Oma’s Appeltaart

by Perlei Toor

The microwave buzzes as I defrost a frozen waffle. Simultaneously, steam dances up over the stove. Chopped apples are simmering in a pan as I wait for them to soften. I woke up today with a craving, and I'm replicating a breakfast to remind me of home. I know how the apples are supposed to be - I shouldn’t have to put any pressure on my fork as it cuts through the fruit that once was hard. Following my taste buds home, I add a dash of cinnamon.

I woke up thinking of you. I craved your stoofpeertjes. It's mid July, and yet my mind has ran ahead to fall. Oma’s appletaart - the familiarity of a culture and its flavors. I don’t think I'm homesick, but I long for familiarity that's grown foreign.

My apples are softening, but I can’t yet sink my fork as softly as in your stoofpeertjes. My mind wanders. Once, you too were so hard, so difficult to cut through. It is one of the biggest struggles my mom expresses from her childhood. You didn’t talk, you cleaned. You demanded a level of perfection that was difficult for a child to replicate. There is practicality in your lack of emotions. You quit school at 14 to work for a family that wasn’t your own, cleaning a house that you would never live in. You continued to work until you were 80 years old. Why waste time on affection, when there's so much to do?

I know you can be perceived as cold. I don’t remember that, but I have heard stories. I know you complimented a dress I wore at 5 years old with the phrase ‘she can’t get any fatter, or else it won’t look nice’. I know you blamed my mother when she was assaulted. I know your reaction to my mom’s pregnancy was ‘I bought a new fridge’. I know you redid the laundry if your children folded the towels the wrong way.

Yet you softened.

At 14, I realized you never told me you loved me. I started saying it to you, because I felt it.

Purposefully and with intention, before I left the room I would look into your eyes.

‘I love you’

‘Okay’. You would reply. Or, ‘That’s good’. A quick hug, and I was off. But over time, you softened. The cinnamon soaked into your pores as the words of affirmation swirled like steam around your skin. Now, you say it back. ‘I am proud of you’, ‘I love you’, roll off the tongue, dense with condensation. My taste buds follow you home as I nestle in our conversations. I call you once a week. It isn’t enough.

Family sticks by each other, and I'm grateful for our family bond. I wish more people cherished this.

This softness worries me. I've grown to love you so deeply. I've grown to care for the hard shell and embrace the sweet dough of your growth. You stick to my heart and I sprinkle sugar on your head. I lay awake at night, fearing that I'll lose you sooner than expected.

If we weren't family, I know I might not have stuck around. I worry about friends of mine who say that they never speak to their grandparents or other family members because they don't like them, or they don't get along. I look back at our relationship and wonder how we

I'd done the same.

Yet I understand that leaving is a privilege. If somebody's cold, distant and spews hateful words, sticking around because ‘they're family’ is a dagger to the core. Nevertheless, this blood we share, whether we like it or not, has taught us both to stay. It's the heat that softens. Where I once saw chilling cold, I now see nothing but warmth. Family sticks by each other, and I'm grateful for our family bond. I wish more people cherished this.

I can't forget that I was privileged too, to be able to love you from a distance. I know my mother wasn’t afforded this liberty. I trusted I had arms to fall into when your response to my affection was solemn. She did not have the same. I had an ‘ik hou van jou’ waiting for me at home.

If it weren't for our shared blood and the distance between us, I'd blame you for the unfair way you treated my mother. I know your mother put sticky notes on her furniture with the names of her family on them. I know if you did something wrong she would remove your sticky note without a word. No inheritance for the unlikeable family members.

If it weren't for our shared blood and the distance between us, I'd blame you for the role you played in my eating disorder. The way you talk about my cousin’s bodies in their absence is enough to make my back bend under weighted expectations. I see you dieting at 80, swearing that this year you will loose weight, laughing at how ‘terrible’ you are being for taking a cookie with your tea.

If it weren't for our shared blood and the distance between us, I'd blame you for your coldness. I see you trying, and I hug you firmly. The response of this hug gives me hope that people can change. I see your growth, even at 80. I hope to grow alongside you.

I hear in your voice how you guard against the love others want to give you. You do not want to be helped, and you do not need anything. I whisper to