Elena M. (SLI) about Nature, Smells, Tastes, and Work

I have many vivid childhood memories. For example, I remember the images so clearly—like going into the forest with my grandfather to pick rose hips. He’d wake me up early, around five in the morning, just as the sun was rising. It was summer, good weather—I remember: fields all around, he’d sit me on the crossbar of the bike, and we’d ride. And because rose hips are thorny, I remember I prepared gloves for myself. He didn’t say anything—I prepared everything myself. He, of course, also got baskets and sacks ready to collect the rose hips. I don’t know whether he ever asked the other girls to come, or maybe he never did—he still says: “Lena, you’re the kind of granddaughter who does everything without being asked.” The others never went with us—he always took just me.

I remember the morning so clearly—the cool air, the sun already up because it gets light early in the summer—and we’d be riding through the field. It was about three kilometers, I think. When we arrived at the forest, he already knew where the clearing was, he knew all the spots for mushrooms, where the rose hips grew, where to gather herbs.

So we’d arrive and collect rose hips. Then he’d say to me: "Now rest, I’ll go further in," and he’d head into the thorny bushes and thickets. I remember sitting there, catching a grasshopper, and there was this wild rose bush with long-shaped fruits. It must have been August, because that’s when rose hips are picked. I remember that bush—summer, warmth, such a pleasant state of being. The smell of wild grass, the forest, all of it…

I remember catching that grasshopper, everything exactly as it was—a green grasshopper, orange rose hips, summer, warmth. That feeling stays with me. It was a feeling of happiness. Yes, it’s really worth remembering.

I remember how we used to go mushroom picking with my grandfather—he loved gathering mushrooms and berries. Boletes, I remember everything. He’d bring them, and I’d clean them first. He made me clean them—not really made me, he’d say, “Lena, we need to clean them.” I knew we had to—he was tired, and I wanted to help. He’d bring huge baskets of boletes. The smell from freshly cut mushrooms—pine and boletes—it's a scent like no other. Every mushroom has its own smell: porcini mushrooms smell faint to me, but boletes—those left an impression. We’d make a stew first, then dry them. First I cleaned them, then we made the stew, and then I’d help string pieces onto sticks and dry them on a baking tray in the oven.

I still love the taste of that stew. Whenever I have a chance—on vacation or if I manage to buy even a small bunch of boletes—I want to cook that simple stew. Not mushroom soup or anything fancy, just potatoes, onions, and boletes. And that flavor, it just comes back...

I also remember picking strawberries—not the wild ones, but the garden kind. Or maybe they were field strawberries? They have different names in every region—some call them wild, others not. I remember how we’d pick them—and eat them while picking. Some people collect first and then eat, but I wasn’t like that. I liked to eat first, then fill my cup or jar, whatever I had with me. And when there were a lot of them, I’d lie down in the tall grass—it smelled like grass and berries, because they’re so fragrant. If the sun wasn’t out, the berries would taste different. They wouldn’t be sweet. But the next day, if it was sunny, the same berries would taste different. By noon, they’d be sun-warmed. If you went early in the morning, there’d be dew. I tried to go around ten or eleven, when they’d already dried off from the dew and were sweet and warm, with that great aroma.

Since childhood, I remember the feeling of coming back from the meadows—everything scratched and itchy—you had to rinse off. We had a river nearby, we’d go there.

Grandpa used to cut hay; he had goats and sheep, and I always helped him with the haymaking. He’d take me along to fluff the grass if it hadn’t dried. If it was dry, we’d gather it into stacks—I helped with that too. But I always felt awful from the heat, hay, and dust.

Every evening, I’d go to the river to swim. He mowed early in the morning, but the fluffing and stacking happened in the evening. I don’t remember the exact time—maybe around seven—but by the time we were done, there’d be dew, mist rising from the river. It wasn’t hot anymore, but there was this coolness. And when you swam, you felt refreshed. The water wasn’t warm—it was invigorating. I really enjoyed that feeling.