Snacky Cakes®

On April 5th this year, Nagymama turned 97-years-old. To celebrate such a momentous occasion, I decided to make a platter of ninety-seven of her favorite Snacky Cakes® for her to enjoy.

"You're freakin' crazy," my mom said over the phone. "Where you gonna get ninety-seven cakes?"

"Snacky Cakes®, mom, yah know, the Little Debbie kind that she pretends to bake for all the neighbors."

"You know, Nagymama, she just von't eat! Your aunt cooks her all dese nutritious foods, spinach, soft paprikas, everyting, and for some reason she just don't eat!"

"But she still eats cake, right?"

"Yes, vell, but she should eat more than just cake."

"Okay, then, I'll put some brownies in there, too."

Don't get me wrong, I am a big believer in health food, but once I am 97-years-old, I'm not going to eat spinach, either. If you make it past 90, you should be allowed to eat whatever the heck you want. If Nagymama asked to eat nothing but Cool Whip, chocolate sauce, and vodka off the tanned body of a male stripper, I'd wouldn't really blame her. It would just give me more to write about.

Despite my mother's apprehension, I went to the local grocery store to pick up Nagymama's ninety-seven little gifts. I must have looked like a lunatic in the pastry isle:
"Okay, Zebra Cakes come in packs of ten, but Honey Buns come in packs of six, and Butterscotch Krimpets come in packs of twelve. Which Snacky Cake® combinations should I use to get to ninety-seven without going over? The square root of the Cosmic Brownies divided by the radius of a Swiss Roll is...pie?"

After trying to do the math on my cell phone, I decided to just buy buttloads of them and feed the excess Snacky Cakes® to my roommate. I put together a fabulous spread in a big Tupperware cake saver (pictured above), put the lid on, and decorated the top with a pair of "Sock" Papucs (the socks with the little plastic grippies on the bottom). I also added to the Earth's growing trash problem (pictured below).
The next day, I called my mom to let her know I was "dropping by". My cousins get mad at me if I give more than four hours' notice before coming home because my mother frequently panics endlessly about my hour-and-a-half commute. "Did you talk to Stephie? Vhen is she comink? Is she brinking anyvon? Who's drivink? Are you goink to vatch movies? How many? Is Richard Gere in dat von? So did you talk to Stephie? Vhen is she comink?"

I was surprised when my aunt answered the phone. "You know, Stephie, your mom is upset with you because you never call."

"Uh, I talked to her two days ago, after attempting to call her three times this week and getting no answer. Why don't you hook up the answering machine I bought her?"

"You didn't even remember to call on Nagymama's birthday."

"I'm on the phone now. Today is her birthday. What is the problem?"

"But it's late now, why didn't you call earlier?"

"What the crap are you talking about?! It's three in the afternoon! Next time, I'll call at three a.m. so I don't miss it. Let me talk to Anyu for a sec."

I could hear my mother in the background, "Who is dat?"

"It's Stephie, hold on, I'm talking to her. You know, your mother says you never come see her."

"Oh, my gosh, I was just there a few weeks ago, and you people haven't even seen my 'new place', which I've lived in for two years now, by the way. Let me talk to Anyu."

"You didn't even come see Grandma for her birthday."

"I am freaking loading presents into the trunk as I am talking to you, for the love of God and all that is holy, let me talk to my mother so I can come by for dinner."

"Oh, you're coming by? That's good."

I heard my mother gasp in the background. "Stephie is coming over? Noooo!"

My mother wrestled the phone away from my aunt. "Don't come here, Stephie! The house is a tornado from Grandma, I can't handle it!"

"Don't worry about the house, I just want to say 'Happy Birthday' and give her cake. She'll be happy. It's fine..."

"Don't come over. Today's no good. I wasn't expecting to see you until our family vacation in May. I can't handle seeing you 'til May. The house isn't clean. Here, talk to Grandma."

I heard Nagymama's familiar breathing on the phone."Hallo?"

"Boldog születésnapot, Nagmama!" I shouted at the top of my lungs. "Happy Birthday, Grandma!"

"Tank you, tank you. I am very busy now, you call backs tomorrow. I talk to you den. Bye-bye."

Click. And that was it: I'm damned if I come over. I'm damned if I don't come over.

