Dreams, Birthdays, and Going Home

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I have been dreaming about Vienna lately. Scenes of Roman arches, Neo-Renaissance buildings with a layer of grime, and old-fashioned tram cars circling the city center permeate my nights. My mind plays inaccurate memories of packing up my grandmother's belongings and visits that my two girls have never had. Even in my dreams I think, I have to Google "cheap trips to Vienna" the next time I'm on the computer. But only reality reminds me that there is no such thing.

I wake with a heavy heart and a bittersweetness, knowing that I am so lucky to have the gift of calling this other city Home, but also knowing that my girls never will. I want my girls to feel Austrian. To find comfort in the sound of strangers speaking German, instead of giggling because it sounds funny to their ears. I want Vienna to be a part of their identities, instead of a strange city far away from their realities.

Except I know that their experiences of being Austrian will be vastly different than my own, simply because we have no reason to go back every other year. Simply because they are one more generation removed from my father, the most recent immigrant.

And then I wonder, if my heart aches for Vienna in this way, how must my father feel? He who was born and raised there, who lived in the same apartment until he married my mother, who sometimes knows the German word before the English.

Vienna, to me, is sometimes a phantom limb I miss, or a happy dream from my childhood. But I wonder if my father feels the loss as so much more. I wonder if it ever feels like he is ever home, or if his heart is permanently on the streets of Vienna.

Yesterday was my father's birthday. I wish that I could afford to send our family over to be in the city together. I wish I could give him a gift that encompasses the love I have for him as my father. And as the carrier of my Austrian heritage. The only thing I could do was find a specialty delicatessen and get him a few things that hopefully reminded him of home.

And I guess, the best thing I can think of is to try to pass along my love of Vienna, my pride in being half Austrian, to my daughters. To continue traditions with my husband and daughters that made me feel special and unique. That made me feel like going back to Austria is going home.

xoxo.
Christine

A Jar of Apricot Marmalade

I knew, even before taking one step inside, what it would do to me.

Walking through the door a gust of nostalgia hit me.  Smells of fresh breads and raw meat knocked me back like a title wave.  I don't even eat meat, but the aroma felt like a fuzzy blanket wrapped around me.  I didn't even know I was shivering.

A long glass case filled three walls, with more variety than I've seen at any butcher shop.  Rows of sausages jumbled together, three different types of head cheese, cuts of meat I never heard of.  A tightness rose to my chest, but not the usual how-disgusting-I'm-going-to-be-sick tightness.

Along the front window were multitudes of yellows, greens and browns.  The mustards, soups, and seeds from far away places.  Brands from my childhood I forgot existed flashed out at me.  The girls fought over the different candies.  Who knew gummies came in multicolored frogs and fish and double cherries stuck together?

When I saw the jars I froze.  This, I was not expecting.  The white label was hauntingly familiar.  I gingerly picked up the apricot to examine it closer.  Product of Austria.  Tears made of memories filled my eyes.  Breakfasts with my grandmother.  The sweet taste of schwarzbrot and butter mixed with the tangy, bright-orange marmalade.  I wanted to hold that jar forever.

Snippets from my childhood were there, and my heart ached to be there.  Not there in the store, but the There of my childhood.  Where a jar of apricot marmalade was an every-day breakfast, not a distant and bitter-sweet memory.

I did not want to leave.  But we had to go.  Like always.  We can not stay in one place forever.


xo.
Christine

An Old Glass

I have been feeling kind of homesick for Vienna lately.  Probably because my parents just got back from there, and I haven't been in over five years.  And my parents, sweet wonders they are, brought back treats from my second home, and I love them (my parents and the treats).  But, you know, they also remind me what I'm missing.

Visiting would not be the same, of course.  The last time I was there was for my grandmother's funeral.  But I wasn't there at Christmas to pack up her things.  And I haven't been back to stay in a hotel.

Yesterday I took out a glass of hers.  One that I kept from her home after she was gone.  I gently touched the edge, it felt so delicate.  And I remember telling myself, Be careful, Christine.  You would be so sad if this broke.  And I was.  Careful to slide an ice cube in, to set it far away from the girls' wobbly reach.

It sat in the sink over night, and today while I was putting away a pile of clean dishes, a bowl fell.  It broke the glass.

I am disappointed and a little sad.  But I know the things that I have of hers, while precious, are not what I need.  They will not bring her back to life.  They will not pay for a family trip to show my daughters my birth city.  They will not make my memories stronger.

But, it does almost feel like I let her down.  Or a memory was almost lost.  Which is why I can't bring myself to throw the broken glass away.

This pull between the logical "it's just stuff" and the emotional "it's a part of us" is what I struggle with.

