[Hungary]

I wear a ring on my right hand that belonged to my maternal grandfather. It was his wedding band. Though it’s been dipped in silver, on the inside, there’s still an inscription: M.M.K to R.A.K. 11-4-61. They would have been married 60 years this November, but they both passed away before I could walk. My cousin has my grandmother’s ring on a necklace. My family history is a bit fuzzy, but I know my grandfather is Hungarian. That makes my mom a half, and myself a quarter. How is it that I am a quarter of a place, a culture that I have never known? I suppose I feel it in small ways, like when I hear my mom place slightly too much emphasis on the “i” in “paprika” or when I think of the unopened boxes in my basement. That is why Hungary was the first country on my list when I decided to embark upon this journey. Hungary’s national dish is goulash; I had it once or twice when I was younger. However, I opted for chicken paprikash, which is arguably just as popular. Paprikash differs from goulash by resembling more of a sauce than a stew, skipping the potatoes, and featuring the protein (chicken in this case) as the star of the show.

I was only familiar with the dish from a quick scene in Captain America: Civil War, in which Vision makes paprikash for Wanda while she’s on house arrest. It only took one glance at this recipe from The Daring Gourmet to realize that Vision’s “pinch of paprika” would not constitute a good chicken paprikash. My recipe called for three to four heaping tablespoons of the stuff, and I added more as a topping. The sheer amount of paprika in the dish made me question if my Meijer-brand spice would cut it. After a little Amazon searching, I found some Hungarian sweet paprika for about six dollars. Since the rest of the ingredients were very economical, I ordered the box. The genuine paprika made a difference—even from smelling the two containers, I could tell the imported spice had layers of flavor beyond my first purchase.

I stayed relatively close to the recipe. The only ingredient that I was unable to find was a Hungarian bell pepper, so I used a quarter of a red bell pepper instead. The dish was easy to make, and actually reminded me of Coq au Vin. Other than differing flavors and the addition of cream at the end, the processes were very similar. Both involved browning the chicken skin, sauteing vegetables, and letting the protein simmer in a thin sauce to cook it through. I used my remaining chicken thighs for this recipe, knowing the dark meat would suck up the flavor easily. In the meantime, I roasted some cauliflower as a base for the dish. A flour dumpling would have been more traditional, but my only pot was being used for the paprikash itself. Other than chopping and adding ingredients, this dish required so little effort that I could barely call it cooking. I sat on my couch, watching bad reality TV and stirring the pot with a wooden spoon every three minutes. Thirty minutes later, when my chicken was registering at 160℉, I added the sour cream, flour, and heavy whipping cream to turn the thin red broth into a creamy orange color. Ta-da! Chicken paprikash!

I grabbed a chicken thigh and ladled the sauce over my entire bowl. I sprinkled the top with a little parsley, pepper, and more paprika before carrying it over. My first bite was slow, but as soon as the creamy sauce and juicy chicken hit my tongue, I was reaching for more. This dish screamed comfort food. The abundance of paprika wasn’t spicy the way food from another continent might be, but it warmed my chest from the inside out. Not only that, but the contrast between the salty chicken broth and tangy sour cream added layers to the dish. The textures in the dish were perfect as well. My crispy chicken skin and roasted cauliflower were perfect vessels for the saucy goodness all over my bowl. After my chicken and vegetables were gone, I resorted to getting the rest of the sauce with my fingers. The thought of a single drip of this going down the drain made me sad.

I called my mom after I finished my first bowl. I told her that it warmed me from the inside out. I could hear her smile through the phone as she told me it had inspired her to cook more. She started talking about her parents, the way they used to cook, and the dinners they’d eat together. My grandmother would make a dreaded green bean casserole after a marital dispute, and my grandfather would order a pizza a few hours later. Once, my uncle brought a girlfriend for dinner who added ketchup to her steak, unknowingly insulting everyone at the table. My grandfather would make goulash when my mom was sick, but he’d add sliced jalapeños to help clear her sinuses. I let her tell these stories as I went back to the kitchen for another bowl. It made me wonder about great-grandparents and generations before that, if they had enjoyed this same dish from a different pot, hundreds of years and thousands of miles away from me.

Can I feel my family through this dish? I’m not sure. It’s hard to feel people that I never had the chance to meet. But when I reached back into the pot for another spoonful of sauce, I closed my eyes and saw a faceless family gathered around a table in a modest house in eastern Europe. They are smiling and sharing stories on an ordinary Sunday night. Every person is full of life. In the center, I see my grandfather, laughing loudly and licking the sauce that has dripped onto his fingers.