My cousins still wanted me to come by and hang out, but I was so frustrated about the whole situation that I just ended up cleaning out random boxes of string from the shed and weeding the garden. And during this weeding process, not only did I somehow hurt my tail bone, but I ended up killing all the hyacinths I was so desperately trying to save. Oh, and the Snacky Cakes®? I forgot them in the trunk, so now instead of giving Nagymama ninety-seven fresh, tasty little treats, she's going to get a really big, disgusting, melted one.

Moral of the story? Yah try to do something nice, and all you end up with is a pile of dead flowers, melted cake, and a pain in the ass.

Happy Birthday, Nagymama! I tried!

The Red String

Last weekend, I was suddenly inspired to start a garden, despite the fact that I have a million impending deadlines to deal with, a stack of receipts to calculate for my taxes, and an illogical fear of worms. I think part of the reason I was compelled to rip apart the weed-filled flowerbed is because for the first time in history, Nagymama is getting too old to upkeep her garden, and some sappy part of me wants to follow in her footsteps. I also convinced myself that I will save a ton of money on produce, which is probably a lie given the time and energy that gardening takes, but I figured I'd give it a shot.

I knew that if I was to start a garden, I would need tools, which were in the old shed filled with junk from the 85-year-old lady that formerly owned the property. So, on Saturday morning, I put on an old sweatshirt and my spelunking gear and entered the evil, dark, dank shed. I didn't have to clean very long before I came upon a large cardboard box that was completely filled with little bits of string (and spiders. Oh, man, sooo many spiders...) All of a sudden, flashbacks of Nagymama popped into my head. What the hell is it with old ladies and string?

Nagymama always kept every piece of string that entered our home. She horded the string that came with boxes of baked goods. She collected the ties from old bath robes. She ripped elastic bands out of old clothing. Of course, Nagymama's most famous use of string was to save shoelaces in order to tie the corners of the blanket to the mattress so my skin wouldn't get exposed while sleeping. We all know how that turned out.

Even with this extraordinary string collection, once a month, Nagymama ordered my mother to go to the dollar store and buy her balls of red string. Nagymama never knit, and we certainly didn't own a giant kitten, so I suppose she wanted all these balls of string because really liked bundling things. For instance, since I didn't have a proper dresser, she bundled all my clothes with the string and set them top of an old cardboard TV box covered with a Hungarian embroidered tablecloth. This was always an issue in the morning when I wanted to grab something to wear and I could not untie her double knots. Of course, if I ever tried to cut the precious red string, she would immediately grab the fa kanál and start screaming like crazy!

What confused me the most about the red string was that Nagymama HATES the color red. I was never allowed to eat red Italian ice, I would get in trouble for wearing a red clothing, and to this day, she yells at me when I paint my fingernails a deep shade of ruby. "Red is dah color of streetvalkers!" she told me as a child as she scrubbed my head with a bar of Dove soap, trying to "get the red out" of my hair. Perhaps she should have tried Visine; apparently that "gets the red out". Sorry, I had to make that pun; if I didn't, someone else would.

I mentioned this red string story to a co-worker, and she admitted that her great-grandmother also toted around red string because it was supposed to protect against the evil eye. Apparently, her great-granny frequently tied bits of red string around their wrists and and stuffed wads of it into their coat pockets. Holy cow! It all makes sense now! Nagymama was protecting my hideous 80's clothing from "Szemmel Verés", the Evil Eye!

After all this reminiscing, I sorted through the box of string from the shed, and didn't see a single strand of red string. I figured that the former owner wasn't superstitious, she was just crazy. As I placed the box on the heap miscellaneous trash, I started to realize how useful some of the shreds of string would be to tie some of my freshly-planted tomatoes to their stakes. And then I started to think about all the rusty tools and bits of wood that needed to be tied together before they were put out for trash pickup. And then I thought I should keep some bits of the stronger string in my trunk in case some part of my crappy Honda falls off and I need to tie up my muffler.

*GASP!* I've caught Old-Timer's Disease! I'm beginning to like string! I might as well just start wearing papucs everywhere and force feeding everyone Little Debby(tm) Snacks, because I am basically Nagymama, Jr.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have things to bundle.

