stories

I'm supposed to be doing laundry right now, and reading a book that I'm supposed to be handing an essay in on tomorrow. However, this weekend just flew by and I woke up with more symptoms of the ever reaching cold/flu, as if it had never left my system (3 weeks ago). I think I need to see an immunologist and nutritionist, but hey...that's not why I'm here. In the spirit of all the things I've been reading (and experiencing) in regards to candy, I have my own little tale. And maybe all that candy is why I'm sick, but I doubt it. Really.

When I was a child in communist Slovakia and my grandmother wanted to imbue me with a sense of right and wrong and the idea of punishment. She used to tell me a story about my mom and her two sisters. There was a type of candy they used to like; potato sugar (in Slovak, zemiakovy cukor). If they were good, sometimes one of my grandparents would bring some home. But three girls having a horrible sweet tooth makes for trouble (they were all brunettes too). They banded together and decided to pull off a heist of massive proportions. You know...for basically being a bit above toddler status. One stood watch at the kitchen door where my grandfather was sleeping (we had a bed in the kitchen, crazy huh), and the other stood at the end of the seemingly miles long hallway to the dining/living room where my grandmother was doing something, most likely sewing. I'm pretty sure my mom was the one who reached into the pocket of my grandfather's jacket and took out several crowns. Later the girls gorged on potato sugar, and if I'm going to hypothesize, I'd say that the reason they got found out was because they didn't want dinner.

Needless to say, grandfather was pissed (Ruh-rizzle!) and the girls wouldn't betray who did what, so they all got the spankings. I'd say it was probably worth it. I guess it definitely taught me a lesson because I never took money from my parents without asking, but it also made me incredibly curious about this "potato sugar" thing. They had stopped making it for a long time, and then eventually one day when I was about 5 or 6 my grandmother found some in the market and brought it home. At first I thought it was gross. It came formed like chocolate bars, so it seemed as if you could break it into pieces, but it was waaaaaaaay too hard. You'd have to suck on it, wear it down, and it was one of those acquired tastes. But I was determined to like it. It's so hard to describe the flavour, it was sweet but bitter, and the texture was to die for. I loved breaking off a piece and just....crunching it (probably ruining my molars with each gnash). And I miss it. I miss it a lot. I think I'll ask my mom about that story when I next see her.

On that note, the laundry ain't gonna do itself yo.