Lost in Translation

In the middle of China, it is apparently difficult to find canned tuna. "I can't understand the labels. Everything looks crazy. I bought 'Happy Swallow' and still don't know what it is," recounted my friend upon his arrival to a small village outside Qindao. Being away for long periods in another culture requires numerous social adjustments. Sometimes these culinary perils are monumental challenges to our dietary customs. He finished his lament, "I just want something to eat that reminds me of home."

When I was nineteen, I fled from the South to Vienna, Austria as part of "that allegedly elite university's" study abroad program. During weekly phone calls, Estelle graciously suffered through numerous stories involving the Roman Ruins at Michaelerplatz, waltzing at the Staatsoper and weekly escapes to the Prater before launching her inquisitions. "Did your write a thank-you note for those opera tickets?"Her questions were always more reinforcements than reminders. "Please, make sure you are using good manners. I don't want people thinking you don't have good home training."

The approaching Easter holiday coupled with a heralding account of surviving an elephant pummeling in the Austrian countryside motivated my mother's first visit to the Austrian capital. "What in the Lord's name were you doing consorting with gypsies? Do you think that is appropriate? Your father and I will be there the Wednesday before Easter." Although a very reputable faculty member assured Estelle that my one-time stay in a hospital was, in fact, the result of a swift thrashing of an elephant's trunk, that gypsies were not my colleagues, that my grades were actually exemplary and that my manners were impeccable, she still stood firm on international travel.

Arriving at the airport thirty minutes prior to my parents' arrival gave me ample time to create international scenarios involving Estelle and her ability to attract the chemically dependent, developmentally challenged and socially insane. Worry, rightfully so, is a genetic trait in my family. The sea of passengers deplaning could not overshadow my father's over-six-foot stature and his head topped the henna-colored hair of the Austrian women before him. Estelle was nowhere to be seen. As he slowly approached, I could see the hand rest of a wheelchair firmly gripped with its occupant shielded by a group of women obviously over-stuffed from years of streusel. Imagining my mom in need of medical attention during an international flight paled me.

Making my way to the crowded gate and pushing my way through of forest of grey tweeds and lederhosen, I soon spotted the contents of the wheelchair: a large, ivory-colored purse with bamboo handles. With my heart slowly restarting, I heard the all-too-familiar lilt, "Well, I surely have enjoyed talking with you." Estelle was walking with a portly older woman hand in hand. The elderly woman's tottering indicated she was in greater need of the wheelchair than Estelle's pocketbook. "Well, this is my son. He is here studying and I am here now to makes sure he is behaving himself. Brian this is Barb'ra. She just visited New Jersey and I told her the next time she came to the United States that she must stay with us in the great state of North Carolina. It was so nice talking with you, hon. Now, you take care." The women, as if they were old friends accustomed to Sunday afternoons talking on the front port, hugged. My dad, still ushering the designer purse in a wheelchair, and I exchanged glances. Estelle had arrived.

We had not made it to baggage claim before Estelle announced, "Now Sunday, I am going to make a huge Easter Dinner for your friends." After eight hours on an airplane, most people are ready for a modicum of respite but Estelle is ready for luxury shopping and planning social events involving sixteen or more guests. My dad and I were shocked not at her energy but at her intentions to enter a kitchen. To Estelle the kitchen is a plague that fleeces time and an acceptable waist line from its victims. "Now, baby who do you think we should invite?"

I was unsure of the translation of a Southern Easter dinner in a world where Gerhardt, Franz, Annalise and Farahilde trumped Colby, Jackson, Anna Carol and Bethany. Equally uncertain was the making of ambrosia salad, a mixture of coconut, cherries, mandarin oranges and cottage cheese that is a staple at family reunions and church dinner-on-the-grounds. If a polite "yes ma'am" and "yes sir" are verbal indicators of good home training, ambrosia is the culinary equivalent.

Entering the Vom Fass market on a Saturday afternoon, Estelle began gathering sundries for fried chicken, green beans and macaroni and cheese. When visual clues failed her gathering, she would ask for my assistance. "Ask the butcher for a whole cut up chicken." She would smile proudly as if I were translating at the United Nations and not simply asking for poultry. "Now, ask that lady over there if she has any half-runners." With each question, she would graciously smile at the grocer and conclude the conversation with her unique and lengthy pronunciation of "danke."

