Read Me First!

What is American Goulash? It's what a call my life - a mixture of Hungarian and American influences served up with a little bit of paprika. Okay, so technically, it's a dish that kinda resembles hamburger helper, but I was trying to be a little poetic about it, dammit! If you are looking for the recipe for "real" American Goulash, it's here.

How Should I Read This Blog?
Make sure you you read this blog from bottom to top (oldest to newest - use the "Archives" button on the right to get back to the first post on July '07). Blogger uses the sidebar instead the "Previous/Next" button at the bottom for navigation.

Are these stories true?
Happy and sadly, yes. It's a little weird to share my most personal and embarrassing moments with the entire world, but then again, therapy is really expensive so this is a pretty good alternative. Sure, some names have been changed because I don’t feel like getting sued/pissing anyone off. And if you realize that a re-named person in this story might be you, then I am required by the State of Pennsylvania to tell you that it is purely a coincidence. :)

Warning: Some of these stories may be "TMI" (too much information), so if are offended by blunt, uncensored honesty, please do not read forward.

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

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!

Snakes on a Brick

One warm summer, I spotted a little green snake in our back yard. I cautiously watched it slither across my line of vision, stopping only a few feet in front of me to warm itself on the sun-drenched concrete slab behind my house.

I immediately recognized it as a non-poisonous garter snake because my father sent me a book on reptiles for Christmas earlier that year. He told me that it was important to know your reptiles because he was missing one of his fingers due to a poisonous snakebite. Since I have a great affection for all of my limbs, especially my fingers, I made sure to memorize every snake.

Despite my slight apprehension, I was lulled into a trancelike state as I watched the snake gently move his head side to side, probably surveying the area for his next warm meal. I must have stood for quite some time because Nagymama started calling my name.

“Stephie! Vhat are you lookink at?”

“Shhh, be quiet, you’ll scare it away!”

“Scare vhat avay?”

“The snake! Don’t worry, it’s not-”

Before I even utter the word “poisonous”, Nagymama reached over, grabbed a loose brick, and threw it on top of the snake. I think my grandma must have been a ninja in a past life because somehow, the brick landed right in center of the creature. I watched its final death throes in horror before it went limp like a deflated balloon.

If that wasn’t traumatic enough, Anyu wouldn’t even let me give the snake a proper burial.

“Don’t you dare touch dat ting,” she yelled, “It’s full of diseases!”

Instead of taking care of the mess herself or even recruiting Nagymama to discard the carcass, I had to live with the thing, rotting away over several months in the backyard. Long after the snake decomposed/was carried away by red ants, the brick stayed in its exact location, a shrine to the cruel, unusual murder of my little non-poisonous friend.

The next spring, I got sick of the brick, so I moved it back to its original pile. My mother immediately noticed that something was wrong.

“The brick!” she shouted, “Dah snake was under dat brick! Now you hands are full of poison!”

“Anyu, there is no poison, it was a garter snake.”

“Oh, so how do you know?”

“Because Apu sent me a book on snakes so that I wouldn’t get bit by a poisonous one and lose my finger like he did.”

Anyu laughed.

“Is dat vhat he told you? You know, your fodder lost his finger because he got drunk and ran it over wit a lawn mower. Now go vash your hands before you die.”

Photo by Ivan Tortuga

It's a Dog-Eat-Child Vorld Out Dere

My family has never been too keen on animals, but as a young girl, I loved all critters: horses, fish, puppies, kittens – if it swam, crawled, or galloped, I doodled pictures of it all over my notebook. Unfortunately, even though I am fascinated with the gestation cycles of seahorses and the unusual mating rituals of jumping spiders, when it comes to actually interacting with animals, I’m afraid of everything.

I think some of my irrational fears stem from childhood trauma. When I was in kindergarten, I sprained my ankle on the jungle gym, so I was stuck at home for what seemed like FOREVER. Nagymama said I looked too “pale and horrid”, so one day, they took me outside to get some sun and propped my leg up on our picnic table.

No more than five minutes after I started reading one of my “Berenstain Bears” books, the neighbor’s German Sheppard saw me, jumped over the fence, and ran over. I had never actually pet a dog before, so I was a little cautious but still curious.

Anyu was in the front yard, chatting with Nagymama and vehemently pointing to some photos in the “The Weekly World News”. I called to get her attention, "Anyu, look a doggie! Can I pet it?"

Anyu looked over at me and screamed in horror, “NO, STEPHIE, HE’S GONNA EAT YOU!”

As my mom continued to scream and panic, Nagymama chased the dog into the front yard with a broom. The neighbor must have heard the commotion so he hopped over the kapu to apprehend his dog. Anyu made me promise never to talk to strange dogs again.