Photo by Nico van Diem

The Christmas Cards

My cousin Erin usually hosts the family Christmas party. Over the years, Erin has learned that if she wants a party to get started at 2 pm, she has to tell my aunt Sophie that it is at noon, so my aunt will have sufficient time to wake up late, shower, make a sumptuous breakfast for her husband, do her makeup, vacuum the house, wash and wax the car, run into some burning buildings to save some orphaned children, and go last minute Christmas shopping. Erin then has to tell my mother that the party is at 3 pm because or else my mother will arrive three hours early, just in case there is traffic on the two mile stretch of highway she has to travel every day in the New Jersey suburban nightmare we call our home.

Last year, everything seemed to work out just right and Nagymama arrived with my mother right on time and marveled at my cousin’s beautifully decorated bi-level home.

“Some day, I’m gonna vin dah lotto and buy bi-levels for everyvon!” she says, in very cute, broken English.

"Yah, yah, you've been sayink dat for 40 years, give it a rest," my aunt said from the doorway, bearing boatloads of gifts.

As Nagymama removed her coat, her attention immediately turned to the several dozen Christmas cards that were neatly hung on the staircase. She immediately grabbed my cousin’s arm, pulled her down, and whispered in her ear with a whisper full of hot, wet air and cookie crumbs, “I know your secret, my child.”

“What are you talking about, Nagymama?”

“These Christmas cards…these cards were not sent to you. You just bought a box from the store and wrote them out to yourself so you would look more popular.”

My cousin couldn’t look more shocked.

Nagymama nodded knowingly, “Shh! It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone.”

Photo by Alaina Cherup

Nagymama's Run-In With the Law - AGAIN!

After Nagymama's last run-in with the law, my mom was very hesitant to allow her to walk anywhere. But one beautiful spring day, Nagymama insisted that she needed to go buy a lottery ticket from the corner store because of the upcoming $4 million "Mega Jackpot."

"I'm doing this for the good of the family," Nagymama protested in Hungarian, "We will be so happy when we can buy a bi-level home. I'll be right back."

Nagymama left for her walk and locked the gate behind her. After about thirty minutes, we started to hear sirens from around the corner. My mom rummaged through our tin of random keys.

"Oh, no, I tink Nagymama took both gate keys."

Just then, ambulance whizzed by. I immediately started climbing the fence.

“No, no, no!” my mother screamed, “You gonna fall and break your neck. I’ll go to dah garage and get sometink to cut the kapu!”

“Do you know how much it’s gonna cost to replace the fence after you massacre it? Besides, by the time you cut through, grandma will be halfway to Mexico or something. I'm tall! Lemme hop the damned thing!”

My mother finally allowed me to climb one of the shorter fences on the side of the yard, but I had to hoist her over first. She kicked and screamed the entire time, but eventually, we made it to the street. We jogged around the block only to see police cars, ambulance, and of course, Nagymama.

The police told us that on the way back from the store, some teenager ran after granny and tried to steal her purse. Instead of letting go, Nagymama held onto it, and continually smacking him with it. Out of sheer frustration and embarrassment, the hooligan finally just pushed her down and ran into the woods. I don’t blame him for running; my grandma can kick your ass.

Fortunately, an older gentleman saw the entire incident from his car. Not only was he kind enough to call the ambulance for grandma, but he identified the mugger as ONE OF HIS OWN EMPLOYEES at the local McDonald's. Needless to say, the robber’s burger-flipping days were over.

They arrested the kid and throughout the I.D. process, Nagymama would not stop yelling about her purse. “You crazy gypsy! You smelly swine! You stole my winning lotto ticket!”

The cop nudged the robber. “Hey, where’d you toss the bag?”

"I dunno, I chucked it somewhere in the woods," he muttered.

For the rest of the afternoon, everyone and their mother scoured the woods for that bag. Eventually, we found it; all this fuss was made over $2.30 worth of change, two keys, a comb, a used handkerchief, and a very water-logged lottery ticket.

This story probably would have been a lot better if that lotto ticket was a winner, but that’s okay. In the end, Nagymama is still a real winner.

Photo by Uffe Nielsen

Velcome to the Kitchen

Please remember to watch Part 1 and Part 2 before viewing this video.

If you can't see the video above, try this link instead.

