This Full House

A Hungarian's Recipe for Hungarian Gulash: You Say Goulash, I Say Gulyas - Let's Just Call it Soup!

This is what Hungarian Gulyas (a.k.a. Gulash, Goulash) is supposed to look like (for real!)

You may or may not know that my twin brother Steve and I are first generation born Americans. 

Yep, we grew up in the kitchen, breathing in the delicious aromas of my mother's and grandmother's Hungarian cooking.

Feel free to trust me when I tell you that there is absolutely NOTHING better than a big old steaming bowl of happiness, served up with some crusty bread, on a cold, wet, gloomy, or slightly sad sort of day.

Hungarian comfort food, baby!

You know that reddish-brown-gravy-laden stew-type dish served over noodles and featured as "Hungarian Goulash" in cookbooks and cooking magazines?

Nope, that is actually called Pörkölt (purr-curlt) although, also filed under Hungarian comfort food, it is very versatile and can be prepared using beef, veal, lamb or chicken (a.k.a. chicken paprikash!)

Gulyas (ghoul-yah-sh) on the other hand, is a soup. 

Backstory:  Gulya in Hungarian means herdsman, or cowboy.  Gulyas (a.k.a. Gulash, Goulash) means "of the herdsman," who would have prepared this dish in a cast iron pot hitched over a stone fire pit while working the puszta (pooh-stuh) or the Hungarian prairie, if you will.

Although, they probably didn't include dumplings in their recipe (I don't think.)

I mentioned something on Facebook about making Hungarian Gulyas (et al) yesterday and then promised to share my family's recipe here with everyone, too!

So, to set the record straight:

#NaBloPoMo Day 28: Old Country Fiddle

Todays Prompt:  describe an heirloom that has been passed down through generations of your family. What is its significance to you personally?

This is my grandfather's fiddle.  Although, my father doesn't remember his father ever playing it (then again, my dad escaped Hungary when he was 19) as the family genealogist, he passed it on to me.

Violins play a prominent role in Hungarian folks songs -- especially, gypsy music. 

One of my favorite childhood memories is going to see Gypsy Joe and his orchestra play at the Hungarian Club and dancing the Csardas (ch-ahhr-dahh-sh) with my grandmother, on New Year's Eve.

Although, the appraiser didn't seem very impressed by the fact the stick is fashioned with real horse hair (or wild hog, I forget) considering all the miles this fiddle has traveled and the stories behind the hands that lived its music, in my eyes, it is a true treasure.

 

Aaaaand, I like to imagine my grandfather, playing it, just like this and (at about 2 minutes, 30 seconds in) start twirling like it was 1974, all over again, because violins do that to me. 

I guess it's in my blood, you know?  Hoop-pah!!!

© 2003 - 2011 This Full House

I'm NaBloPoMo-ing it, this month (first time NaBloPoMo-er) feel free to check out what I've NaBloPoMo-ed, thus far (PHEW!) and let me know how I'm doing (I mean, 30 posts, in 30 days, really?!?) when you have time, of course!

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Life in the Past Lane

My twin brother and our great grandmother in Hungary 1966

I've been researching my family tree for quite a while, now -- around the same time I started blogging, actually -- and it's all my mother-in-law's fault.

My getting hooked on genealogy, I mean (HI MOM!) she reads my blog, sometimes.

Thompsons have fought in the American Revolution, helped bury victims from the Titanic on the shores of Nova Scotia, my mother-in-law's brother was one of the original Flying Tigers during WWII and they've went as far back as tracing their lines to the early 1600's.

Me?

We Like to Party Like It's All Saints Day

I attended Catholic school until the 2nd grade.  Long story short, my father and the Reverend Mother had a bit of an argument over my poor potty habits.

Oh, I was trained alright (learned how in public school) it was because of my having to go at least twice, rather than the allotted one potty stop, per day, per student ruling -- because, any more than that clearly provokes a sinful bladder -- or something. 

My Father, Zee Pool Mon-nee-tor

I'm a people watcher to the extent where I can sit, pretty much any place, for hours and, you know, make other people wonder, "Why IS she staring at me like that?!?"

