Lost in Translation (or Eat Shit!)

When I was about 10 my paternal grandmother came to live with us for a short time. My Grandma was a second generation Czech living outside of Pittsburgh where my Dad grew up. All my Pittsburgh relatives have similar characteristics, they're working class people who come off kind of gruff and serious, but deep down are vulnerable and good hearted. We love polkas and keilbassa (and not the Hilshire Farm kind). When Grandma sold the house that her father built after emigrating to this country and before he was killed in a steel factory accident (true story), it was decided that she would move into one of those old folks apartment buildings. You know the kind, a high rise apartment with assisted living services and bingo and shuffleboard & all the drugs that old people like to enjoy. But, before Grandma could get into her old folks apartment, she had to come stay with us until her apartment "became available" (i.e. someone kicked the bucket, I suppose).

I remember Grandma's scratchy brown recliner with that brown calico quilt draped over it. She would fall asleep watching Johnny Carson, or Joan Rivers as she frequently guested in those days and snore. I remember her huge green station wagon and the secret compartment in the back floor. I remember her ace bandages and the smell of Ben-Gay. My Grandma made me my first communion dress by hand and bought me the powder blue sneakers and yellow satin jacket that my parents couldn't afford at the time. And my Grandma was a good cook and my apple pie making skills are due to her careful & patient training-always use Granny Smiths and never overhandle your dough.

When my sister & brother & me would be bored or hungry or just wanting to be a pain in the ass our favorite question to Grandma was: "What's to eat?"

My Grandma's reply was always the same: "Guvna!" ( said with gruff Eastern European tone)

We always asked her: "What does that mean?"

To which she would always reply: "Nothing! It means nothing."

It was our routine kind of like the "What's on First?" schtick, and not to mention a language lesson

So, I always thought that I at least knew one foreign word in Czech. "Guvna" means nothing.

It was years later that I actually found out the true meaning of "Guvna" was actually "Shit!"

Needless to say, I felt a little betrayed.

On a completely different topic, my dad would sometimes make S.O.S. for dinner. He was a navy man and evidently this was a popular dish for the seaman. It consisted of this disgustingly creamy cream sauce with chipped beef that came in this little plastic packets that you find in the refrigerated grocery aisle next to the bologna and other pre-packaged lunchmeat served over toast. Trust me, it is truly S.O.S.-Shit on a Shingle (or the alternative, Save our Stomachs). It didn't arrive at its name by accident.

When it was our birthday, my Mom used to let us pick out any meal we wanted to eat and she would lovingly cook it for us. I would always pick Spaghetti. Yeah, my Mom used Ragu out of a jar and added ground beef. But for some reason it was the best damn spaghetti I ever ate. And I wouldn't eat it like served at an Olive Garden with a load of noodles and a tiny dollop of sauce. No way! My sauce to noodle ratio needs increasing. I would dump spoonfuls of sauce on the little mound of noodles so I could eat it with a spoon (or slop it up with slices of garlic bread).

However, my brother for some reason always picked S.O.S. for his birthday meal. I could never understand why.

Maybe it was the same reason that lead him to vote for George Bush:

-Bad Taste! (Sorry Greggy, I couldn't resist)