A typical visit to my family's kitchen. Pretty stressful, but you get used to it. :)

Thank you to Cameraman Matt, http://www.cinevore.com, for his assistance with capturing our family events on film.

Songs used: Brahm's Hungarian Dance No. 1, performed by Leo Christopherson, http://www.leochristopherson.com

Prom Part 1: Prom Preparation

I was thrilled one day when my friend Allen, a Senior at the time, asked me to go to the prom with him. But there was an issue with getting a prom dress. I didn't come from a ton of money, so the idea of spending between $100-$250 on a dress you would never wear again was ridiculous. But my aunt was the queen of savings and a great seamstress, so we figured we could just find a discount gown and she would "make it work."

I probably tried on about 500 fuchsia-sequin encrusted-lace-imbibed dresses before I found "The Black Dress." The black dress actually reached to my ankles (which was a difficult feat, being 5'11") and had amazing rhinestone spaghetti straps. And it was on clearance $19.95. I had struck gold!

Somehow, my aunt convinced me to buy it a few sizes too big because she was convinced that I was "still growing," and I had six months before the prom. She assured me that she would alter the dress on the night before the prom so I could have a perfect fit.

The problem is, my aunt sewed couch cushions, not dresses, and business had been so busy that she didn't have time to deal with the gown. Before we knew it, the prom was upon us, and my dress was still not altered. But my cousin promised we could make it work!

"You know, all the stars just glue themselves into their dresses before their award shows?" she claimed.

"Really?" I asked. This sounded like a really good idea.

I am a moron.

The night of the prom, my cousin attempted to crazy glue this dress to me and I was literally hanging out of it. To make matters worse, the crazy glue left a huge white stain on the front of the dress. I freaked out, and Nagymama didn't notice - she was more worried about me eating dinner, which consisted of a huge bowl of "letcho." "Letcho", is a dish made of various sewed peppers, tomatoes and rice. Supposedly, it is really, really good. But Nagymama always cooked it for HOURS, until it was completely falling apart and stuck up the house. She also never used spices, which is the whole POINT of being Hungarian, if you ask me!

"My dress doesn't fit! My life is over!" I wailed.

"No problem!" my aunt said. "We'll fix it."

There is no weirder sensation than having your cousin curl your hair while your aunt is coloring in your boob with a Sharpie marker while your Nagymama is trying to spoon mounds of letcho into your mouth.

"Nagymama, you're going to ruin her lipstick!" my cousin screamed.

"She needs to eat! And you're making her look like a whore!" Nagymama said.

"You're gonna to poke her eye out with dat eyeliner!" my mom cried.

"Stephie, you should really get a better pushup bra next time," my aunt suggested.

Did I mention that this room was only large enough to hold a bed, a television and perhaps two people? Not an entire family full of women with hot curling irons and various phobias.

So, finally, my cousin held up a mirror. And I cried.

My hair was "crimped" not curled, which might have been great in the 80's, but not 1999. My eyeliner looked more like raccoon makeup than "Sexy and Smoky." My chest was red from the chemical burn and I had a big hard black shiny spot in the center of my dress. And the fabulous rhinestones had started to fall out of the spaghetti straps.

It was at that exact moment Allen arrived at the door.

"ONE MORE MINUTE PLEASE!" I struggled to fix myself as best I could to avoid exposing my naive date to my family under all this stress.

My grandma immediately cornered him and tried to make him sit at our sticky kitchen table. She already had a bowl of letcho waiting for him. He politely declined and then informed us that the limo was waiting outside.

Just as I was about to panic, he said, "Here, I got you this," he said. He put a beautiful corsage of white roses, covered in flecks of glitter on my wrist.

I smiled. For a moment, I felt pretty. And then my cousin said, "Where's the boutonniere?"

I was confused. "What's a boutonniere?" I asked. I looked at Allen and he shrugged.

In the distance, I hear a microwave beep but thought nothing of it.

My cousin was exasperated. "You moron! You're supposed to buy your date a flower that matches your corsage so people know you are together!"

I had never been to the prom before or witnessed anyone else's prom-goings, so I had no idea that this was a custom. My cheeks turned bright red.