A few months later, we went over to our neighbor Gustaf’s house and to see his new Chihuahua. At this point, my mother had bred so much fear into me that I dove behind her and clung to her legs every time that stupid dog yipped.

Gustaf’s wife, Olga, found this hilarious, “Stephie, he von’t hurt you, jus go over and say, ‘Hi!’”

“Anyu said I wasn’t supposed to talk to strange dogs.”

“Oh, Peppy isn’t a strange dog. He’s basically a cat.”

This was pretty confusing to a sensitive six-year-old. The dog barked at me a dozen more times, so I just cried so we could go home.

I don’t think I really came in close contact with another dog until high school. I started dating a guy named Bob that had a large black Labrador named Xena. The first time I went to his house, I just about jumped on the couch to get away from this thing. One day, he finally convinced me to pet the dog (he promised to distracted her with a treat and tightly grip her chain). I lightly brushed the side of her fur, and after a few minutes, I was comfortable enough to pet her on the head.

"Okay, I guess dogs aren't so bad," I said, as I scratched my forearms. And my neck. And my face.

Anyu was right all along. I shouldn't talk to strange dogs. I'm allergic.

Photo by Sanja Gjenero

Quick Bite: Burst Day

(some of you might already know this story from The Quiz, but a few people asked me to elaborate so here goes:)
My family waits until the last minute for everything. My cousin Liz was about eight months pregnant before the planning and preparation for her baby shower even began. By the time we reserved the room at the church, invited everyone we knew, researched different type of party games, and painstakingly crafted baby-themed gift baskets and decorations, poor Liz was already busting at the seams.

Despite the event’s tardiness, the shower went extremely well. The room looked fantastically festive, the food was delicious, and a ton of people showed up, even Nagymama!

Of course, as soon as Nagymama stepped through the door, she pushed everyone to the side, and hustled towards Liz with a beautifully gold wrapped box with a big red bow on it. She immediately stuffed the present in Liz’s hand, kissed her on the cheek, and yelled, “Hoppy Burst-day!”

Everyone laughed and assumed that Nagymama was joking, until she walked over to us and loudly muttered in Hungarian, “Boy, Liz got really fat.”

Must have been that 8 pound baby she had for dinner, huh, Nagy?

Photo by Neil Gould

My Christmas Gifts

Each and every year, no matter how much I protest, my family always buys me clothing. I can't tell you how many times I have received some kind of hideous knitted sweater that is 10 times the size of me with some kind of gold-foiled flower on the bosom. Since I am about a foot taller than anyone in my household, everyone thinks that makes me morbidly obese and buys me enormous clothing.

“Oh, Stephie, ve just got it a few sizes bigger in case you need to grow into it,” they always claim.

I’m 25. The only thing that’s growing is my hatred of knitted sweaters.

Growing up, Grandma always made me wear ugly sweaters no matter how huge or moth-ball-smelling they were. Of course, I had to wear them on top of itchy, probably expensive, imported, hand-embroidered Hungarian undershirts. To this day, she still comes up behind me, lifts my shirt, and screams, "A Vese! Ing! Ing!" (Her Kidneys! Undershirt! Undershirt!) She would always say, "You're kidneys are exposed, you are going to catch your death!" Last time I checked, my kidneys were still inside of my body, especially since I don't recall ever waking up in a bathtub full of ice.

One year, in an effort to protect my kidneys, Nagymama actually bought me a pair of flowery underwear that must have been size 87. These things were so freaking huge that I actually pulled them over my clothing and up past my chest. I started to strut around the house and sing Madonna songs as both of my cousins laughed hysterically.

Nagymama came over with a sober look on her face. She grabbed me by the arm, pulled me down and said, “Stephie…you’re supposed to wear dat UNDERNEATH your clothing.”

Thanks for the clarification, granny. And Merry Christmas, everyone! Protect your kidneys.

Photo by Michael Bretherton

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

Authentic American Goulash Recipe

I realize that some people might end up here from Google because they actually want to know how to make REAL American Goulash. Well, go buy a box of Hamburger Helper, because that's what is basically is. No? Well, okay, fine, Google-o-phille, here is your recipe:

Home Recipe courtesy of Lenny's Family Recipes

1 lb ground beef
1 medium onion, chopped
1 medium green bell pepper, chopped
2-4 garlic cloves, diced and smashed
1 (14 1/2 ounce) can tomatoes, dice if using whole, do not drain
1 (15 1/4 ounce) can whole kernel corn
1 (15 ounce) can tomato sauce
8 ounces elbow macaroni
1-2 tablespoon chopped parsley, salt and pepper to taste

