The Neck Bone

Still dressed in their best clothes, the Soare family gathered in the dining room after church and sat down in the usual manner when Grandma was visiting from the country, in tense, somber silence.

At the head of the table sat the Greek-Orthodox priest Father Soare, dressed in his black pulpit robe still reeking of incense. At the other end of the table sat his mother, in her traditional peasant attire, looking down her aquiline nose at the rest of the family. A sharp cow manure odor emanated from her embroidered lamb skin vest, apron and skirts.

To the right of Father Soare sat his wife, sullen and jumpy as she usually was every time her mother-in-law visited from the country. At the left of the priest, the oldest child Raluca, stared at a grey wine stain in the tablecloth, her shoe quietly kicking the leg of the table. Chubby and bright-eyed, the middle daughter, Catinca, seemed to be the only one looking forward to the family meal. The youngest child, Radu - a boy of about seven years old - sat between his mother and the old woman. The poor child had a hard time breathing through his mouth, unable to handle the cow manure stench coming from his grandmother's clothes. From time to time, his mother lowered her head and whispered in his ear to stop fidgeting if he wanted to be fed that day. Her own cheeks were red from holding her breath. She feigned arranging the blond fringe of hair away from her eyes and sneaking a whiff of her perfume-doused sleeve.

To make things worse, the weeds sitting in an expensive crystal vase in the center of the table gave off an awful acrid scent that made the young woman's eyes water. It was the gift the mother-in-law brought her, undoubtedly picked on the side of the country road when she walked to the train station. It smelled so foul as though all the village dogs had peed on them.

The old woman also had brought a basket of sour, stained apples not even pigs would touch. Not wanting to insult the guest, the cook had made a compote out of them, adding lots of cinnamon and linden-blossom honey to it to make it somewhat edible.

At last the kitchen door opened and the cook entered the dining room carrying a large porcelain pot resting comfortably on his beer belly. The cook aid followed with a shiny soup ladle.

They all breathed in the lovely aroma released into the air when the cook lifted the lid and rested it on a plate. The old woman smiled proudly, showing yellow-brown teeth. It was one of her hens laying in pieces in the pot. Her nose almost touched her chin when she smiled. Radu froze when seeing those witch-like teeth and chin and quickly looked away with a whimper. His mother touched his hand surreptitiously and shook her head, "Never mind it, son. You don't want to insult Grandma and anger your Father. She won't be here much longer."

The cook fished the hen breast from the pot and placed it carefully in the priest's large bowl. Then he added two ladles of steamy broth, vegetables and egg noodles, making sure not to scald anybody in the process. Next, he grabbed the old woman's bowl and fished from the pot the hen's head, neck, heart and feet. Young Radu stared at the strange pieces of meat landing in his grandmother's bowl and covered his mouth quickly. His mother touch his shoulder and shook her head. Her eyes read: "Keep it together, son. At least you don't have to eat that."

The priest's wife's portion was one of the thighs, yellow and fat, with the skin hanging loose from the bone. Raluca also received a thigh. She would have happily swapped it with her younger sister's piece of meat, but their father wouldn't allow a deviation from the family tradition.

Catinca's portion was a leg. She grinned happily and swallowed her saliva. She put her pudgy hands around the bowl as to warm them up, but didn't dare grab her spoon yet. Radu's portion was the other leg. He frowned bleakly at the leg bone and limp cartilage sticking out from the clear broth, dotted with bright-green parsley bits. Anything that his grandmother touched caused him anxiety. Her mere presence gave him a stomachache.

The cook and his aid would each enjoy the hen wings after the family was served, when they would be able to sit down and eat in the kitchen.

When all the bowls were filled, Father Soare nodded to his family and picked up his spoon. He had big hands, with hairy, meaty fingers. His ring shone discreetly in the muted light filtering through the lacy curtains that dressed the large windows. He grabbed a thick slice of potato bread and sank his teeth into the white sponge. He chewed and sighed with satisfaction, nodding approvingly of the flavorful broth. His wife threw him a weary look and broke a small piece of bread and put it in her mouth. She swallowed the soup quietly, in a dignified way, worthy of her noble upbringing. She looked at her son to her right, glaring at the chopped vegetables in his spoon. He hated celery root and parsnips. He felt in the soup with his spoon and dropped everything back in the bowl except for bits of potatoes and carrot.

"Your boy is too skinny, Elena," the grandmother observed and slurped her soup loudly. "He can't be picky. He looks barely three, not six, poor chicken." The young woman thought her mother-in-law would swallow her spoon if she slurped her soup any louder. The kids were also startled at the sucking sound the ghastly grandmother made every time she took the spoon to her mouth. The only one unperturbed by the revolting sound was the priest, too absorbed in his own slurping to notice the pinched look on his wife and children's faces.

"He'll be eight in the fall," Elena responded calmly, blotting her mouth with her lilac linen napkin.

She felt her husband's eyes on her and her left cheek started burning. She reached for the water glass. Her fingers were shaking slightly, but she managed to swallow a few sips without choking and spraying water through her nose like the last time she got into an argument with the harpy sitting sovereignly at the head of the table in her parents' house.

~~~ to be continued` ~~~