fed you McDonalds all of your life and she didn't exactly read you bedtime stories you turned out okay."

"Oh. Thanks. I think?"

"You're welcome."

I considered our conversation for a moment. "God, cousin, we're both complete raving nutcases."

"So, you wanna go get iced coffee from Dunkin' Donuts? We should probably get Decaf."

"Yup. That sounds like a good idea."

Photo by Jyn Meyer

Whipped Cream Sundae

The other day, my boyfriend's roommate brought over "Sundae-Making-Supplies”: whipped cream, cherries, sprinkles, and some peanut butter cup ice cream. As you all know, I freaking hate peanut butter, especially peanut butter cups. Still, I can never turn down an opportunity to snack on sweetness, so I filled a small wine glass with whipped cream and topped it with rainbow sprinkles and like five cherries.

"Whipped cream sundae!" I announced to no one in particular. "Reminds me of my mommy!"

"Why's that?" my boyfriend asked, looking up from his mount of fudge-swirled-peanut buttery ice cream sludge.

"When I was a kid, Anyu would always come home and say, 'I haf a surprise for you!' and swirl a ton of whipped cream into a crystal glass. It always made me feel fancy, so that's how I like it now."

"Wow. That's the least traumatic thing I've ever heard you say about your mother. It's actually kinda sweet that you still make whipped cream sundaes."

"Well, this one isn't exactly the same. This is a wine glass, and the ones we had were stolen, fake crystal glasses from the Howard Johnson where Nagymama worked. And we never had maraschino cherries, Anyu was afraid it would stain my clothes. Oh, and I could never put the 'jimmie-type' sprinkles on it like this. She was always afraid that long sprinkles would get lodged in my throat and I would die, but the sprinkle 'dots' were okay. But this still makes me nostalgic..."

"-And there's the trauma!" he said, laughing.

"What? No! No trauma! It's just whipped cream!"

"You know, Steph, I think this is why you're so stressed out all the time."

"Yeah. You're probably right."

Photo by Trine de Florie

It's Peanut Butter Jelly Time

My friend Alia and I usually sat together at the same lunch table, and on occasion, Kayla would join us. Kayla was popular, so she generally rotated from table to table, and only really visited us when she wanted something. One day, Kayla dropped her purple Thermos-Brand lunchbag on the table and greeted me with a quizzical stare.

"What the heck are you crunching on?" she said, inspecting my brown bag labeled "Stefike". Kayla was always looking to switch lunches with someone because her mom always packed the same thing.

"Green peppers with Country Crock." I replied, not even looking up. "On toasted white bread." Anyu always put together sandwiches fresh from Nagymama's garden, so I usually had some combination of raw green peppers, radishes, iceberg lettuce, or American cheese with margarine. "Why, what do you have, Kayla?"

"Um, peanut butter and jelly, like normal people."

"Oh. I've never had one of those."

Alia and Kayla simultaneous yelled, "YOU'VE NEVER HAD A PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY SANDWICH?!"

Kids from the other lunch tables turned around. If I wasn't uncool already, my friends had just confirmed it.

"Listen," I whispered. "Peanut butter with jelly..it's just...unnatural."

Kayla rolled her eyes. "Oh, okay, so I guess then manufactured butter substitute with manufactured bread substitute with green peppers is natural?"

I pondered while chewing. "Good point..."

"Well, why don't you try one?" Alia asked.

"Yeah, eat it!" Kayla shoved her oozing peanut butter sandwich in my face. I hesitantly took one bite and immediately spit it out into a napkin. I rummaged in my lunchbag, desperate for a Juicy-Juice to wash it down.

"What's your problem?" Kayla said, shocked at my obvious abhorrence to her staple lunch cuisine.

"Ewww..." I said, my mouth still sticky with sandwich residue, "The jelly slides all over your tongue, the peanut butter sticks to the roof of your mouth, and the bread is a soggy mess. That's a very stressful sandwich! In the words of my mom, 'I can't handle it!'"

"Yeah, well, it's better than your weird Hungarian vegetable butter sandwich."

Alia came to my defense, "I don't think there is such thing as a Hungarian vegetable butter sandwich. I think it might actually be British."

"Yeah, whatever," Kayla muttered under her breath, "Commie bastard."

"Excuse me?" I was pretty sheltered and went to a not-so-great public school, so at the time, I wasn't really sure what a Communist actually was.

"In Soviet Hungary, Peanut Butters YOU!" Kayla said in a horrible fake Russian accent. Alia burst out in laughter, and since I didn't understand the Yakov Smirnoff reference until YEARS later, I assumed that my friends were making fun of me.

Like any young girl that was desperate to fit in with her friends, I immediately applied for the school's "Free Lunch" program so I could stop bringing green pepper sandwiches to school. In retrospect, my green pepper sandwiches tasted better than anything the school slopped onto a plastic lunch tray. Maybe because they were made with love. And fake butter.

Photo by Daniel Wildman

The Kindness of Strangers

The Annual New Jersey Hungarian Festival occurs the furst weekend of June in New Brunswick. As much as I am looking forward to having a little bit of fresh lángos with powdered sugar, I always get worried when I take my family to public events. I already mentioned the whole ordeal concerning "The Secret Language" but sometimes, Nagymama's actions speak louder than her words.

Every time we attend the festival, we always make sure to stop at the Athletic Club around dinner time to sit down and enjoy truckloads of stuffed cabbage, kielbasa, and other Hungarian goodies. We usually all sit down at the long rows of tables while we eat so we could enjoy a free performance from the talented Hungarian Folk dancers. One time, we were so enamoured by what was happening on stage that no one noticed when Nagymama wandered away.

It wasn't until I heard the table next to us laughing hysterically that we even noticed that she was gone. Apparently, she quietly strolled over to another table, grabbed a bottle of Hungarian "Bull's Blood" wine from in front of a random stranger, pour herself a glass, and sat back down.

“Oh, my gosh!” I’ll pay for it!” I shouted over to them.

As I apologized, Nagymama effortlessly popped her teeth out of her mouth, tore off a piece of rye bread from her stuffed cabbage platter, shoved the bread into the wine, and then began sucking on the bread loudly. The table of strangers started laughing even harder.

“Don’t worry about the wine,” they said in Hungarian, “It’s payment enough watching your lovely grandmother enjoy herself.”

"Nagymama, say thank you for the wine," my aunt said to her.

"This bread is shit," Nagymama replied, as she finished the last inch of wine and continued to suck on the bread crust. "Complete shit. If they don't give good bread, the whole place will go to hell. Sari, can you go get me a soda?"

Of course, the strangers laughed even harder and actually poured her another glass of wine. It's a good thing that Hungarians have a good sense of humor :)

So. Is anyone going to the Hungarian Festival on Saturday? If so, I might see you there!

Photo by Vangelis Thomaidis