No matter what, the huge bowl of colărezi was not to be wasted. This was my usual Sunday treat. It wasn’t a complicated dish. Just pieces of flour mixed with some water and poured into sweetened milk. When it was done, it had a similar consistency to porridge, and it was the best breakfast food ever. Rice and noodles boiled in sweetened milk were more popular with Romanian kids, but I thought them all fools. This was much better.
Grandma had turned them into my Sunday breakfast because I refused to eat anything else if the possibility of colărezi was on the table. It was weird to have them on any other day, but I shrugged that off. She probably wanted to reward my exam results or something.
A sinking feeling gripped me when Mom sat next to me, watching me eat, and smiling at me, all tear