"No problem," my aunt said. "Ve'll improvise." She pulled the corsage off my wrist, grabbed a kitchen knife, and started hacking it to pieces.

Meanwhile, Nagymama walked over to my date with a glass of orange juice. "Nice boy" as she patted him on the back. Problem is, when you're about 4 feet tall, if you want to pat someone on the back, your hand usually lands on their ass. My date got a weird look on his face.

"MOM! NAGYMAMA IS TOUCHING ALLEN INNAPPROPRIATELY!"

He looked over at me. "No, it's okay, she's fine...but I really can't finish this....drink. I don't want to offend her."

I realized that she had microwaved the orange juice she had given him. She was always afraid that people would catch a cold, so she frequently warmed up beverages in the microwave - nothing was ever hot, but everything I drank growing up was usually "piss warm."

"Oh, god, forget it, we're leaving."

I threw the drink in the sink, grabbed Allen's hand, and ran out the door with my aunt chased after us. "Vait, vait! Dah flowers!"

My aunt grabbed my date and struggled to pin the hacked apart corsage bits onto his lapel. I pulled the tattered remnants of the corsage back on my wrist and started heading towards this gate.

My mom stopped us. "Vait! Von last ting! Let me get a picture of the happy couple!"

If I ever find this picture, I am going to burn the damned thing.

(To be continued)

Photo by Sasha Dunaevski

Velcome to Piscataway

If you are having trouble seeing the video above, try this link.

This is an example of a typical visit to my family's house - stressful at times, but pretty fun! In this clip, you'll meet my mom and have a short tour of the front of my quaint little one-bedroom former place of residence. Sound simple and uneventful? Hardly.

Please keep in mind, my family is pretty unusual - I reserve the right to poke fun of them, just like they poke fun of me [all the freakin' time] - but remember, they are MY FAMILY, so please don't be mean. Don't mess wit' mah mommah! :oP

Thank you to Cameraman Matt ( http://www.cinevore.com )for helping me shoot these videos (he's a brave soul!

Re: Nagymama: A True Story

Wow, so the last week or so has been pretty amazing. I don't think I have ever had so many e-mails in my inbox at one time! Because of YouTube, I have managed to connect with long-lost friends & family, as well as make a bunch of new friends that are helping me learn to read & write in Hungarian!

Originally, this video was shown to an English-speaking audience, so the scene with the bedroom was supposed to sound like a very upset rant from Nagymama! I took some audio I videotaped her, so if anyone is curious, here is the translation for the bed scene:

"Dollar! Smelly stingy pig, he got $50,000 that he shares with his Mistress, but you don't get a thing." I originally chose to use this sound clip because my deadbeat dad is probably the #1 thing my grandmother talked to herself about, even in her sleep (which is really sweet if you think about it - she's just looking out for me!)

As for the end credit scene was translated as a joke since the other thing Nagymama usually rants about is gypsies and robbers watching her through the window, and her plans to chase them away with her broom. I used that particular clip because she points at the camera, but the subtitles were a joke based on things she has said in the past. The actual subtitles are: "I'm going to play the lotto, and if I win, I will put it in an envelope for you." Also sweet and funny, but my animation class seemed to like the "joke" subtitles better.

So, here is the never-before-told backstory about this film. I was a senior at the Philadelphia University of the Arts and I had no freaking clue what to do for my senior project. I wanted to avoid the chaos of my junior year (2001-02) when I began production on a film called Fabian Fish, a tale about a clownfish and a yellow tang trying to escape from a fishbowl, but the clownfish keeps forgetting "the plan" every few seconds. Sound a little like a Pixar film that came out later that year? Yeah. I’ll tell you more about that Junior Film in another blog.

Anywho, it was well-known through my social circle that I had a pretty darned sheltered childhood. (Like…I didn’t know who the Beatles or Simon & Garfunkel were until college, I still haven’t seen any of the Starwars movies.) As usual, my friends were giving me crap about how my family kept me locked in a cage, and I said, “You ain’t kiddin’; my granny basically tied me into the bed my fastening the blanket down with shoelaces because she was so scared I’d fall outta bed!” My teacher overheard the story and said, “Now THAT is what you need to make your senior movie about!” I figured, “What the hell?” My professors have always said, “Write what you know,” and I sure as heck know my family!