Because, it's in my genes, along with a weird sort of magnetism, or ability to draw complete strangers into sharing their WHOLE life story (I'm a good listener, too) oh, and certain parts of my body are extremely follicle-ly gifted (you're welcome!) I get it from my dad.

My father volunteered to be pool monitor (checks badges, accepts tickets from visitors) a couple hours,  twice a week, this summer and if you've ever hung around the geriatric set (figuratively AND literally speaking) then you would probably understand when he tells you, "Izzzzz no pic-a-nik!"

It was his last day (as pool monitor) but, he did not want to go, because it was between the hours of "NO splashing" and "They're not OUR grandkids."

I said that I would go with him, anyway, just to keep him company and it would give him (and me) the chance to sit and make fun of the...I mean...interact with the rest of the villagers.

"Did you ask permission to take pictures?"

You know, it was SUCH a beautiful day and I really could have sat there for hours, I don't believe the cement was very interested in what I was doing, really.

"I em herrrrr perrrrrrmeeeeee-shun!"

I mean, he IS the pool monitor and, honestly, the pool chairs and loungers didn't seem to mind, either.

My kids think their grandfather is funny (me, too) but, sometimes they have a real hard time figuring out whether Papa is being serious, or not (ditto) like, when he tells them how he, you know, hates senior citizens.

"Oh, okay, YOU gave her permission, uh-uh, and you are?"

Okay, not really, it's just, well, at this point, my father feels life is too short to worry about Jackwagons, who insist on acting all, you know, Jackwagon-y.

"I em fin-eeeshed speaking to you."

Me, too... AND... I really, really hate it when people get all patronize-y, like that!

"Sir, really, you're not making any friends, talking down to people, like that."

[eyes go wide]

 "Oh, I forrrrget, you did not meet my frrrrrend Joe...Joe, dis izzzz my dah-terrrr."

[one beat, two beats]

"Yeah, I noticed the resemblence."

UGH!  That Papa!  He's so, so funny.

"Nice to meet you, too!"

Morale of the Story:  If a man insisted always on being serious, and never allowed himself a bit of fun and relaxation, he would go mad or become unstable without knowing it. ~ Herodotus

Aaaaaand, THEN, make it HIS life's mission to drive us womenz right off the deep end...riiiiiiiiight?!?

[sound of crickets, chirping]

Look, over there, up on that satellite thingy, isn't that one of those turkey vultures, up there?!?

SLAM!

© 2003 - 2011 This Full House

Where I'm From

[photo credit] Hungarian refugee crossing into Austria

I saw this awesome writing exercise over at Ramblin' Red's blog and, taking into consideration that I do tend to get lost and sometimes feel as if I don't know if I'm coming or going (okay, a lot) also, I am currently, suffering from a slight case of summertime mommy brain (what, you too?!?) and seeing it's ONLY July 5th (I think) I've decided to give it a whirl.

There's a template of prompts to follow and, ideally, help to create something of myself, while reading like no other poem, in existence (we'll see) here we go:

• I am from my Grandmother's freshly-ironed apron, from lemon Pledge and my father's record collection of Broadway musicals.

• I am from a working class home, in a less than desirable neighborhood, where children were left to play in streets filled with the smell of smoked meat and pot holes, covered with cinder blocks and plywood, "borrowed" from construction sites, that were laid on top and fashioned into bike ramps, left to roast in the summertime heat.

• I am from the fresh green smell of parsley root and the spiciness of Hungarian peppers, carefully planted in abundantly lush rows of raised beds, caressed by callused hands, then laid to rest in a make-shift green house of plastic wrap and leftover piping.

• I am from chicken soup on Sundays and sharing stories with men and women (mostly true) made old before their time, while their children swung under willow trees, or chased each other among the hot dog carts, remembering grandparents they have never met, with strange sounding, yet familiar names, like Katkics and Kiss.

• I am from that family, who never seemed to learn how to fully close windows and doors (especially, in the summertime) and would rather go to bed angry, or wake in silence, than have to face fighting, yet another day.

• From this house, children must not be heard, but you must listen and do as I say, right or wrong, it's for your own good.

• I am from kneeling while praying in church, as a punishment at home, or asking for forgiveness, having forgotten to cover my head, in an act of absolute humility, again.

