My object is Bryndzové Hulušky. Hulušky has many forms and is found in many Slavic cultures. When we make Hulušky, we make it a Slovak way, even though we are Czech. I still remember my mom calling me and my brother over for dinner. "Večeře" She would say, meaning dinner. We all sat down at the round wooden table, rays of sunlight shining through the delicate lace curtains. My Babi opened the lid to the soup and the steam glowed golden as the sun rays shined through the creamy haze. We were having a creamy dill potato soup. After our bowls are empty, my babi opens the big bowl, it's filled with hulušky, the smell of the crispy pork fat mixed with creamy brynza cheese fills the air. As I take my first bite I savor it. They don't sell brynza in America so we can only have it when we are visiting my babi and děda in the Czech republic. This last summer my Babi taught me how to make it for the first time. I have never spoke good Czech, but we have always gotten by, we don’t need words to know we love each other. Love can be silent.

– Sara

Relationship:  Child of im/migrant Child of im/migrant