Even though glasses and necklaces and dishes are just things, I struggle with remembering this and instead feeling like they are a part of me.  A part of my grandmother.  A part of our past.

Sometimes, it's just hard to say goodbye.  Even to a broken old glass.

*****
Linking up with Heather and Elaine.

The Obligatory Giving of Thanks Post

Today, I am thankful.

I am thankful for family, friends, and health.

However, if I am being honest, I do not always remember to be thankful.  I find myself feeling overwhelmed and stressed.  I get caught up in the unimportant things of life, instead of focusing on how full and blessed my life is.

So, as most people this week, I am trying to consciously meditate on what I am thankful for.  And of course, that includes my family, my friends, and our health.

This year, I also feel thankful for who I am.  For where I come from.  For all that makes me, me.  Of course there are always things I would like to change about myself, or am working on changing.  There are things I would like to do differently, or better.  But this post is not about that.  This is about me feeling thankful for everything and everyone who has shaped me into the person I am today.

My parents

My parents, my relatives, my ancestors, they make me who I am.  My strong grandmother who raised my father as a single mother.  My strict grandfather and step-grandmother, who instilled the importance of Austrian etiquette in us.  My sweet maternal grandmother, who I have but a few memories from before the nursing home.  And my cranky maternal grandfather, who would have adored Adam.  Their parents and grandparents before them.  Their lives, their traditions, their legacies, have led to my life.

My friends, my cheerleaders, they make me who I am.  My first boy friend from childhood, whose backyard was attached to ours.  The first family friends, with two little girls close to my age.  My elementary school friends, who hold such a deep place in my heart, I will never let them go.  My middle school friends, who weathered through that awkward time of life with me.  My high school friends, who have scattered across the country and are turning into beautiful adults.  My college friends, my work friends, my mommy friends, who have supported me and my insecurities into adulthood.  These people I love and care about, who love and care about me, have led to my life.

I am who I am, because of the experiences I had.  Some good, some great, some terrible, some wonderful.  I try to be thankful for them all.

Today, I am this me, because of my husband.  The quiet boy who fell in love with me on a bus in Ireland.  Who made me laugh, and made me love, and made me realize what life I wanted.

Today, I am this me, because of my daughters.  Who gave me the gift of motherhood and unconditional love.  Who snuggle me, who kiss me, who love me.  Who continually teach me the important things.

So many people, so many places, so many experiences, have made me who I am.

So today, and always, I am thankful.

Memories of Phyllo Dough and Baking Apples

I love the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.  That's right, the day before the actual holiday.  Of course, part of the reason I used to love it was that after work was done (or school when I was younger), it was the beginning of a break of four days in a row.

But that's not really why I still love it.  The Wednesday evening before Thanksgiving holds one of my favorite traditions from my family.

My Viennese father and Paige

When I was growing up, the night before Thanksgiving was reserved for a family gathering of apfelstrudel preparation.  (Apfelstrudel is an Austrian specialty. Apfel is German for apple, and strudel, well, I think strudel is strudel, right?)


My dad lugged our heavy box tv into the kitchen and rearranged the bunny ear antenna.  We watched a holiday program while we worked.  My sister, dad and I were recruited to peel and cut apples.  My mom worked with the phyllo dough, rubbing oil, rolling in apples, and baking to golden perfection.


We worked all evening, or at least that's what my childhood memory recalls, making strudel after strudel.  Even though this was our Thanksgiving weekend tradition, the strudel was not made to be enjoyed on the food-filled holiday.  Each strudel was wrapped in foil and frozen, to be given out to and enjoyed by family friends throughout the holiday season.

Winter in Vienna

The funny thing about this being one of my favorite traditions, is that I never actual enjoyed eating the strudel.  To those of you who do not already know this about me, I am not a fan of cooked apples.  I love raw apples and applesauce, but I do not like apple pie, apple crisp, homemade applesauce, or anything made with apples that have been cooked or baked.  There is just something about the mushy texture and flavor.


(Even weirder still is that I can enjoy every part of the baked apple product -- the crust, gooey filling -- but the actual apple.  Anyway...)


Adam and I have not continued this tradition with our own family.  Partially because we have two young girls who can't yet be recruited to peel apples.  Partially because it just doesn't work with our schedule.  And partially because I don't eat the apfelstrudel.  (I'm not usually one to make things I don't eat.)


But as we approach Wednesday, and I think of that happy tradition, I wonder if someday we can incorporate it into our new family.  Because, even though it's a lot of work, even though I don't eat it, that memory, and that pastry, is part of who I am.  And who doesn't want to pass that on to the next generation?





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Linking up with Mama Kat