The Adventures of the Curious One

In a village in the outback of Montenegro, a four foot hunched-back Baba clings on to my leg while stroking my forearm. She has mistaken me for her granddaughter. And at this moment there is a fresh loaf of bread in the oven, so I'm allowing this mistaken identity. This warm greeting makes me feel nostalgic and now I want to be held in her arms as she strokes my head and feeds me warm bread. She releases me from her clammy grasp and I’m left admiring her from afar. Her mauve floral scarf covers her peppered hair, leaving her face vulnerable for my eager observation. Her face is laced with deep groves which only get deeper as she parades her single snaggletooth smile at me. As she slowly makes her way to the stove, she grabs her walking stick. Like her hands, the stick is raw and unrefined. Pieces of bark and slivers protrude as she nonchalantly clasps on for support.
I go to sit on a wobbly stool beside the grandfather, whose laying on the bed staring at the beige water stained ceiling. The room is bare and silent, as the only noise being produced is the static coming from the miniature television set sitting on the window sill. I watch the Baba at the stove – walking stick in one hand, she spoons out some liquid from a pot, pauses, adds salt, pauses, tastes again, seems satisfied and turns off the burner. One hand gripping her walking stick, the Baba returns with a pot of hot stew in the other and a loaf of steaming bread balancing on the lid. She takes a bowl, ladles out two large scoops. I look down at the stew. The meat is various shades of grey which sit stiffly in my bowl. My hunger leaves me investing only mere seconds to identify the mystical meat. After a spoonful, the taste triggers my childhood memories. I know this taste. I've tasted this taste. I've felt this taste in my mouth before.
Now mindful of the stew, my bites are small and my chews are slow. Which is unusual, as I take pride in my inability to savor food with a technique I call vaccuming. The next spoonful held a lifeless white squishy tube. I chew it. I ask what this dish is. Sheep stew. The Baba goes on discussing the specifics of the sheep. Intestine, liver and kidney. I swallow the chunk of meat and muster up a grin, which results with a ladle of stew in my bowl. I stare at my bowl calculating the ratio of stew to bread. I eat half the loaf - my calculations were correct. Though, I was not aware that these calculations would dub me in the village as the “healthy eater”.