The village is covered in a blanket of snow so thick you can build labyrinths from door to door, on bridleways and pathways, raising snow forts or small igloos on the way—little retreats in a rural wonderland. Inside, a fire crackles in a rustic terracotta stove, drawing pictures in the embers.
These are some of the sounds and images that pop into my mind when I recall childhood in Romania. I was just six years old when I learned my first recipe. When I close my eyes, I am transported.
