ÿþ<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> <html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> <head><script type="text/javascript" src="https://web-static.archive.org/_static/js/bundle-playback.js?v=qM_6omlu" charset="utf-8"></script> <script type="text/javascript" src="https://web-static.archive.org/_static/js/wombat.js?v=txqj7nKC" charset="utf-8"></script> <script>window.RufflePlayer=window.RufflePlayer||{};window.RufflePlayer.config={"autoplay":"on","unmuteOverlay":"hidden"};</script> <script type="text/javascript" src="https://web-static.archive.org/_static/js/ruffle/ruffle.js"></script> <script type="text/javascript"> __wm.init("https://web.archive.org/web"); __wm.wombat("http://www.katerinaklemer.com:80/prose.html","20120104083235","https://web.archive.org/","web","https://web-static.archive.org/_static/", "1325665955"); </script> <link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="https://web-static.archive.org/_static/css/banner-styles.css?v=S1zqJCYt" /> <link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="https://web-static.archive.org/_static/css/iconochive.css?v=qtvMKcIJ" /> <!-- End Wayback Rewrite JS Include --> <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"/> <title>Prose</title> <link href="/web/20120104083235cs_/http://www.katerinaklemer.com/style.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/> </head> <body> <div id="wrap"> <div id="header"> <h1 id="sitename"><a href="#">Katerina Stoykova-Klemer</a></h1> <h2>Prose</h2> </div> <div id="page"> <div id="menu"> <div id="sidemenu"> <h2>Menu</h2> <ul> <li><a href="index.html">Home</a> </li> <li><a href="books.html">Books</a></li> <li><a href="poetry.html">Poetry</a></li> <li class="active"><a href="prose.html">Prose</a></li> <li><a href="poezia.html">Writing Groups</a></li> <li><a href="radio.html">Radio Show</a></li> <li><a href="services.html">Services</a></li> <li><a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20120104083235/http://www.accents-publishing.com/">Accents Publishing</a></li> <li><a href="links.html">Events and Links</a></li> <li><a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20120104083235/mailto:katerina.klemer@gmail.com">Contact</a></li> </ul> </div> </div> <div id="content"> <h2>Excerpt from the memoir "For Katya"<span class="seo">&nbsp;</span></h2> <p> My mother-in-law, Malinka, took a lot of pride in her housekeeping abilities. Her husband lovingly called her a "sparrow," as she lightly fluttered from room to room doing housework. She was graceful at it. The broom seamlessly extended her arm, as though she were born with it. Her disinfectant halo glowed softly above her gray head and guided her way to relentlessly hunt down every sacrilegious dust particle. </p> <p> Malinka was a misunderstood, underappreciated, cleaning martyr. A minimum of twice a week, she would walk into her spotless home and wrinkle her nose, "I cannot live in such disgusting dirt." Then she would hop into an old housedress and vacuum, scrub, polish, wash, dust, sanitize. At the end, the apartment wouldn t look that much different, but Malinka, exhausted and vindicated, would sink into the sofa in front of the TV and sustain the value-added activities by knitting something she could wear or gift to someone instead of buying anything with money. The needles would spark and hiss in her hands as she enumerated the long list of things that had been despicably dirty. </p> <p> "The bread," she would say with a sigh, "makes the most dirt. I hate nothing more than to see breadcrumbs on the floor." </p> <p> She had worked hard to make sure her children s appreciation of cleanliness and hygiene matched hers. Ivo shared with me a story about one time when he had met a girl, and she had invited him to her place to have sex. Upon arrival, he d gone to use the bathroom, where he couldn t help but notice on the ceiling a cobweb with a spider. He d told the girl about the spider right away, at which point she d suggested that he go back to his mother s house. </p> <p> Sometimes I witnessed Malinka and Elena s conversations about cleaning. Drawing from their personal experience, advice from magazines and urban legends, they discussed at length the best way to scrub anything. </p> <p> Once, in her advanced pregnancy, under the dismayed looks of her neighbors, Elena had taken a hose and a brush and had scrubbed the giant metal garbage bin in front of her house. </p> <p> "I couldn t stand it anymore, Mom," bewailed Elena, "What kind of people keep their garbage cans so dirty?" </p> <p> "I know. I know." Malinka nodded her head in total understanding, tears of pride filling her blue eyes, and added, "You are the same as me. In the daycare where I work, I keep everything so clean that if I were working for a private family, they would cover me in gold, head to toe. I should go work in somebody s house and leave that daycare." </p> <p> * </p> <p> My heart went out to Malinka, the hardworking woman who had cooked banitsa for me when I was pregnant, who had slept in my bed when my husband, Ivo, was away, who had knitted all these little baby jackets. I wanted to do whatever I could to help her, so little by little, I increased my contribution to the household activities, starting with the