1. Prepare elbow macaroni according to directions on package till al dente.

2. Save a little of the pasta water in case you need it later to loosen the sauce.

3. Brown meat in a large skillet, drain the fat and add the onion and bell pepper half way through cooking.

4. Drain any remaining fat when onion and pepper is done and add garlic, stir it about.

5. Add the meat mixture to the cooked macaroni, add the canned tomatoes, corn and sauce.

6. Mix all this together and add seasoning to taste.

7. You may need to add some of the pasta water to loosen the sauce if it is too dry.

8. Invite Stephanie over for this delicious home-cooked meal. She'll bring her low-cal homemade banana bread. But that recipe is a secret :)

Have your own style to make American Goulash, Hungarian Goulash, or North-East Tanzini-Ubeki-Czeci-Irani-Swonian Goulash? Please also feel free to post some of your Authentic Recipes "from Grandma" so we can keep these dishes alive!

Photo by Oliver Gruener

Velcome Back to Piscataway

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

Part 2 of the exploration of my former New Jersey abode. Please watch Part 1 first :)

Thank you to my family who, despite not quite understanding the whole "filmmaking thing," has a good sense-of-humor and deals with me!

Thank you to Cameraman Matt for his assistance with capturing our family events on film (and braving our "little castle," as my mom likes to call it.)

Songs used:

J.S. Bach: Toccata and Fugue in D Minor

Elvis Presley: "Jail House Rock"

Mannheim Steamroller: X-Files Theme Song

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

Nagymama Featured on MySpace

So, I was sitting at my computer, during lunch, stuffing my face with oatmeal raisin cookies, when I went to send a friend a "Happy Birthday" message because MySpace, being the life saver that it is sometimes, reminded me that I am a horrible friend and missed a birthday. And I was a little surprised to see a (pardon my French) SHIT TON of messages on my account. I was confused. Did people on YouTube "google" me and find my Myspace?

And then I actually used the eyeballs in my freakin' head and looked two inches to the right. This is what I saw:



Let me tell you, I uploaded this video on there about a year ago, with NO TAGS, NO DESCRIPTION - I think a friend from my mom's church wanted to see it and the easiest way I could get it to her was through MySpace. So, I forgot I even had it up there! I guess someone noticed!

You know, originally, I was going to make my personal MySpace the only place on the internet where I would have "friends only," i.e. people I actually knew...because who the heck would really want to read me ranting about bad drivers or how I made a "Snakes on a Plane" costume for Halloween? Only very supportive, non-judgmental friends, that's who! But I guess that means I just have to get to know you all if you add me as a friend:P

So, thank you MySpace.com! You have made my granny famous-er-er. That word is hard to say. I don't think it's even actually a word. Okay, that means it's TIME FOR BED! This time, no shoelaces :)

The Lake House (vs. The Doll House)

(Please see Part 1, The Doll House, before reading this entry).

My aunt’s lake house in North Jersey was always the highlight of my summers. On the way down, we would always stop at this cute little homemade ice cream shop at the side of the road. Despite my mother’s protests, my aunt always ordered me a two-scoop Black Raspberry ice cream on a sugar cone. Normally, mom usually wouldn’t let me get “red colored” ice cream or italian ice because she was afraid I would stain my clothes, and she wouldn’t allow me to get sugar or waffle cones because she was afraid they would break my teeth. Needless to say, I still hate vanilla ice cream and “cake cones” to this day.

On this particular afternoon, I wolfed down the ice cream as fast as I could, and between brain freezes, I begged my family to get back in the car.

My mother rolled her eyes. “Vait vait, don’t vorry, you’ll get to play the Candyland soon.”

Normally, I was thrilled to go to the lake house because I got to play with the antiquated Candyland that they kept on the coffee table. Being an only was lonely at times, and my two cousins proved to be better opponents than my Barbies and my knock-off Teddy Ruxpin. But this time, I was anxious to get to there because I knew what was in the trunk – the doll house.

We finally arrived at the house, which was one of about fifteen other old, wood-faced homes on the lake. As usual, we parked about a million miles away from the house. Parking was frequently an issue since the locals hogged all the spots with their broken down “classic cars.” I could bet money that even 20 years after the fact, the same rusty 1960’s GTO is still sitting in my aunt’s assigned parking spot.

