Baba Elena

In honor of the most beautiful soul and most incredible human being to walk this earth, here is my college essay about my baba. I would not be the person I am today without her, and I will miss her so dearly every day of my life. I love you babo.

Throughout the year, my heart longs for July. More specifically, I yearn for the long hours spent in my grandma's tiny apartment kitchen in the heart of Sofia, Bulgaria, telling stories and baking my favorite Bulgarian dishes. Every object in the room has a story behind it and I never get bored staring at the museum of memories. As I sit at the table next to the bright orange rotary phone, Baba, which is Bulgarian for Grandma, crumbles feta cheese for my favorite Bulgarian dish: banitsa. I sit and observe while eating freshly washed cherries placed at the center of the old tablecloth, the lemon print faded after decades of dinners and memories made around the table. Even though we are on the sixth floor, Baba always props the window open so we can hear the noise of the bustling city drift up into the room. Safe inside the bubble of Baba's kitchen, I listen to the thousands of lives coexisting below. But there was one life, away from the bustling city, that struck me the most.

As I spat out the last cherry pit, I eagerly rushed to the counter to help Baba make the banitsa. The thin, delicate phyllo dough was laid out on the counter next to the freshly crumbled feta cheese and bowl of olive oil. The process was tedious yet extremely rewarding: phyllo, olive oil, feta cheese, repeat. Layers upon layers, we built the pastry as we talked about her adventures hiking through the mountains of Bulgaria.

The flow between conversing and layering became almost like a dance. Soon, we were deep in a story about a cottage my Baba came across while hiking. She described walking for hours in the dense fortress of trees until she reached a small clearing, an oasis hidden from the outside world. There sat an old woman on her solitary porch. Naturally, my curious Baba struck up a conversation, learning that this woman had never left the perimeters of her forest haven. She was born, raised, and stayed in the same place her entire life.

I paused mid-layer, baffled.

"What do you mean she's never left? Doesn't she want to see the world?"

Baba continued to gently sprinkle feta cheese onto the phyllo I just placed down and smiled to herself.

"Well, no," she said. "She was content with the life she had."

That sentence bowled me over like the heat from opening the oven. I just could not comprehend the fact that someone would not have a desire to learn more about the world, especially since I so heavily relied on my multi-national worldview to inspire me in my everyday life. I could never imagine not seeing the ocean, or walking in a big city, or even meeting new people that expand my cultural horizons.

As I placed the banista in the oven, the noise of the city grew, and I pondered the life of the woman hidden away from the world. While waiting for the dish to be done, I sat at the table with my Baba and looked around once again at the warm and familiar room that was her kitchen. At that moment, I realized that the simplest of places could bring the most joy. Everyone has their corner of the world that is special for them, and their experience isn't always measured by the vastness of perspective, but by its richness. Finally, the banitsa was done, and I admired the perfect roundness and crisp crust of my favorite dish. As my Baba cut me a piece, I grew content with the idea that everyone has their own slice of the world to share, and my slice is the banitsa in my Baba's kitchen.

Обичам те толкова много, бабо. Благодаря ти, че ме направи момичето, което съм днес. Знам, че винаги си с мен.