Dinner with the (Romo) 'rents.

My first month in Zalău I lived with a host family, a gazda, until I could find my own apartment and get settled. During the month I stayed with Nelu and Feli, they adopted me as their American daughter and I adopted them as my Romanian parents. And because Feli’s biological children both live in other countries (a son in Hungary and a daughter in the States), Feli has gotten into the habit of being a little overly motherly with me and the other Americans she has taken under her wing.

Part of my daughterly duty is to return to their apartment and visit about once a month. A few nights ago I did my responsibility and walked across town to wish Feli a happy birthday and congratulate both of them on their recent addition to the family, a granddaughter. Nelu answered my nock with a hug and a lecture. “We’re mad at you!” he declared. “You do not visit enough!” Feli shushed him and ushered me into the kitchen where she had cooked enough to feed all of Sălaj county, let alone me. But before I was allowed to eat anything I was shepherded over to the computer so I could see pictures of “the most beautiful baby in the world.”

Women in Romania are expected to marry young so that they can have many children, while men marry late so they can have a financial foundation to support all the children that their young wives are going to have. At age 23, I am in prime marrying age. Nelu knows of a few nice Romanian guys that he could introduce me to, if I wanted. Thankfully, Feli called me back into the kitchen.

Here in Romania there’s an alcoholic drink made of plums called ţuica. It’s about 80 proof and typically made at home in either a garage or in the bathroom. In Sălaj county there’s a different variation called pilinka. Pilinka is double distilled and thus twice as strong. No meal can be had without a shot or two of either ţuica or pilinka, and any cause for celebration requires massive amounts of the drink. This particular night was a combination celebration, for Feli’s birthday, the birth of their granddaughter and my rare visit. Nelu had the ţuica flowing all night, along with wine.

About halfway into the second course, Nelu remembered that I should be searching for a nice boy to bring home to mom to meet. He asked me if I had met any during my months in Romania, I said that, sadly, I had not. He bent his pointer finger and shook it vigorously at me. A bent finger means someone is lying; the crooked finger is a visual representation of the crooked words said. He reminded me that he wants to be able to dance at my wedding, so I might as well hurry up because he isn’t getting any younger, thank you very much. Again I was saved, the telephone rang and he got up to answer it.

It turned out to be their son in Hungary, with an update about the baby. She’s still the best baby in all Hungary, Romania and probably the whole world. After hanging up Nelu came back into the kitchen. He told me that he was saving half of this year’s ţuica for the baby’s wedding. In 18-20 years, it will be a wonderful vintage. Then, stealing a sly glance at me, Feli asked if he was going to save any for my wedding from this year. This is the year of my Romanian birth after all.

I left that night with a bag of left-over’s, a bag of canned food Feli decided I needed, and a promise to look out for a Romanian boy. I wonder what Nelu and Feli will be worried about for me next month, when I go for my daughterly visit. Lord help me.