• I'm from New Jersey, the first generation to be born on American soil, by way of Hungarian immigrants, growing up in war torn streets and made world weary as teenagers, who then met each other, through surrogate family members, building on a strong foundation, for the love of family, whose roots are buried deep in Hungarian Goulash and Paprika, preferably Kalocsai.

• From the grandmother who chose to immigrate to America, as the lesser of 2 evils, in an attempt to escape an abusive husband, by herself, with my mother and my Aunt Theresa (who was only 4 years-old at the time) sadly, from the man who eventually found them, and, though he has been dead to us, for over 20 years and, although I cried, having recently found his obituary, I am thankful that he is no longer on this earth.

• I am from a secret place, deep inside the belly of a long-neglected room, hiding behind trunks of old clothes and 8 mm home movies, wearing my grandmother's stole, made of real mink (with their heads still attached) and trying on an old pair of peep-toed heels, listening to the furnace, as it comes to life behind me and consumes another shovelful of coal, granting me audience, as I pretend that my life is a movie, I become my own story.

Curiously enough, the photo (waaaaaaay up there) is from a showcase featured as Freedom and Liberty and, well, I thought it just sort of fits, you know?

EDITED TO ADD:  If you decide to make one of your own, Schmutzie has a link up with others sharing, too <---- learned this from reading Tracie's entry, thanks!

© 2003 - 2011 This Full House

Times Fun When You're Having Flies

Not unlike many cultures, growing up, my twin brother and I spent a lot of time with our grandmother -- especially, in the summertime.

Some of my fondest memories are of helping Nagy Mama cook Sunday dinner, or tend to her vegetable gardens, while listening to awesome stories "from the old country."

To be REAL honest, there were a few downright scary moments when I think she, along with others of the grandparent-ly-type, made up half of these so-called folktales, just to scare us kids into, you know, being good.

So...YES!...I have taken poetic license in re-telling some of these stories...to MY children.

Like, when exploring Uncle John's and Aunt Cheryl's farm, looking for freshwater crawfish (WHAT!?!?) apparently, Jersey's got 'em, who knew?

Aaaand, finding this little dude, instead, then telling my kids that...YES!...it is most definitely a wishing frog .

Which, upon closer inspection, he (or, she???) was obviously ready, willing and seemed to be quite comfortable, actually, in granting us audience, big or small.

Ahhhhhh...but, there IS a catch...you have to catch him, first.

Then...and ONLY then...can you make your wish.

Unless, you find a tall, dark and really, really brave mom-type blogger (preferably, descended from a long line of warrior princesses) to, you know, do it, for you. 

Because, contrary to what the Grimm Brothers may have told you, it's really bad juju to kiss a frog (see disclosure, below.)

Go ahead, make a wish (you know you want to) but, don't say I didn't warn you...OH!...and you're welcome!!!

Disclosure:  Just so you know, this blog post is for entertainment purposes, ONLY.  I am in no way advocating the kissing of frogs.  In fact, it's probably a REAL bad idea, as some frogs can give humans tapeworm cysts and salmonella poisoning.  (See also:  EWWWW and GAG ME WITH A SHOVEL!!!!) It's okay, though, because I didn't really kiss him/her, made sure to wash my hands (before and after) and, truth be told, the frog didn't look too happy about the idea, either. SHEESH!!!

© 2003 - 2011 This Full House

Breaking Bread

My 15 yo ripped into this piece of bread, right after the following conversation, and, well, it's a sign, I tell ya'!

Soup.  Bread.  Growing up, these were the staples in my mother's pantry.  Today, at our house, they remain at the top of the food pyramid (yes, soup is a food group, dangit!) as a meal I am absolutely confident ALL four of my kids will eat, on purpose. 

"What's for dinner?"

[heavy sigh]

"I DON'T KNOW!!!"

Yes, I know, I'm using uppercase (AGAIN!) understand, that I've probably answered the question, three times, already and, well, judging by my middle girl's not skipping a beat, I really wasn't hollering, that loud.

"Do we have any soup?"

Of course.

"Is it Mama's soup?"