laundry. I did several loads of baby clothes each day. The disposable diapers that we were just learning about were neither widely accepted nor widely available, not to mention they were prohibitively expensive. The apartment had two balconies, and at all times, little baby shirts and overalls clipped to the lines waved their arms and legs to dry in the sun. </p> <p> Then, since I was doing all this baby laundry, it occurred to me, "Why don t I just do everybody else s laundry, too? That would give mother some relief." </p> <p> And along with the mountains of wet, shitty baby clothes soiled with vomit, breast milk and formula, I started washing piles of my own clothes, my husband s, my mother-in-law s and her husband s. </p> <p> Malinka shook her curly head with approval. She pulled out an ironing board and showed me the proper way to iron everybody s clothes  every single thing the baby wore, her husband s shirts and wide-bottomed pants, her work clothes and housedresses, the napkins, the tablecloths, as well as their underwear. </p> <p> I was told that it was absolutely essential to iron the underwear, and since it seemed so important to her, I gladly took on the chance to please her. </p> <p> Malinka demonstrated to me the correct way to fold the warm, crispy clothes, and from that point on, without exception, I washed, ironed and folded everything that found its way into the washing machine. </p> <p> Meanwhile, Ivo started working as a waiter again. Just like any other company in the early nineties, Sea Fishing had trouble supporting its employees. Salaries had not been paid for months. It was unclear when the next trip may be scheduled, or if there would, in fact, be a next trip. </p> <p> Ivo worked the second shift in a restaurant. He d sleep through the morning, we would eat lunch together, and in the afternoon, he would be gone. Some time during the night, while the baby and I were already asleep, he d come to bed. The day after, he would hand me a wad of money  the tips he d earned. </p> <p> I also received some money just by virtue of being a mother. The first two years of a child s life counted towards the social security benefits of the mother. This was accompanied by the so-called "mother money"  a minimum wage allowance to assist with a baby s expenses. The bankrupt government still held onto a few of the socialist privileges, especially the ones that promoted the birth rate, as the population, terrified by the bursting prices and unemployment rates, refused to have children. </p> <p> Having mastered the laundry, I began cooking. </p> <p> The morning after the first time I had done the laundry and cooked, Malinka was waiting for me in the kitchen. She walked up to me and tenderly stroked my face. Her eyes were swimming with love and tears. </p> <p> "Thank you, daughter, thank you." </p> <p> I felt appreciated like never before in my life, and at that point, I would have done anything for her. </p> <p> I prepared baby food daily in order to introduce my son to solid foods. Along with that, I fixed lunch and dinner for everyone else. </p> <p> All the time. Every day. Sometimes, several times a day. </p> <p> I would look through the pantry to see what was available, and I would cook it. What I had to work with, for the most part, was whatever grew in Malinka s mother s garden that Stoyan, my father-in-law, could bring home for free. At one point or another we would have a few of the following: potatoes, rice, tomatoes, peppers, vegetable oil, onions, lettuce, eggplants, squash, corn, green beans, dried beans. These were vegetarian ingredients, although none of us was vegetarian. </p> <p> Ivo ate meat in the restaurant where he worked. Malinka ate meat in the daycare  she said that she often ended up with a big plate of chicken wings for lunch, because the daycare was not allowed to feed the bony chicken wings to the children. From time to time, my father-in-law would mention that he "bought himself some sausage at the store" and ate it before he came home. </p> <p> I mostly ate beans and potatoes. </p> <p> I learned to cook vegetarian food. I became the queen of the bean soup, the fried eggplant, the rice with tomato sauce, the zucchini with a topping of garlic yogurt, the potatoes  baked, fried, boiled, made into a salad or a main course, the pan-fried bell peppers, or the sweet peppers stuffed, of course, with rice. </p> <p> "Every woman must know how to make a meal from one onion and two potatoes," my father-in-law repeated often, and I did so all the time, proud of my newly acquired abilities. I got a lot of compliments about my cooking. Once, the awed Stoyan admitted out loud: </p> <p> "This is better than Malinka s. I don t know why. Somehow, it s just more delicious. Isn t it, Malinka?" </p> <p> Malinka pleated her upper lip as if it were an accordion and uttered, "Well& If that s what you think& " </p> <p> Ivo was sitting in his chair, puffed up like a rooster, proud that he had brought this young wife, who cooked and did laundry and took care of the baby and washed dishes and ironed underwear and swept floors and cleaned so readily all day. </p> <p> I sat on my chair with my back to the door, smiling, happy that I had pleased my new family, promising myself that the next