Thus began the tale of “Nagymama.” I really wasn’t sure which story to write about, but for whatever reason, the mirror & shoelaces fiasco seemed to be the most traumatic and life-defining. And believe it or not, the full-story is possibly WORSE than the movie. I had to drop out a few details just so it would make sense in the context of a 4-minute cartoon, so here’s what actually happened:

My entire life, Nagymama stayed up and checked on me. CONSTANTLY. She surrounded the bed with dining room chairs to make sure I couldn’t roll out, fastened the blankets with shoe laces, toted around a flashlight and mirror, closed all the windows in 90 degree weather, and then stacked pots & pans in front of the windows so she could hear the robbers and/or gypsies. God only knows, she’s unbelievably hard-of-hearing, so if someone DID break in, they could probably steal the very bed she was sleeping on without so much as a peep.

So here’s the kicker - I was actually 12 or 13 years old when I found out this whole thing was NOT normal.

I was at my first slumber party, and we were complaining about our parents. I said, “Yeah, and don’t you HATE IT when they come up to you when you are trying to sleep and check your breath with a mirror?”

My friends looked at me like I was nuts.

One quickly responded, “Uh, Steph, people do that to infants – that’s how you tell if a kid has SIDS. You check ‘em with a mirror to make sure they are still breathing with a mirror.”

I guess Nagymama just never stopped.

I asked my cousins if their parents did this and they confirmed that the ritual was a little excessive. I considered running away from home, but my cousin had an idea: Hold my breath, just to see what would happen. So, one night, I was tucked in, it was hot as heck, I had to go to the bathroom, my grandma was snoring like a beast, and I was generally pissed off. So, I rustled around a bit and she woke up….grabbed the mirror…walked over…and I held my breath.

I know what you’re thinking: I’m “mean”. I could have given the poor old lady a heart attack. Believe me, this was not my typical behavior – it was DESPERATION. So, what happened? Like the movie, Nagy pretty much ran around the room screaming, and called in my mom. And then my mom started freaking out, too.

Nope, they didn’t call an ambulance. They didn’t try to resuscitate me. They ran around the room screaming. In a way, it’s a little disturbing to think about because if something DID actually happen, I would have been a goner!

So, after realizing that everyone was genuinely upset, I opened my eyes and the covers had been pulled off of me enough for me to scoot out. I ran to the bathroom, not only to pee, but to escape two very, very, very pissed-off Transylvanians cursing and screaming after me.

God, what did the neighbors think?

So, this full story said, my teacher told me to cut it down – omit my friends, cousins, and mother, focus on Nagymama, and draw myself as a younger child so it wouldn’t be so...weird. I still think it’s pretty weird.

After this YouTube feature, what surprised me the most was the all-out race war this little 4-minute film started. Hungarian vs. Romanian. Romanian vs. Hungarian. Everyone vs. America. It might be naive for me to say this, but it never ceases to shock me whenever I see racist comments. I really thought more people were over that. Also, last time I checked, I made a film about a weird childhood moment, not social commentary or international border analysis.

After listening to my film a few times, do realize that I made a fatal error in judgment - I clipped out the words "old world" from the original script where I said "some unusual old world traditions,” and added “Hungarian” because some of my colleges were confused about how my family could be Hungarian, but from Transylvania, which is in Romania.

You wanna know the hideous reason I took out the words "old world?" Because I can't freakin’ SAY the words “old” and “world” next to each other. There are certain words that I just can't pronounce for god knows what reason – “theater”, “collegiate”, “ballot”, and of course “old world”. I think I tried to pronounce this freaking line 900 times and I sounded like a bee bit my freakin' tongue.

I was actually tempted to upload the uncut audio, embarrassing as it might be, just so people stop thinking I hate Hungarians, hate my culture, and that I am a “terrorist.” But as I was trying to dig through the clutter of my old crappy-crap-crap computer that my original animation files are on, I came to a startling revelation – I am wasting my time. You can't make everyone happy.

People are going to think what they want to think, regardless of the innocent intent. People will post “You suck” and “FU” all over blogs, videos, hell, even public restroom stalls, simply because they want to vent some of their anger. It’s like being able to anonymously crap on someone’s front lawn – they get relief with the guaranteed that no one will chase them for having made a mess.

