Odesa of My Childhood #3: Green Apricots

“Mom, I’m dying!”

When a child makes such an announcement right off the doorstep, any mother would:

1. throw aside the frying pan with the Odesan sprat cutlets sizzling appetizingly on it and rush to save her baby;
2. continue to calmly prepare dinner, breaking away only for a second – only to assess the degree of danger out of the corner of her eye and wave her hand in the direction of the medicine cabinet.

My mom chose the latter scenario. Her twenty-eighth sense informed her that a seasonal tragedy was taking place: a child had gorged himself on green apricots and washed them down with water from the yard tap. A serious thing to be sure, but it happened to me so often that my parents almost stopped reacting to it. 

But to me, an earnest six-year-old, an absolute dose of attention and care was necessary. And so I promptly fell to the floor and covered my eyes with my palms. But nothing happened. I slightly opened one eye: my mom, as before, busied herself at the stove. 

I let out a cough. 

No reaction. 

I wanted to issue a phrase that was circulating in the courtyard at the time, “Well, that’s a snub right in the gut!” But, naturally, I watched my speech, because for such things, out of nowhere, it’s not the mosquitoes from nursery rhymes that fly in, but a hefty slap on the back of the head. 

“Mom,” I croaked in a weak voice instead. 

“Moooom, I am dying completely…”

“I see,” she answered without turning away, “Dad will be home from work soon. Go get us some bread.”

“What?” The strength of my indignation lifted me to my feet. “But I am dying!”

“And what? Does that mean you won’t be having lunch?”

“I will be.”

“Then go get us some bread.”

“Can I eat lunch without bread?”

“Can’t have the sprat cutlets* without bread, it won’t be filling enough. Besides, who has a big poster prominently displayed at their school that says, ‘Bread is our wealth’? So then, go to the bakery–get a bit wealthier!”

“Well, at least give me a little cutlet for the road,” the quintessential six-year-old frowned. 

“Why don’t you go ahead and eat more of the green apricots and wash it all down with some tap water,” Mom advised me, “You’ll make it home quicker.” 

“You’re making fun of me?”

“Yes.”

It’s not difficult to confuse people with simple answers, and Mom was a real ace at it. She was so good, she managed to confuse me even with her silences–good enough to hold master classes. 

“And yet, I am dying,” I carefully attempted to wheedle my way out of this cultural trip to the bakery.

“I remember, I remember!” Mom nodded. “Don’t forget to write a will in which you leave your airplane models to Vladik or Sasha.”

“What is that for?” I became wary. 

“Well, since you’re dying. You won’t be able to take them with you. And I won’t need them here at the house.”

So mercilessly was I faced with the fact that I couldn’t take anything with me to the next world. No matter how hard I tried. But this will! A fat Odesan toad* drove away the mere thought of one of my pals playing with my planes. What if he breaks the tail of the AN-2 or the wing of my favorite fighter? I broke out in a cold sweat. Such a thirst for life suddenly materialized in me, that the taste of green apricots completely dissolved from my tongue, and the nauseating lump nesting somewhere in the throat instantly became a dot on the horizon. 

“I can see you’re feeling better now,” Mom rummaged around in her robe pocket and shook thirty-two kopecks into my palm. “Buy one loaf. But don’t grab the first one. Look for a fresh one.” 

“I don’t feel that much better,” I muttered.

“Then I’ll quickly organize for you a liter of margantsovka. You’ll drink it at once and feel better, you’ll see. On top of that, I’ll dilute some starch in water too…”

“What margantsovka? What starch?” It was only a couple of years later that I realized what the feeling I had experienced then was akin to. This is how a school child feels who, having failed to study his lesson, still raises his hand in the hopes that the teacher will only call to the chalkboard those who had not completed their homework, but suddenly hears, ‘Well, Oleg, if you’re raising your hand, then go ahead to the board to answer this question.’

“The same margantsovka that raises the dead from their graves.” 

“You know what, I actually do feel better now,” I put on my face an improbably cheerful look. “It must have been the miraculous aroma of fried sprat cutlets that healed me.”

“Don’t grovel,” Mom frowned, trying hard to hide her smile.

“Wouldn’t even dream of it!” I said passionately. 

“Alright, hurry to the store, quick as a bullet. Wait! Have a cutlet, or else you’ll end up grabbing more apricots on the way. The last thing I need today is an ambulance!” 

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* “Odesan toad” or “toad sat on my chest” is a common saying that refers to jealousy or ugly feelings pressing on us that keep us from sharing with or being happy for someone.

* Sprat cutlets, or tulka, an Odesa traditional dish, are affectionately called “tulechka.” Sprat are a small fish native to the Black Sea and its tributaries. RECIPE

* margantsovka is potassium permanganate;  Diluted solutions (about 0.1%) of potassium permanganate found the widest application in medicine as an antiseptic, for rinsing the throat, washing wounds, handling burns.

* Starch is well known to have benefits toward digestive health, alleviating discomfort.