It is 1930 and I am 8 years old. Our hired touring car is rattling noisily over bumpy country roads carrying my parents, sister Magda and me from our Austrian village to our grandparents’ home in Hungary.
I am shaking on my little fold-down seat facing backwards, inhaling the car’s stuffy air. Suddenly, I throw up, retching on the plush upholstery. The foul odor stays in our nostrils for the rest of the journey.
The wedding canopy in our grandparents’ parlor is surrounded by relatives. The four posters are held by tallis-clad uncles with four young boys at their side. I, being one, feel very important. The white-bearded rabbi gives his blessing, Aunt Gisela is crying behind her veil and my new uncle, Jeno, stomps his foot on the porcelain cup. I grab a small shard.
The banquet tables are laden with mouth-watering delicacies. My grandparents own a restaurant and have prepared many wonderful Hungarian and Jewish dishes, including my favorites, wienerschnitzel and chicken paprikas.
On a separate table are fancy cakes and pastries, oozing chocolate and whipped cream. A gypsy violin band is barely heard over the clamor of all the aunts, uncles and cousins who have come from many parts of Hungary.
During our return journey I can think of only one thing: the many wonderful dishes enjoyed by all my relatives. Still in pain from my carsickness episode, I had been unable to taste a single bite.