My family dragged the many bags through the overgrown jungle that was the side yard. My aunt always “meant to” bring a lawnmower out to the house, the very same way her husband always “meant to” fix the planks on the adjoining boat garage - until the planks inevitably caved and allowed their untied speedboat to float up Cranbury Lake and out of their lives. We managed to pull the bags through the tangle of weeds, but one of the bags ripped, spreading shoes and itchy sweaters everywhere. There was general chaos until my aunt ran up to get another garbage bags. She wore a pair of stained gardening gloves to avoid poking herself with thistles that were now embedded in the clothing. She scooped everything into the bag and we dragged it up the rickety staircase into the Lake House.

I sat on the couch and looked at the hideous stuffed fish that was mounted above the foyer as my family grabbed the rest of our belongings from the car. I spotted the infamous triangular bag in the corner of the room. The excessive pulling, pushing, and dragged left several dime-sized hole in the bag, and I could clearly see the pink plastic facing and the purple shutters.

As I went to reach for it, my mother walked through the door and yelled, "Don't touch that! Now, go pee so ve need to go get firevood and tings from dah store!"

There were several issues with this request. First and foremost, I just wanted to play with the stupid dollhouse, but I didn’t dare disobey my mother because she would tell – and since I was an overly-sensitive seven-year old, I would cry whenever someone yelled at me.

The other issue was that peeing at the Lake House was an unpleasant, multi-step process. It required going into the horribly scary bathroom with no light, trying to find the toilet to “go” in, and then promptly going down to the lake with a bucket, washing your hands with the weird-smelling lye soap, and then bringing the bucket full of soapy water back upstairs in order to flush the water-less toilet. I would have rather “held it” for a few more hours.

And then of course there was the firewood store. This required us to cross the entire lake using the longest, most rickety swinging wooden bridge on the planet. For whatever reason, I was the only one terrified of this bridge - maybe because I can't swim. As usual, by the time we walked all the way to the bridge, my mom and aunt were engrossed in conversation, so didn't seem to hear my terrified yelps as my cousins swung the bridge to and fro, screaming, "Oh, no, it's gonna fall!"

We finally arrived at the wood store and they bought some lighter fluid and kindling for the fireplace. The store was on the main road, so it seemed like we were only off the bridge for a minute before we had to go back onto it. I couldn’t handle anymore teasing, so I stood at the entrance, hysterically brawling until my aunt scooped me up and carrying me all the way across.
I think my cousins felt guilty, so they immediately opened the Candyland box when we got into the house. For a moment, I forgot about the dollhouse in the other room and fell into the world of "Plumpy" and "Queen Frostine" in the Gum Drop Mountain. I heard my aunt gathering the wood for a fire, while my mom pulled out sandwiches for us from the cooler. We munched on our dinner as my aunt lit the fire, and my mom put on a pair of plastic gloves. My mom grabbed one of the garbage bags and asked my aunt something inaudible.

"This is it!" I thought, "I'm gonna get my toys!" I figured I would be generous and share some of the clothes with my cousins, but not any of the toys because they were so mean to me on the bridge.

My mom rooted through the garbage and pulled out a pair of jeans. My aunt looked at them, nodded…and then she threw them into the flames.

I was confused at what was happening at first, until I saw my mom grab a brand new teddy bear and toss it in like an old rag.

I screamed. I cried. My mother and aunt were genuinely confused.

I ran to protect the dollhouse, nearly impaling myself on its pointed roof. My mom screamed at me to back away. "Dese are Lisa's tings! They are not for you! Don't touch them - you don't want to catch the asthma, do you?"

Turns out, my mom and aunt were always told by Nagymama that everyone had "Infection Asthma ." And I guess they believed her. After all, that's why Lisa, her mom, her sister, and her brother had asthma - it couldn't POSSIBLY have anything to do with genetics.

So, on that day, a lot of things went up in flames, including my hope and dreams for a Barbie Dollhouse. In retrospect, I know my family was just looking out for me (even though the fumes from burning plastic probably caused more damage than a made-up disease ever would). But even today, as a 25-year old woman, every time I see a fireplace, I see a mental picture of a sad-looking teddy bear melting into oblivion.

Eh, what’s a childhood without some scars, right?

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.”

A Lesson In Hungarian: What's Szorít?

This video answers the age old question -- What is Szorít?

Okay, maybe it isn't an age old question.

Basically, I was letting my cousin's Erika's son play with my video camera while my other cousin gave Erika's husband a lesson in Hungarian - "szorít" (to tighten, to constrain) vs. szólit (call) .

This is mostly just a silly home movie, but I thought some bilingual people would get a kick out of it.

The Doll House

All I ever wanted was a Barbie Dreamhouse.

Unfortunately, mom was the only one supporting me and Nagymama with her baby toy assembly-line job, so an item this extravagant seemed excessive. Even at a young age, I was very aware of finances, so I made due with the cardboard boxes she brought home for me from