Mostly, I think people forget that there is a real person on the other side of that comment, and criticism that isn’t constructive is simply destructive. It’s hard enough to expose my most embarrassing moments to the entire world, so it’s a bit disheartening when people tell you that your life was not lived correctly.

I've always felt that in order have a fulfilling life, you must have the ability to laugh at yourself. As strange as my childhood was, I wouldn’t change a darned thing about it, because I am who I am because of the way I was raised. I am Hungarian-American, and proud of it.

Or as my mom would say, “Oh, Stephie, you are such an overly-sensitive American. Vhat is vit you people, you over-analyze everyting.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, mom. Pass the goulash, would yah? It’s really tasty.”

Wooden Spoon

I was very lucky growing up because no one ever spanked me. But Nagymama sure did threaten! Whenever I did anything out of line, she could grab a wooden spoon and wave it at me, or pretend that she was going to hit me with her slipper (aka “Papucs” – see story below).

So, one day, we had a Jehovah’s witnesses at the door, and as usual, my family felt guilty and let him in to give his monologue. I was playing with Barbie too loudly or something and everyone stopped in thier tracks. Nagymama took one look at me and screamed, “Hol van a fa kanál?!” (“Where is the wooden spoon?”) A fairly normal threat to someone who speaks Hungarian, but this is what that sentence probably sounds like to an English speaker: “Holy one, oh fuckin’ hell!” He looked a little disturbed at Nagymama’s rants and promptly left.

A few weeks later, he rang our doorbell again, but this time, he brought backup – two more Jehovah’s witnesses. My mom whispered, “Stephie, go to the door and tell dem dat we are Jewish.”

I was confused.

“But, I thought we were Catholic…”

“Yes, yes, but dah Jewish people are more religious den Catholics, so let’s pretend to be dem so dey don’t come back.”

Somehow I don’t think it was “being Jewish” that made them stop coming. It was probably that fa kanál.

Post Your Own Stories Here

Post your own videos on http://www.youtube.com/group/storiesfromgrandpa

(Shhh...I am going to select the best one and send them a signed drawing that was used in "Nagymama: A True Story")

The Real Nagymama - Behind the Scenes

A light conversation turns to Nagymama vs. Nagymama.

Papucs Problem

Growing up, whenever I entered my home, I braced myself for the evitable yelp from Nagymama, “PAPUCS! PAAAAPUCS!”

“Papucs” is Hungarian for “slipper”. Any time you came into my house, you had to lose your shoes and don the papuch. It didn’t ever help me that I’ve always been tall, so by age 14 I was already 5’ft10” with a 10-1/2 shoe size. Papucs never came in sizes lager than 9 from the El Cheapo Store, so my fully-socked feet usually hung several inches over the sides.

Man, no wonder I never had a boyfriend.

Thinking back on the papucs, I swear to god, she had 500 of these things! Dr. Seuse would have a field-day on my Nagymama:

Old papucs. New papucs.
Red papucs. Blue papucs.

The thing is, no matter how many papucs my mom would buy her, she would wear the oldest, nastiest pair with the cardboard sticking out of the bottom. But that never stopped her from hemming and fixing and gluing and sewing and nailing and taping.

But then one day, we had a papucs problem.

Nagymama had started to get up in age, so she kept on losing her balance. It didn’t help that my papucs never had any sort of tread at the bottom, so my mom tried to hide all her papucs and make Nagymama wear sneakers. But somehow, Nagymama would find the papucs and run around outside chasing cats away or try to climb the roof to clean the gutters. In three years, I think my Nagymama has ended in the waiting room at “Med-Emerge” ten times in papucs-related accidents.

My mom finally had enough and threw out all her papucs. Without even flinching, Nagymama went into my closet, took out my nicest pair of slip-on high heels, and went to go weed the garden. I didn’t even notice until I saw them propped up by the door, caked in mud and weed reminants. They were stretched out so much that they were almost as wide as they are long. I told you that my granny is cubelike: that includes her feet.

The Bowlcut

I feared the chipped, 1970s, spicy-mustard–colored bowl in our kitchen cabinet. It was used primarily for whisking egg whites, making dough, and to measure out my haircut.