day I would do even more cleaning, more laundry and more ironing, to make them even happier. </p> <p> My father-in-law sat at the table, pleased that the new wife seemed so eager to work hard and to learn the ways of his family; pleased that she seemed so respectful and cleaned his house and cooked his dinner even better than his wife. All was right with the world. All was as it always had been, and how it should continue. </p> <p> Forever. </p> <p> I was running around doing housework from early morning to late evening. Whenever my arms were not in the kitchen sink washing dishes or vegetables, they were in the bathroom sink, pre-treating stains on the clothes of the household members. Whenever my hands were dry, they held an iron or a broom. </p> <p> I still managed to squeeze in an afternoon walk in the park with my son after I had fed him lunch and while his clothes were drying on the line. He was a perfectly healthy, sweet boy with a sunny disposition, and almost never cried. He did make a lot of noise by trying out his voice  he cooed like a pigeon and mewed like a cat. He moved his lips in all directions and impressed us every day by inventing new sounds. He slept when he needed to sleep, and his baby giggles let me know when he was awake or hungry. </p> <p> * </p> <p> Around that time, I had to learn to eat quickly. </p> <p> During the first twenty years of my life, by virtue of being an only child, I was accustomed to receiving the best of the food my family ate. The center of the watermelon, its sweetest part with no seeds, was for me. My bowl of salad was made from the heart of the lettuce, rather than the substandard peripheral leaves. If on the table there was a plateful of hard-to-find, expensive deli meats, I was given the majority of the slices. </p> <p> My parents invited each other to eat the leftovers, but neither did. It was "for Katya." The first strawberry in my grandmother s garden  "for Katya." The first fig, the first grapes, also for Katya. Once a year, around New Year s time, a huge ship pulled into the port of Bourgas. It brought bananas. My mother stood in the endless line for hours and brought home three kilograms  the maximum that a single household was allowed to buy. These, too, were "for Katya." </p> <p> Everything was "for Katya." When I asked Grandma one day, "Why?" she explained to me, "You are little. You need to grow. The rest of us are already big." </p> <p> I accepted that everything was "for Katya." There was no reason not to. But I grew up, graduated high school, towered over my grandmother, and yet, everything still was "for Katya." </p> <p> That s why the way my parents-in-law ate came as a distinct shock to me. </p> <p> Stoyan sat down first, heavy on his chair, and lit a cigarette while Malinka and I served. As soon as the food appeared on the table, it was devoured, regardless of what it was. </p> <p> At first, I ate the only way I knew how  fussily picking small pieces, saving the best for last. But on this table, the best wasn t safe. They stalked each other with forks and knives, stabbing the soft backs of the potatoes from the common plate, dragging them onto the private catacombs of their own plates to finish them off. </p> <p> These people didn t have the notion that the best was "for Katya." Or even that there should be enough for Katya to eat. </p> <p> I watched, I learned, and I did what they did. I chose the best first. Nobody was going to keep it available for me and to nudge me to have it. I ate quickly, because no matter how much food was on the table, or how long it had taken me to prepare it, nobody stopped chewing until it was gone. </p> </div> <div class="clear"></div> <div id="browse"> <h2 class="subhead"></h2> <div class="clear"></div> </div> </div> <div id="footer"> <div id="footercontent"> <p>katerinaklemer.com &copy; all rights reserved</p> <p id="credit"><a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20120104083235/http://ramblingsoul.com/">CSS Template</a> by Ramblingsoul</p> </div> </div> </div> <!-- Start of StatCounter Code --> <script type="text/javascript"> var sc_project=4459178; var sc_invisible=1; var sc_partition=55; var sc_click_stat=1; var sc_security="cb9289aa"; </script> <script type="text/javascript" src="https://web.archive.org/web/20120104083235js_/http://www.statcounter.com/counter/counter.js"></script><noscript><div class="statcounter"><a title="drupal statistics" href="https://web.archive.org/web/20120104083235/http://www.statcounter.com/drupal/" target="_blank"><img class="statcounter" src="https://web.archive.org/web/20120104083235im_/http://c.statcounter.com/4459178/0/cb9289aa/1/" alt="drupal statistics"></a></div></noscript> <!-- End of StatCounter Code --> </body> </html> <!-- FILE ARCHIVED ON 08:32:35 Jan 04, 2012 AND RETRIEVED FROM THE INTERNET ARCHIVE ON 08:27:29 Jul 02, 2024. JAVASCRIPT APPENDED BY WAYBACK MACHINE, COPYRIGHT INTERNET ARCHIVE. ALL OTHER CONTENT MAY ALSO BE PROTECTED BY COPYRIGHT (17 U.S.C. SECTION 108(a)(3)). --> <!-- playback timings (ms): captures_list: 2.737 exclusion.robots: 0.237 exclusion.robots.policy: 0.221 esindex: 0.014 cdx.remote: 20.715 LoadShardBlock: 66.79 (3) PetaboxLoader3.datanode: 50.599 (4) PetaboxLoader3.resolve: 68.973 (2) load_resource: 55.671 -->