Grieving for my babci

21 Sep

Last night I sobbed because my babci had died.

But she died something like 2 years ago. Yeah. I just checked my phone and the picture I took of my babci at her funeral is on my birthday, two years and 5 months ago.

It’s a little late for a preamble, but if I was less drunk I would rewrite this as a preamble, I was more than a little drunk. And yes, I remain drunk.

In my drunken stupor, I was absolutely convinced that I needed burgers to be truly happy. I make my burgers almost entirely differently from my babci. She used ground beef, breadcrumbs, chopped onions and an egg. I use canned fish, mackerel usually, course rye flour, chopped onions, an egg, and a finely chopped morita (a smoky chilly pepper). When I’m not drunk I might even squeeze some garlic through the press.

But for some reason, while I was standing at the stove, frying up my burgers, the smell of it overwhelmed me and it was as if I was back in my babci’s kitchen, and she was cooking burgi for me. And when I came to my senses I realized that I wasn’t. I could never be. Never again. For the first time, I cried about the fact that she’d died.

I guess I’ve just been going through a lot. I suppose there is this psychological need in me to go back, rewind a bit, to not be the guy covered in scars from gallbladder surgery, a second hernia repair and a mugging. But I can’t rewind. I am that guy covered in scars.

I could go back to that kitchen though. My aunt still lives there. I could introduce her to the deliciosity of moritas.

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