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Authors: Anya Lipska
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make jam...”
Kasia smiled at the nostalgia in his voice. Janusz’s childhood, with its visits to his grandmother’s place, a crumbling farmhouse on the outskirts of Gdansk, was a million miles from her monochrome memories of a labyrinthine Soviet-built estate in industrial Rzewow. She loved to hear his boyhood tales of collecting warm eggs from the chicken house, or climbing up into the high branches of apple trees in the orchard. The funny thing was, even though his memories were so different from hers, they still made her feel homesick.
She tapped ash from her cigarette out of the kitchen window. “How did your Mama know what was safe to eat?”
“She came from a family of farmers, so she was a real country girl. She even knew how to make birch wine. In the Spring, you cut through the bark,” he used his wooden spoon to demonstrate the lateral cut, “and drain off a few litres of sap. But you must be careful: if you make the wound too big the tree will die.”
Pouring a jugful of water over the meat and vegetables, he said over his shoulder, “October, November, I take the tube to Epping and go into the Forest to look for mushrooms. If you get lucky, you can find boletas. I could take you, if you like – show you which ones are good to eat.”
There was a moment of silence as they shared the unspoken thought… if they were still seeing each other in six months’ time :
He threw a couple of roughly chopped red chillies in the pot. The dish’s final ingredients, a little sour plum jam and a cup of buttermilk, wouldn’t be added till the end.
He’d been sliding glances at her face while he cooked and was relieved to see that the old bruise on her cheekbone had faded completely, with no evidence of fresh ones. The warning he’d delivered to Steve had done the trick, at least for now. And according to Kasia, Steve had bought the story that Janusz was Kasia’s cousin over from Poland, which was a relief – he didn’t want to give that chuj another excuse to beat her.
He opened the fridge and pulled out a jar filled with cream-coloured fat.
“What’s that?” asked Kasia.
“Goose smalz for roasting the potatoes,” he said, doling some into a roasting tray.”
“Ah, goose fat is good for you!” exclaimed Kasia, examining the jar, “It helps you to lose weight.” Then, on seeing his sceptical look: “It’s true – I read it in a magazine.”
Kasia might be blade-sharp, reflected Janusz, but like all Polish women, she had a vast collection of cherished – and often crazy – dietary folklore: a rich brew of Catholic injunctions, old wives’ tales from medieval Poland, and the crap peddled by glossy magazines.
Janusz brandished the jar in front of him and adopted a serious air: ‘Top Government scientists are warning: too much goose fat can cause dangerous weight loss – please use it sparingly.” Pretending to be insulted, she made to grab the jar back from him.
He caught her deftly, his big hand circling her slim wrist with ease: “Can you stay tonight?” he asked. Best to get the question – and the phantom of Steve – out of the way early so that it didn’t overshadow their evening. She looked along her eyes at him, then nodded. “I’m staying at my sister’s.” Breaking into a grin, he grabbed her by the waist and, ignoring her protestations, danced her around the tiny kitchen.
Half an hour later, with a couple of glasses of a decent Czechoslovak pinot noir inside him, he settled into the big leather sofa and, wreathed in the aromas of the roasting potatoes and the peppery stew, let his gaze linger on Kasia, who stood examining the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves either side of the fireplace. He felt as relaxed and happy – the realisation rushed on him unawares – as he had with Iza, more than twenty-five years ago.
An image of her, sitting outside a harbourside cafe in Gdansk, flickered across his memory like an old home movie. One of her hands, wearing a red woollen
Kasia smiled at the nostalgia in his voice. Janusz’s childhood, with its visits to his grandmother’s place, a crumbling farmhouse on the outskirts of Gdansk, was a million miles from her monochrome memories of a labyrinthine Soviet-built estate in industrial Rzewow. She loved to hear his boyhood tales of collecting warm eggs from the chicken house, or climbing up into the high branches of apple trees in the orchard. The funny thing was, even though his memories were so different from hers, they still made her feel homesick.
She tapped ash from her cigarette out of the kitchen window. “How did your Mama know what was safe to eat?”
“She came from a family of farmers, so she was a real country girl. She even knew how to make birch wine. In the Spring, you cut through the bark,” he used his wooden spoon to demonstrate the lateral cut, “and drain off a few litres of sap. But you must be careful: if you make the wound too big the tree will die.”
Pouring a jugful of water over the meat and vegetables, he said over his shoulder, “October, November, I take the tube to Epping and go into the Forest to look for mushrooms. If you get lucky, you can find boletas. I could take you, if you like – show you which ones are good to eat.”
There was a moment of silence as they shared the unspoken thought… if they were still seeing each other in six months’ time :
He threw a couple of roughly chopped red chillies in the pot. The dish’s final ingredients, a little sour plum jam and a cup of buttermilk, wouldn’t be added till the end.
He’d been sliding glances at her face while he cooked and was relieved to see that the old bruise on her cheekbone had faded completely, with no evidence of fresh ones. The warning he’d delivered to Steve had done the trick, at least for now. And according to Kasia, Steve had bought the story that Janusz was Kasia’s cousin over from Poland, which was a relief – he didn’t want to give that chuj another excuse to beat her.
He opened the fridge and pulled out a jar filled with cream-coloured fat.
“What’s that?” asked Kasia.
“Goose smalz for roasting the potatoes,” he said, doling some into a roasting tray.”
“Ah, goose fat is good for you!” exclaimed Kasia, examining the jar, “It helps you to lose weight.” Then, on seeing his sceptical look: “It’s true – I read it in a magazine.”
Kasia might be blade-sharp, reflected Janusz, but like all Polish women, she had a vast collection of cherished – and often crazy – dietary folklore: a rich brew of Catholic injunctions, old wives’ tales from medieval Poland, and the crap peddled by glossy magazines.
Janusz brandished the jar in front of him and adopted a serious air: ‘Top Government scientists are warning: too much goose fat can cause dangerous weight loss – please use it sparingly.” Pretending to be insulted, she made to grab the jar back from him.
He caught her deftly, his big hand circling her slim wrist with ease: “Can you stay tonight?” he asked. Best to get the question – and the phantom of Steve – out of the way early so that it didn’t overshadow their evening. She looked along her eyes at him, then nodded. “I’m staying at my sister’s.” Breaking into a grin, he grabbed her by the waist and, ignoring her protestations, danced her around the tiny kitchen.
Half an hour later, with a couple of glasses of a decent Czechoslovak pinot noir inside him, he settled into the big leather sofa and, wreathed in the aromas of the roasting potatoes and the peppery stew, let his gaze linger on Kasia, who stood examining the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves either side of the fireplace. He felt as relaxed and happy – the realisation rushed on him unawares – as he had with Iza, more than twenty-five years ago.
An image of her, sitting outside a harbourside cafe in Gdansk, flickered across his memory like an old home movie. One of her hands, wearing a red woollen
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