I hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question, but her comment caught me off guard. I wasn’t overweight, but small wasn’t a word anyone had used for my hips.
“Where are the plates?” I asked, trying to be somewhat helpful, although this might have been the longest I’d spent in a kitchen in years.
“Don’t worry about plates,” she said, nodding toward the table across the room, tucked against the wall beneath a large window. “Sit down.”
I had barely taken my seat when she set down a dish and silverware. “You like Albanian food?”
“So far I’ve eaten everything placed in front of me and liked it,” I answered, noting the absence of vegetables on my plate.
“Who cooked?”
“Ummm…” My brows scrunched, trying to figure out what exactly she was asking. “The restaurant?”
“They try too hard to cater to the Westerners. Now, you eat local dishes. Byrek with meat and a little bit of tavë kosi. Now, eat.”
“Oh, I had a tavë thing.”
“You didn’t have mine,” she retorted. “Eat, eat.”
Suddenly,My Big Fat Greek Weddingcame to mind and I had to stifle a chuckle. I guess it was true, Balkan countries liked to feed their guests.
I picked up a fork and cut into the byrek when Sonya stopped me. “No, no. For that, use your fingers.”
“Huh?”
“Your fingers,” she repeated. “Eat it like a sandwich.”
“Oh, okay.”
I set the fork down and followed her instruction, my eyes closing in bliss as I bit into the byrek. Holy crap, the Albanians had been holding out on me. I savored the food, shooting Sonya a delightful look.
“This is delicious,” I exclaimed. “Why has nobody told me about this?”
She chuckled, satisfied, and went back to cooking while I devoured every single crumb, completely forgetting the fact that I complained—albeit silently—about the lack of vegetables.
I leaned back into the seat with a sigh and looked over at Sonya who was now working on a dessert.
“Can I help you with anything?” I offered. “I’ll warn you, my kitchen skills are…” I didn’t want to say poor, but suddenly my vocabulary seemed to be lacking. “Not that great,” I admitted. “I’ve burned a pot of boiling water once or twice.”
“That’s okay. I prefer cooking alone anyhow.”
“Oh, I’ll leave you, then?—”
“No, no, no.” She stopped me. “I don’t mind company, I just don’t want someone cooking with me.”
I chuckled, then sat back down.
“Then we’ll get along just fine, Sonya.”
She smiled, clearly pleased, never pausing in her movements as the air filled with the mingled scents of olive oil, lemons, and whatever herbs she was cooking with. Her hands worked the counter with quiet confidence—rolling dough, I guessed. The rhythm of her motion and the warmth of the kitchen reminded me of my parents’ home.
Gosh, it was so long ago that I rarely thought about those days.
“My mom was good in the kitchen too,” I said, unprompted.
“She didn’t teach you to cook?” Sonya asked. There was no judgment in her tone, just mild curiosity.
“My parents died when I was young. My aunt raised me.”