One day, I was walking through my kitchen, nagging my Nagymama for a Fudgesicle before dinner. After about five minutes of persistent whining, she reached in the freezer and handed me the frozen treat. I ripped the white waxed paper victoriously, but my bliss was cut short when I spotted the notorious bowl in the middle of the kitchen table. For a moment, I hoped that my grandma was just going to make us some Hungarian crepes (Palacsinta) for dessert, but I dismissed the thought when I saw the rusty, green-handled scissors adjacent to the bowl.

I almost dropped my ice cream.

This was a trick! They were getting ready to give me a haircut! I looked for a hiding spot. I had tried everything in the past: hiding behind the shower curtain in the bathtub, standing in the back of my mom’s closet with her blue bathrobe draped over me and cowering behind cardboard boxes of toys under my bed. For whatever reason, they always found me.

This time, I tried the hamper in the living room closet. I knew when my mother’s friend Dimitri had arrived because I could smell his cheap aftershave, even with the closet door closed. She felt that since he was good at mowing our lawn, he would be a competent haircutter for her little girl. I could hear muffled chit-chat a few feet from where I was standing. I was still sucking on the remnants of my ice cream when blinding light flooded in from the opened closet door. “Sorry for all dah mess,” my mother said, “I haven’t even had a chance to do dah laundry—” She opened the top flap of the large wicker hamper and had already dumped about five pounds of handkerchiefs and kitchen towels on my head before she saw me.

“Stephie! Vhy are you playink in dah closet? Silly girl.”

She lifted me out of the hamper with great ease.

“Say hallo to our friend, Dimitri!” I didn’t even have a chance to wave hello before she took the popsicle out of my hand, dragged me across the house, and seated me in our blue, flower-patterned kitchen chair.

“Ve’re gonna do some snip, snip, snippy today, yes?” Dimitri said, his breath reeking of vodka. I stared at his grey speckled five-o’clock shadow as he placed bowl on my head. It was cold, heavy, and still smelled like eggs. He hummed some semblance of a polka as he snip, snip, snippied away, his shaky hands occasionally slipping and putting a little “v” in my perfect ring of hair.

My mother and Nagymama provided the audio commentary the entire time.

“No, it’s crooked, vat are you doing, that side is shorter than the other, make sure you trim her bangs!”

Nagymama was always afraid that my bangs would pierce my eyes, so as always, she made sure to have him trim them about an inch too short. She then took two pink plastic, bow barrettes and pinned the extra hair to the side of my head.

Dimitri handed me an old black pocket mirror. “Lookit, you’re beautiful!”

I looked like I had a receding hairline at age seven.

The next morning, I went to kindergarten with my navy blue, pom-pomed ski cap pulled over my head. I tried to hide in the back of the group, but my teacher nabbed me.

“No hats in class, Stephanie!” she snapped.

“But I vant to, my head iz cold.”

I could hear a few of the boys snickering in the front row.

“No ‘ifs,’ ‘ands’ or ‘buts,’ take that hat off right now!”

“I can’t I—“

Mrs. Vandershaff had her hands on her hips. She meant business.

All eyes were on me. I slowly pulled my hat off to reveal a slightly staticy version of my bad haircut. The entire class erupted with laughter.

“A-ha, we have a new BOY in class, ha ha ha!” said Patrick, the head bully.

It also didn’t help that my mom had made me wear a boyish sweater with the big red knit tie sewn to the bosom.

“What’s your name, NEW KID?” said Kelly, the girl with pig tails, a pig snout, and a barnyard attitude.

“I bet it’s STEPHEN!” Patrick roared.

Kids can be so cruel.

If I knew what I know now, I would have come up with a snappy kindergarden comeback and put the class to shame. I sometimes imagine running into Patrick in the grocery store and saying, “Oh, yeah? Well, I am rubber you are glue, whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you!” I’d pull out Kelly's pig tails and shove her head in a plastic trough of gummy worms in the candy isle.

Somehow, I don’t think it would be as effective, fifteen years after the fact. And I might get arrested.

So, after all of that, Mrs. Vandershaffy, seeing that I was visibly upset, put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Well, I like your haircut.” Of course she did. She had the same exact haircut, minus the hideous pink barrettes. Lucky her.

I wonder what color her bowl is.