The “Welcome to Adulthood” Quiche
One night at two a.m. I learned what growing up is all about.
It was my first autumn living abroad. I went on Erasmus for a year. I moved my life to Budapest in two suitcases and a backpack — none of them my own. The big suitcase was my partner’s, the small one was my mom’s and the backpack belonged to my older brother. I did not own many things to fill them in, all I carried was my youth and a desire to explore, eat and learn.
And so, I dived into Hungarian culture, history and this wonderful language that does not resemble anything I have heard before. I roamed the streets hungry for life and every corner greeted me eagerly as if it was waiting for me to appreciate its windows, frescoes and cobblestones. Sounds crossed the bridges over the Danube and met me on the shore. My eyes devoured the beauty of sunsets, cruise ships glistening above the water and yellow trams passing by.
I walked and biked and followed the aroma of every small bakery that invited me to try another Hungarian pastry made from clouds of delicious dough. I love bread and pastries so much I quickly rated each of them and became a frequent visitor.
My favorite was the nostalgia kifli — an unpretentious bread-like pastry that evoked a sense of simple happy past. I imagined myself as a child playing in the park with my Hungarian family handing me a fresh nostalgia kifli. It made me reminiscent of a life I never had. Another staple in my bakery trips was the sweeter túrós táska — a crispy envelope filled with sweet cottage cheese and occasional traces of lemon.
My love for dough was not born in Budapest yet there it became my spark of joy.
When I was happy, I went to the bakery. When I was stressed because of university or being on my own in a foreign place, a pastry would bring me the taste of safety and calm.
Even if everything was different abroad, bread was still bread — a universal human thing.
It was in September that my love affair with dough was cut off by a phone call with a doctor.
Even though my heart was tied to bread, my blood tests said one thing: I should go gluten-free. I overdosed on nostalgia and good feelings.
I remember standing in the supermarket aisle a week after I started the diet staring at the mushrooms I had to eat instead, the food I distrusted the most at the time. I had a list of vegetables, tofu and apple juice. I could not eat diary, gluten, potatoes and certain legumes for two months that turned out to be four.
Don’t get me wrong — I love greens and eating healthy — my mom always cooked meals my friends did not know the names of, but bread put a different smile on my face. I was not gluten-intolerant, the doctor said I should exclude it to see whether this was causing me allergies.
But the diet was so restrictive that the forbidden fruit’s list was longer than what I could put in the shopping cart.
Yet, I was determined. I promised myself to follow through and be disciplined about it. That’s what adults do — they set goals and accomplish them. My family did not believe I could do it, they joked around on the phone when I showed them what I had cooked.
In a less adult fashion, I put yellow and pink sticky notes with meal plans for breakfast, lunch and dinner on my crème-colored fridge and a permanent grocery list on my phone.
Over time, I found out unexpected advantages of my regime — shopping became faster and easier and I learned how to buy products for the whole week, how to meal prep and cook new recipes. Every afternoon I wrote down what I ate during the day so that I can have variety the next day.
I paid more attention to what I put in my body than ever before because for the first time I was cooking for myself. I was responsible. If I did not plan my time well and did not have food, my mom was not there to provide me with three courses and I could not just go out to a restaurant because they did not have what I could eat. Making sure I eat became a rather arduous task. I was hungry and lonely, missing out on dining out with friends or speaking in Hungarian with the cashier at the pâtisserie.
A couple of times I thought about giving up. I missed the uncomplicated life I had before. Now, my thoughts were occupied with plans, concerns and tasks — if that is what adulthood was like for food, I didn’t want to go any further for everything else like bills, children, mortgage.
One day I was on the verge of quitting. I cried on the phone with my boyfriend on how I could not eat 10 things anymore, how I didn’t care for my physical health because my mental health was deteriorating. He could not help apart from letting me cry it out.
After I had no more tears to shed, he told me that I could try to make a gluten-free version of something I love. The thought settled in my mind and eventually took me to a bio shop with prices too high for my pocket. My gaze was locked on the rice flour and I did not think further. I climbed the stairs of my apartment building beaming with pleasure at the prospect of baking my first gluten-free quiche.
I didn’t make it right away — I had lectures to attend, projects to finish and the day went by. Then another day until it was Thursday evening. For a whole week I had been wishing to try a gluten-free quiche recipe but didn’t set aside the time for it. I was ready to let it slide again when I remembered how I promised myself to do this quiche before Friday.
That night it was around 11 p.m. and my friend had just fallen asleep on the sofa of our Budapest flat. I didn’t want to go to bed before I make the quiche. So, I rolled my sleeves, took out the rice flour and played some music on my headphones. The kitchen and my friend’s sofa shared the same twenty squared room and I was trying to follow the recipe as quietly as possible. Hovered over the sink, I washed the tomatoes under the tinniest possible water stream so that it does not splash and make a noise.
I had less success with kneading the dough which refused to form in my hands and looked like a sticky mushy puddle on the surface of an alien white marble planet.
No matter how much rice flour rained on the puddle it did not rise and I had to plop it in the tray and let it rest away from my scornful look.
It wasn’t as promising as I had hoped but I was having fun. The music spread to my elbows and reached my fingertips as I was steaming vegetables and dancing in an undefined way.
I managed to form a quiche base on the bottom of the tray and fill it to the brim with vegetables. On top, I grated a large chunk of the vegan cheese I splurged on at the bio store. And with a silent hope, I put it in the oven.
The quiche was no longer in my hands — I put all my efforts into crafting it and now the oven had the final say. I sat on the floor and waited, singing songs on mute and drumming in the air, more quietly than Charlie Chaplin. I smiled as the quiche next to me gained some color. I took it out eagerly like a child seeing its presents on Christmas.
Oh well.
Not the fluffy texture I was hoping for — the crust resembled more a floor tile but in various shades of brown. The vegan cheese melted in weird tingly ways; the mushrooms were burnt; the vegetables fell off after the first bite.
But.
It was edible!
And it was mine.
I made this little monster!
I made it for myself, with nobody watching or expecting to try it.
Just me, my silent dance moves and the ventilator of the oven spinning around.
At two a.m. I was ready for sleep and didn’t even try it.
I knew it tasted of adulthood. And I found my adulthood especially nice.
It did not matter if the quiche was a success, it mattered that I tried.
I patted myself on the back. And rewarded myself with the best adulthood prize — a good night sleep.
Nikoleta Stefanova is almost an adult. She has not improved her drawing since she was a child but her cooking is much better now. She finds these moments in the ordinary worth writing about.
