Sarma

It seems like the spirit of Christmas has changed over the years, or is it me? People are cranky and rude, and gatherings are more challenging to organize. Family and friends have moved away to more affordable areas of the country, so getting together has become a hassle. Stretching oneself so thin that when you finally catch up with said family on Christmas, you are too tired and can barely keep your eyes open. I always wish the holidays would hurry by. Not when I was a kid; I lived for Christmas and wished it was Christmas every day. What went wrong?

Two days before Christmas, I was gift shopping when I passed an Eastern European restaurant. I could smell cabbage, meat, onions, and sauerkraut. The scent brought memories of comfort back to me, memories of Christmas in my childhood. My parents, siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles, gathering around my grandmother’s table on Christmas Eve came rushing in. 

It had been years since those Christmases, but the scent brought me back as if it were yesterday. Sarma (stuffed cabbage) with tomato juice and sauerkraut, a Serbian and Croatian delight.

I got home that night but stopped at the supermarket first. I was going to make sarma for the first time. It was a family tradition to have it at Christmas. My mother had told me it is time-consuming, so it was made on special occasions with love for family and the time spent together.

I got home and started immediately. I steam my cabbage first, coring and peeling the leaves off after, set aside. Mix the meat with small chopped onions, salt, pepper, one egg, and long-grain cooked rice. I put my ‘Christmas in Croatia’ CD on as I started to stuff and roll each cabbage leaf. It always seemed easy for my elders, who had made it many times over the years, but for my first time I thought I’d never be done rolling them. Now I understand what my mom said: it is made with love. I placed 26 rolls in a baking dish and poured tomato juice over them with sauerkraut on top, and popped them into the oven to cook.

The scent from the past slowly rose and filled my apartment. My grandmother, my father’s mother, was happiest when surrounded by her children and grandchildren. Her husband, my grandfather, had passed away years before. I never knew my mother’s mother. She died when my mom was 12 years old, and my mother’s father died long before I was born. So, most traditions came from my father’s side of the family. 

My grandmother spoke very little English, but her love was communicated through her warm hugs and always cooking for us. My memory of her is she was not very tall, had a slightly rounded figure, and had the most soulful, beautiful dark brown eyes with smooth satin olive skin. On some weekends, we would gather around the large, long table in her dining room while she served dishes from the old country. Anise soup was one of them I wasn’t crazy about, but she believed the stem and flower could cure most ailments and keep you strong. She was a healer and helped many who could not afford to go to the doctors. I remember her going around the table to make sure everyone had food. She would touch my cheek and kiss my forehead as she would to all her grandchildren. Her hands were always warm, and I felt her love when she touched my cheek.

One hour later, I removed the rolls from the oven to cool and wanted to see if they tasted as good as my grandmother’s. I put one on a plate, sat briefly, taking in the scent, then cut into the roll. Tasting the sarma, I closed my eyes and took in every flavor rolling across my taste buds. When I opened my eyes, I was sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen. How I got there I will never know. She was at the stove cooking and I could hear people talking in the dining room. Kids were giggling and running through the house. I was startled and not sure what was happening to me. Was I hallucinating?

I stood up from the kitchen table and walked into the dining room, past everyone sitting at the table, into the living room. A full-body, rounded Christmas tree about five feet tall sat in the corner. It was covered in large Christmas lights like they used to make, ornaments, and silver tinsel. I walked back into the dining room, and my parents, siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles, all in their younger years, were crammed around the table but didn’t seem to mind. They were happily eating, drinking, and conversing with one another. No one noticed me. I cleared my voice and said hello, but no one looked up. I waved my hands every which way, and still, I was invisible to them.

I stood and watched them as my heart became overwhelmed with love and longing for those Christmases so long ago. Things seemed to be simpler, and family took priority over work and possessions. I went back into the kitchen and sat down at the table again. I felt sad because I realized our traditions and spending time with family had fallen to the wayside since my parents and elders had passed. It is a different world we live in now; what was important back then doesn’t hold anymore, or so it seems. Everyone is too busy and just catches up via Facetime or text. Traditions have to be passed down, and my generation dropped the ball. Is it too late, I wondered. Is it too late for my family to bring back traditions?

My grandmother walked in and stopped at the table where I was sitting. I looked up at her, and she smiled and touched my cheek. She could see me.

“BaBa?” (Grandmother)

“Da.” (Yes)

I hugged her around her waist as I sat there and started to cry. “No, no suze,” she said as she placed her warm hand on my face again and kissed my forehead like she had when I was a child. Suze means tears, no tears. How blessed I felt to have this moment with her. She pointed to the sarma sitting on the table in front of me, “Jesti” (eat).

I smiled and turned to look at my plate, but when I looked back at her, she was gone, and I was back in my kitchen. I wrapped up the rest of the sarma and put it in the refrigerator to bring to my sister’s house the next night on Christmas Eve. I lay in bed, running what happened over and over in my head, trying to figure out if I was really back in time or if I was so tired I fell asleep while eating and dreamed everything. I’ll never know for sure, but the answer to my own question of, is it too late? Never.