It happened in July, 2018.
In general, I don't know the date when some or others happened, essential events or not; I can't memorize, and I don't even intend to, because I know that eventually someone will help me.
With archiving photos in the laptop memory, I was tidy and meticulous. I created folders with the title of the month and year when those photos were taken.
I knew I would need this and got proof that I was right. I can now say exactly when this trip to the village where I grew up and the last time I saw my mother happened.
I used to travel at least once a year to the village where I grew up and to my grandparents' house, where my brother now lives. My mother lived with my brother for the last ten years in the house that was also her childhood home. Besides my mother, we are most awaited by my nephews and my brother's children.
The little boy's curiosity is boundless, especially since he didn't remember us from the previous year.
Curiosity mixed with a shyness that he will lose very quickly.
My mother and her daughter-in-law have always gotten along well, contrary to some opinions that a mother-boy will never be friends with his wife. My mother was always eager to meet her daughter-in-law and recount what she did while we weren't there.
My travels to where I grew up and where I left more than 60 years ago happen not only to see my mother, my brother, and his family. I have a permanent nostalgia for where I grew up, where I had my first friends, and where I lived in the middle of nature.
Unlike the gray city where I live, which is full of cars, my brother's house is "buried" in greenery, and the view is wonderful.
In these verdant villages, flowers are highly appreciated and cultivated. I clearly remember the flowers of my childhood, and I enjoy seeing them every time.
When I got to my grandparents' house, which was no longer the same, my brother built a bigger house with enough room for his family of three children; I was nostalgic. Everything I see reminds me of my childhood, which meant playing with friends in the fields and forests and the food that only there could be so good.
Food from grandma or mom at home is the best and never found elsewhere! I always try to cook something I used to eat when my grandma was cooking, and when we get there, I always find an ingredient I don't have in town. My brother picked mushrooms from the forest—not just mushrooms, but the best ones, „funghi porcini”!
I like to cook, and I think I know how to do it pretty well.
When I have mushrooms like these, I never fail.
The recipe is simple, with few good quality ingredients.
The mushrooms are cut into small pieces, and the onions and garlic are fried in the pan.
Always when there are many at the table, and desires are many. Some, including me, prefer plain mushrooms with just a little parsley added at the end, but others, including my wife, prefer mushrooms with cream. Fortunately, I can please all of them by dividing the mushrooms into two large portions.
When the cooking was done, I still needed parsley. At home, in the city, I would have to go to the market and buy, but here, the beauty of country life is that parsley grows in the garden. One of the nephews was happy to bring me some.
I always look forward to cooking when I go to the country, and the whole family expects it from me; it has become a habit of these gatherings. Food is cooked, and the best part of the day is eating together on the terrace.
Unforgettable memories with my mom.
The last time I ate with my mom was July 16, 2018!
In the country, we eat well without too many arrangements or good manners. The food is tasty and made from fresh, high-quality ingredients, and the conversation and the joy of being together are unforgettable!
Only the youngest, nephew Nicolae, doesn't spend much money on food and conversation because he hasn't spoken yet.
We get the dessert directly from the garden, where we pick the fragrant raspberries ourselves.
My longing and nostalgia for the long summer days of my childhood take me out of the house to look at the surroundings and the flowers either too hidden or too high...
The road leading to the hills and forests...
Then, back in the house, looking out the window.
The rain started suddenly, as it does in the summer, and I remembered how often I had been caught in the fields or the woods. I didn't like the rain then, because I was a child and wanted most to play. But now I am a fan of rain;
I love it.
Just as in summer, the rain stopped as suddenly as when it started. That's why I like both summer and summer rain.
The sun caressed the hills in the distance again, an image I wanted to take with me, not knowing that it would be the last time I saw my mother, that I would have to leave with her image, and that I would have to hug her once more, with more love!
I rely mostly on photos in all my blogs. Words don't help me as much as photos.
I always start with photos when I want to write a blog. Photos remind me of places, events, and feelings that turn into words.
I make this statement as a plea to those reading not to over-judge the text and to focus on the photos.
A wise saying goes that a photograph is worth a thousand words, but I don't think so.
It depends on the viewer.
I'm watching you!!