My mother's homemade chicken soup?  On a weekday?  SACRILEGE!

"Mama makes some kick-butt soup!"

Some days are better than others, to be sure (especially, with aging parents) and, truth be told, sometimes, conversations do tend to become tiresome (most especially, when being scolded, by your aging parents, at 40-something-or-another) but, it just wouldn't be Sunday, without it.

"Yes, yes she does."

On the other hand, swallowing one's pride, every now and again, can be sort of healthy for you, too, right?

"But, no, it's not Mama's soup."

That, my friends, is what Sundays are made for. 

"Okay, but do we have bread?"

Always.

"I just LOVE bread!"

Me, too.

© 2003 - 2011 This Full House

Nearly Wordless Wednesday: The Dance

My mother's baby sister, Aunt Theresa (holding me) her friend (holding my brother) my dad, my mom and Nagy Mama late spring, 1964.

04/30/52 - 11/02/10

My Aunt Theresa sass'nit up on the dance floor (with me) on my wedding day (August 25, 1990) whose last wish was to be buried in the same awesomely sassy dress, tomorrow. 

Until we meet again...save me a dance, my sweet and awesomely sassy Keresztmama (Godmother, in Hungarian) you will be missed, never forgotten and forever loved for ALL your sassyness and more!!! 

Forever yours, Sziszike.

Friggin' Diabetes.

© 2010 This Full House Blog / This Full House Gone Shopping

Just Another Idiomatic Friday (Translates Very Well to Mondays)

We were all sitting at the dinner table (yes, at the same time, must have been a full moon, or something) don't ask me which day (I forget) when my oldest daughter (she's 16) lamented the fact that my youngest daughter (who is 9) isn't much of a girly girl, anymore.

"My friends think it's cool I'm a tomboy!"

This year.

"Who am I going to dress up and put makeup on?"

On the one hand, the thought of Holly playing with her baby sister, without having to be asked or paid...real money...is very cute.

"But, mommy lets YOU wear makeup!?!?"

On the other hand, idioms tend to annoy me and, well, they just don't make a lick of sense.

[one beat, two beats]

D'oh!

However, it never dawned on me, until now, those funny little Hungarian sayings my grandmother would throw out, every now and again (especially, when my twin brother or I got into trouble) translated pretty well in English, too.

For example:

A szomszéd rétje mindig zöldebb: The neighbor's meadow is always greener (and, well, heck, it's hard not to be a little envious, when all you've got is, you know, grass!)

Bagoly mondja verébnek, hogy nagyfejű: The owl tells the sparrow that it is big-headed (sort of like the pot calling the kettle black, stupid owl!)

Csepp a tengerben: A drop in the sea (Especially, when you don't have a bucket, or your neighbor borrowed it and, you know, misplaced it in the frickin' meadow somewhere.)

Egyik tizenkilenc, másik egy híján húsz: One of them is nineteen, the other one is less than twenty (Either way, equally bad when considering marriage or the price of eggs today!)

Feldobja a bakancsot: Throw the boots up (When kicking the bucket seems futile...see above.)

Hideg zuhany: Cold shower (which is pretty much international and doesn't count, unless you are nineteen, or twenty, I think.)

Jobb félni, mint megijedni: Is it better to fear, than to get frightened (Not when you consider discretion is the better part of valor or your kid has a nasty case of the hiccups...for the last hour.)

Könnyebb utolérni a hazugot, mint a sánta kutyát: It is easier to catch a liar than a lame dog (Yes, but it didn't help that my grandmother had very long legs and could run pretty gosh-darned fast...too...DAMMIT.)

Mint elefánt a porcelánüzletben: Like an elephant in a china shop (Which is total bullcrap, considering that stuff seemed to break easily, just by my looking at it.  Wait a minute.  D'oh!  Never mind.)

Aaaand, that's just half of the ones I can think of (because, I'm old) considering there are 36 letters in the Hungarian alphabet (you're welcome!) and I just remembered something else.

I can't believe it's been 6 years, since she passed, this month (Happy Anniversary in Heaven, Nagy Mama!) and I am missing my grandmother, more than words can say, right now!

Stupid idioms.

© 2010 This Full House Blog / TFH Gone Shopping