Camille voyage

It was this time of the month again. I was anxiously standing in front of my landlord’s door, waiting for him to come out and collect the small envelop I had clenched in my hand. I had my finger on the doorbell, repeating the same sentence over and over again: “Hello, here’s my czynszt, dzieki”. I was hoping he would understand some snatches of my Poglish gibberish.
The door swung open.
The very first thing I sensed was a delicious smell coming from the inside of the flat. A hearty, lavish scent of meat that had been cooking for long hours. My stomach started growling.
And then I saw her. In the place where I expected my tall, dark-haired, hefty landlord was standing a bright blue-eyed tiny old lady. She grabbed my hand and hurried me inside before I could even say “Dzien dobry”.
After seating me down at a small wooden dinner table, she trotted to the opposite corner of the room to stand in front of an ancient oven. I watched her maneuver a laddle that was almost as big as herself to stir the inside of a gigantic battered pot.
The smell was wafting the whole room and was becoming more spellbinding at every swirl.
My stomach was growling louder.
At this point I started to think I had been abducted by a witch, but the white angelic hair strands that were escaping from her traditional chusta somehow convinced me otherwise.
She then proceeded to chug two serves of her enticing mixture into two blue and white soup plates, trotted back to the table, put one of the plates in front me and said “dla ciebie”. Luckily, i had my lifesaver with me: a tatty dictionary I bought before leaving.
Without further introduction, I started to eat.
After a few minutes of silently scanning my every movement, she shyly asked “You like?”.
I heard myself answering: “It tastes just like my grandma’s”.
Her face lit up all at once and she smiled from ear to ear. She began eating, as if she had been waiting for my blessing.
We ate quietly, smiling to each other over our spoons.
Once we were done, she stood up to pour the rest of the soup into a large plastic box, wrapped it into a plastic bag and gave it to me. I heard the words “dla ciebie” again. Then she hesitantly took the small dictionary from my hands and looked for the words “share”, “with”, “friends”. I embarked into a thankful logorrhea, which was interrupted when she rose her finger in the air.
She started looking for some more words and pointed to “wash”, “return” and “box”. I wasn’t mistaken, it was just like Grandma’s.