Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne

Leaves of lettuce stood fluffed up, robust and fresh. The dill showed off the most, to the point of going wild beyond the border of the garden. While weeding, Grandma digressed. “A good garden is like a good life,” she used to say. “It depends on subtleties.” “I’ll turn down the radio,” my mother said. “Please do not, they’re singing beautifully,” said Grandma and joined in the singing. Grandma’s notes rose higher than ever. It seemed that the instrument ignored the limit of its abilities. When she finished singing, she swiftly rose up from the chair and pointed to the boiling broth. We put vegetables into the pot with pieces of chicken. “Chicken feet add this special flavor to the broth,” she explained. “But if you could see,” she laughed out loud, “what sort of rumpus your mother made about chicken feet. She ran away from kindergarten, when she had not gotten chicken feet. If she had demanded the breast or the chicken leg, but no, she fancied chicken feet! In rebellion, she ran away. She always knew what she wanted. This was the first injustice she experienced, or perhaps malice.” “And I’ll be the second chorus,” volunteered my father.

Grandma raised a spoon to her mouth to taste the broth.

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