American Gypsy by Oksana Marafioti Read Free Book Online

half full, and she never hesitated to comment on it. Mom’s solution was to start cooking for herself. The first time she made kotleti Armenian-style, with lots of onions, potatoes, and dried basil in the minced beef, the aroma beckoned Grandma into the kitchen. The second time, Grandma waited until my parents had left for a show before swiping a kotleti . The third, she said, “How do you make them so juicy?” It took years for Mom and Grandma to get along, but the first step was made over a plate of savory minced beef.
    My favorite of Mom’s dishes was tort-salat , or cake-salad in English: a salad composed like a layer cake. Every time Mom made it, I’d be in the kitchen. Mom never used cookbooks or written recipes, and she eyeballed the ingredient portions and estimated the cooking times.
    â€œMom,” I’d say, “let me make tort-salat this time. Write down the steps and I’ll follow.”
    She’d hardly look up from her cooking, hovering like an alchemist over potions. “The best way to learn is by observing the cook.”
    But that proved more frustrating than not knowing. When asked how many potatoes to use in podzharka , Russian beef stew, she’d say, “Enough to last four people two days, because it’s always best the day after you make it.”
    â€œWhen do I place the chicken into the frying pan?”
    â€œNot until the melting butter stops hissing at you.”
    â€œHow do I know when the borscht is done?”
    â€œWhen it smells done.”
    Mom picked up many of her cooking skills on the road from other Romani women, and maybe that’s why her methods seemed so chaotic. Soviet hotels didn’t come furnished with kitchenettes, and no performer could afford to eat out while on the road for six months at a stretch. Even if we had the means, restaurant fare in most of the towns we played would make a dog puke. But cooking in hotel rooms was strictly forbidden. I remember Esmeralda, Zhanna’s older half sister, hurling a perfectly good pot of chicken and potatoes out the hotel-room window while the hotel manager banged on the door, shouting, “I smell meat!” As she passed me on her way to the door, Esmeralda pressed a finger to my lips and pinched my cheek. “Our secret, okay?” She opened it, relaxing her curvy figure against the doorframe like a star of the silver screen. The manager’s Brezhnev-like eyebrows unfurrowed, but his nostrils flared as he tried to sneak a look past her shoulder.
    Like Esmeralda, the women in the band hid hot plates in their luggage; a single burner and a pot was all they needed to throw together mouthwatering dishes. And they made quick work of it. Onions had to be chopped with mad speed, eggs fried until just runny, toast buttered and swallowed before we were discovered. Mom and I spent many an afternoon watching some Romani do her magic over a tiny electric stove. In fact, it was the reason I’d started keeping a journal in the first place.
    I was nine and my first entry described the way Esmeralda made tea and how she’d managed to turn the brewing process into a magical spell.
    â€œTo make proper zavarka (essence), you need five tablespoons of loose-leaf Ceylon tea in a white teapot.” The leaves formed into mountains as she measured them out. “Then, hot water to just below the spout.” After this step, she’d fetch a tall heatproof glass and fill it halfway with the essence, pour the liquid back into the pot, and repeat it thirteen times.
    â€œWhat are you doing now?” I asked.
    â€œMarrying the essence with the water,” she explained. “If you want to catch a good man, pay attention.”
    â€œOh, is this how everybody does it?”
    â€œSmart women do whatever’s necessary. It’s simple. The leaves won’t infuse the water if both are standing still and not putting effort into it. Leaves by nature are lazy, and