John Csuk- Hungry in Hungary

By JoAnne Pavin


His faith in God is spiritual food, but at one time, the only food he had.


Eighty two year old John Csuk is like my adopted Grandpa. My parents started bringing him to church on Sundays a couple years ago after his wife passed and he stopped driving for health reasons. He frequently joins after mass for breakfast at my parent’s house or the Cary Restaurant where he stubbornly insists he pays.


When you ask what he wants for breakfast, his answer is always the same, “Whatever you’re having.” Easy to please, he is most grateful for any food that is put before him. And when the food arrives, he takes his time, and shares his story of how he never dreamt that he would be here in America, eating like a king (a waffle).


From the looks of John’s well kept suburban home, with fruitful garden and ample yard, you wouldn’t guess he came from humble beginnings.


A Hungarian immigrant from a small farm village, growing up he was very poor. Born in a town near Szentgotthard, the westernmost town of Hungary, he spent most his life in Szolnok on his family’s farm. He slept on hay as a child in the barn, with no blankets. His meals during childhood would consist of no more than one staple food. For an entire year he recalls eating only corn meal for dinner. Hunger was a way of his life in Hungary.


As John enjoys his waffle with whip cream and strawberries he recalls a time as a young boy. Always with a smile, laughs of disbelief and strong Hungarian accent, he tells us how one time his Mother sent him with money to get the yeast for the bread for the week. On the way home from the market, he was so hungry he ate the yeast right out of the packet. When he returned, she was angry, because there would be no bread for the week.


Along with battling hunger growing up, more threatening was the German occupation of Hungary during World War II. As a teenager, he was chased down in the streets, shot at by German Nazi’s, took refuge in abandon buildings, saw days without food, and when Szolnok was bombed in 1944, he saw the death of his town. These stories he tells with disbelief, with no smile and no laughter. But it is only moments before he’s back to his jovial self, remembering how lucky he was that his bride’s family brought him to America shortly thereafter in 1950, where he began a life he never imagined.


He settled in Chicago, in a duplex on Fullerton Avenue, with Mary’s family, to whom he is forever grateful. They owned an empty lot next store, “like a park” he describes, where he started a garden and planted fruit trees. Every fruit was a gift, and every home cooked meal, like heaven.


John’s wife, Mary, passed away 9 years ago, he now lives alone in the suburbs. When you visit John’s home, decorated in religious pictures, crucifixes, and flags from his homeland and America, you can sense the faith and gratitude that flows from John’s heart. A faith that nourished him during times of hunger in Hungary, and gratitude for everything he never dreamed of having. He begins with a tour of the kitchen, anxious to offer you food and drink, he opens the pantry to show you the abundance of packaged products, multiple cans of vegetables and numerous boxes of teas, and instant coffees, all Sharpied with dates of when they were bought. He is prepared for a famine.


The refrigerator is overflowing with a variety of juices, milk and beer, not that he drinks, but that he generously buys for the neighbor. And not to forget the Jagermeister, one can never escape without his eager offer of Jager. Finally, he proudly walks you to his counter of cakes, pastries and cookies, despite his doctor’s orders to limit sweets. He will show you with light in his eyes, like he has found a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and for John, sweets are like gold, because unlike most of us, John’s first piece of candy was at age 17. John often jokes, he is now very sweet, because of his overconsumption and love of sweets.


The tour continues with his backyard, overflowing with fruits and vegetables. Off his back deck, a gateway of concord grapes lead you to a flowering plum tree, a pear tree, an apple tree, a peach tree, and a short walk over to a garden which lines the perimeter, complete with peppers, cucumber, tomatoes, zucchini, rhubarb and raspberries. And with an old plastic statue of the Virgin Mary side posed in the upper branches of a pine tree nearby, you can bet John’s cuppeth run over. A statue he kept outside his first home in Chicago, continually thrown into the garbage by his relatives every spring cleaning, and repetitively retrieved, he hid her there. She nourished his faith to survive, and now She nourished his garden.


John is quick to share the food from his garden, sometimes leaving little for himself. He can’t cook anymore, so today most of John’s meals are brought by Meals on Wheels and unless someone from the neighborhood or parish invites him to dinner, he eats them alone. He doesn’t mind, he is happy, thankful and forever smiling that it is more than corn meal.


John’s humble attitude toward food is special. It is deeply rooted in his appreciation to be alive. For John, food was not always a meal, an event, a habit, or a hobby, it was survival. Turning 82 this past week, surviving two heart attacks and a brain aneurism, his life experience and longevity are proof that your attitude toward food is sometimes more important to your health than the nutritional value. And he teaches us that no matter what you have to eat, or who you have to eat with, sometimes it is the unseen that feeds and keeps us alive.

A Table To Eat At,
“La Mesa Para Comer”

by JoAnne Pavin

Carolyn, my world traveler, bi-lingual, multi -cultural savvy friend and I were discussing the color and beauty of good food. I sit down, in her Chicago studio, to Roma red tomatoes snug against snow white fresh mozzarella, silken pink prosciutto, olives of the Tuscan palette with crackers and bread of the international variety. The Aperitivo is never complete at Carolyn’s without Manchego cheese, her favorite La Manchan delight. Our salivary glands are preparing for this sensational snack. She pours a crimson glass of pinot noir, and we indulge our senses, all five senses.

As we listen to Van Morrison, serenading us softly in the background, we are talking about the food, where she bought it, at what temperature to serve, how to present it, etcetera. The aromas from the wine and cheese dance beneath our noses, our eyes entertained by the artful edible display before us. We reach for mozzarella, feeling the smooth texture, our stomachs anticipating fulfillment. We relax in comfortable chairs around her coffee table. We are aware, content and physically and mentally ready to digest nourishing food and good conversation.

We savor each bite and discuss how we both could be totally satisfied and satiated on the ample amount that is before us, and how many times dinner to follow is way too much. But here in America, the land of abundance and excess, we are trained for the courses, the 4 more to come; the soup, the salad, the dinner, and the desert. We both agree that in other countries, these courses exist, however they don’t seem to be as big.

After my recent travel overseas, I share with her my realization that the meal is really the center of many cultures, rich or poor. The day revolves around gathering fresh food, preparing and sharing. Whether it is Indian people cooking chapatti in the streets of Delhi, or the daily 2-5 pm lockdown of commerce for the European lunch break, the meal is a time to prepare and share. She has lived in Spain. She agrees. The “eating on the run” concept, although not as prevalent, is creeping like a virus into India, China and Europe. Clearly demonstrated, when her Spanish friend Paco visited Starbucks in the U.S. for the first time, outraged that he must drink his expresso from a paper “to go” cup. What is this “to go”? “I stay, I sit, I drink from a ceramic saucer and enjoy.”

Carolyn's time in Spain involved teaching English. She described a time when she was teaching her Kindergarteners vocabulary for the home. She searched for props that would assist her with the lesson. She found a tin doll house at a local market, which included furniture for every room inside. She said that it was perfect, because when she lifted each of the pieces, she could have them say the word in Spanish and she would follow with the word in English. What was interesting to her was that when she lifted “a table” from the home, the answer was not, “la mesa”, but all together, excited to know the answer, the children shouted out “la mesa para comer!!!” A table to eat at.

A table to eat at! They knew that the table was not for collecting mail, newspapers, dust or for a makeshift office, they knew that the Table was for eating, something we have forgotten in America. This book is to help us remember.