Stanko Shoutout

When I was a baby I could not eat. An esophageal constriction led anything that was not thin liquid to go down my throat. The only sustenance I could resort to included banana drinks from Gerber, which to me were “Yogies”. After three operations, the final solution being an inflated balloon pulled through my nose and down the esophagus through a cut in my stomach, I could finally eat and digest food. Since then, my palate has been anything but discriminatory as I love to eat, yet do not take the act or quality of eating for granted.

Although there are many memorable meals that I could write about, the one that comes most vividly to my mind is the late night snacks I would partake in with my brother-in-law Stanko. While my sister Sara was a delicate ballerina who put more lipsticks into the refrigerator than food, Stanko’s appetite was larger than life, reflecting his physically demanding lifestyle as a more athletic dancer. When I was in second grade my younger sisters Kiersten and Lindsay and I would spend a lot of time at their house. Although my sister always made delicious dinners and indulged us with our favorite Kozy Shack rice pudding, by late evening we would always want what Stanko referred to as a snack; me, a fourth meal.

As I would sit at the counter, Stanko would take what seemed like everything out of the fridge to make what he deemed “Bulgarian Burgers.” At the time I assumed it was some sort of special recipe that his mother used to make before he came from Bulgaria; however, now I realize that these were of his own concoction to satiate his enormous appetite. Waiting with a large mixing bowl and wooden spoon in front of me, he piled ground beef, bread crumbs, eggs, three different kinds of cheese, yogurt, sour cream, salt, pepper, any bread, and many other random ingredients next to the bowl. He proceeded to put everything into the bowl, letting me add the salt and pepper mix while he told me about his past experiences at music and dance conservatories in Sofia before coming to Pittsburgh.

After everything was mixed he formed the burgers with the mix oozing out of his enormous hands. At the time they seemed at least ten times bigger than any burger I ate anywhere else. By the time he put them into the pan I would be relaying stories about the day spent at the pool or about piano lessons and which songs I was learning, or about preparing for the next activity at summer recreation camp. Finally, after waiting with a watering mouth we finally finished making the burgers. He would put the patties onto slices of bread, with extra mayonnaise, making three for himself and one for me, cut into fours. It always amazed me that he would be finished with three, with not a trace of drippings left on the plate, before I was messily finished with one, Bulgarian burger dripping down my arms. Even though the burgers were so large I would eat until the scar on my stomach began to pull, as I never let myself get so full with anything else so delicious. We would always finish the meal with a Ferraro Rocher chocolate, my favorite, with Stanko taking a last dip into the rice pudding.