With her list surprisingly almost completed, Estelle viewed the last item needed for her Easter fanfare: cottage cheese. My mom has no fear in asking complete strangers for assistance; however, this is not a comfort we share. "Ask that lady where the cottage cheese is." I replied, "I don't think I know the word for 'cottage cheese.'" Her shock indicated another failure of "that allegedly elite university."

I did my best talking about curds of white cheese traditionally used by dieters with no success. Already flustered from my attempt, the abrupt reaction to my inquisition stunted any further probing. "I don't think they have cottage cheese in Austria, mom." Estelle does not accept defeat. "Oh, I know," my mother's voice testifying her solution, "cottage is a little house. Ask that lady if she has the little house cheese. She'll know what we need." The woman, startled by my mother's inflections and insulted by my inquisition of dieting cheese, quickly turned and scuttled towards the bottles of white wines on the next aisle.

Taking cue from my earlier queries, Estelle set out to gather cottage cheese as best she could. "Haben . . .zie . .any kleine' . . haus . .kase?" The young woman stocking mineral water was befuddled at the German slowly leaking from Estelle's mouth. Estelle began to draw a simple house in the air to aid her attempts at international communication. The young girl's confusion was speechless as I am sure her mind was wondering why a small woman, clad in sunglasses was asking for a little house cheese while waving her petite fingers in the air. "That's o.k. hon, I'll ask someone else." The Austrian girl left transfixed at the scene of the international incident.

Through the Vom Fass market echoed the lilt of "Haben . .zie any kleine' . . haus kase." Speaking slowly and loudly was not aiding the conquest. I too was immobile as Estelle's intent was now equivalent to Sherman's march. Yet, unlike the good people of Atlanta, the Austrians could meet any annoyance with a curt discharge instead of a hissy fit. Unstoppable, her campaign continued as she inquired of what seemed all of Vienna's 1.7 million citizens. Not sure why these citizens were confused and determined not to leave the store without cottage chese, my mother continued fearlessly and loudly, "Haben . . .zie any kleine' . .haus kase."

When my mother calls my full name there is equal immediacy and manipulation in time and prosody. My first name with its normalcy of two syllables is given only one and my monosyllabic last name becomes indefinite in syllabic production. This take several seconds droned in a high-pitched flavor. "Brine Cr-i-i-i-s-ppu" rang throughout the grocery store halting the actions of all. "Brine Cr-i-i-i-s-ppu," a second time and I thought this must be signaling a distress apocalyptic in nature. Singed Austrians lifeless in the aisles could be possible. I ran towards the aural beacon, dodging thankfully non-charcoaled customers confused by the cries of my name hanging midair.

Estelle looked both triumphant and serene holding the tub of Breakstone's. "Brine, do you know what they call 'Cottage Cheese' in Austria?" In the silence, I could hear the returned activity of customers throughout the grocery store. My attention returned to Estelle and her trophy, "Cot-tage Cheese." Imported from Texas, the red and white container signaled victory. Vienna would not be burned.

Easter dinner gathered seventeen people into the small apartment where their arrivals were accompanied with vigorous handshakes, hugs and Estelle's genial welcome that included, "Now, this is just our way of saying thank you for being friends with Brian." Tables hosted a bounty of fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, green beans and plump buttermilk biscuits. Language was not the only barrier conquered during her Viennese travels. At each place setting, a small salad plate contained a dollop of ambrosia salad. My parents habitually charmed each guest with stories of my childhood and life in Horse Shoe. The lines between Vienna and the mountains of Western North Carolina were blurred. It was nice to have something that reminded me of home.

"This salad is very delicious, Mrs. Crisp," Annalise uttered in her stilted English. "How do you prepare it?" The question was evidence of the speaker's years of formal English study." Estelle's response hid the peril encountered at the Vom Fass crowded with Saturday shoppers armed with a foreign tongue. "Well, thank you. It's just some coconut and fruit and cot-tage cheese. You can pick those things up almost anywhere."