SCARCE FOOD: A GUIDE TO SURVIVE COMMUNISM
- angelogeorge988
- Mar 14
- 23 min read
Updated: Apr 11
Summary: Food crisis. The scientific nutrition program. The false figures of propaganda. The empty fridge. Hunger and mandatory exercises. The holy queue and its language. Rations. Peasants and bread "stealing". Products on the card: bread, oil, flour and sugar. The black market. Night bartering. Pig sneakers. The Petreus brothers. Bananas and oranges as national institutions. Communist confectioneries. Ci-co, Quick-cola, biscuit potatoes. Food preparation during night. Soup, the symbol of survival. Subsistence fishing. Pork in lard. Soy salami. Epilogue.
Let it be clear: the abundance of options and the diversity of products, whether food-related or not, are privileges of a market economy, of capitalism. In a communist regime, freedom of choice becomes an illusion: a few standardized varieties, often of questionable quality, and that on the best of days. Most of the time, the reality is different—a grotesque paradox in which scarcity becomes the only constant. This was also the case during Romania’s “Golden Age” under Ceaușescu, where hunger was not just a sensation, but a reality. How did people manage (or fail to) feed themselves during such times? Details below. In short, of course—a complete account would fill entire libraries.
Everything Belongs to the Party: The Illusion of Property in Communism
You must know this: in a communist regime, private property is just a myth. Everything belongs to the state—that is, the Communist Party, which, in essence, is the state. Theoretically, an individual can own a house, a car, clothes. In reality, however, even these remain at the discretion of the Party. If a better-placed member desires something of yours, you will lose it. Perhaps you will receive compensation—but only if you're lucky. And even then, the amount you receive will be an insult compared to the real value of your property. Because the state controls everything, promotions have nothing to do with competence, but with who and what you know. It’s no coincidence that the initials P.C.R. (Romanian Communist Party) were ironically reinterpreted as "Pile, Cunoștințe și Relații" (Connections, Acquaintances, and Relationships). In this system, companies do not need to attract customers and do not risk bankruptcy, regardless of the quality of the products or services they offer. Or, more precisely, of their lack.
Enterprises: No Market, No Bankruptcy, No Quality
In a communist regime, enterprises appear and disappear not based on performance or economic necessity, but at the discretion of a nomenklaturist—a member of the Communist Party leadership—or even directly by the dictator. The state and the Party are one and the same, and no one else has decision-making power. In this system, enterprises cannot lose customers and do not go bankrupt, no matter how poorly they operate. In fact, performance doesn't even matter because all aspects—production, prices, customers—are dictated from above. The market? Nonexistent. Supply and demand? Illusions. Quality? A negligible detail. An enterprise dissatisfied with its suppliers cannot change them, and if it is not paid, it cannot take action to recover its money. Even a simple lawsuit against a delinquent client depends on the Party. The consequences are predictable: quality collapses, defects multiply, goods are rejected for export, and losses become part of the landscape. But in a system where no one is held accountable, what do losses matter?
Hidden Losses and Illusory Production
Although losses were accumulating, the lower echelons of the Party and enterprise directors carefully concealed them, reporting instead triumphant figures. On paper, factories exceeded the five-year plans, but in reality, they produced less and less. And even when something left the factory gates, it was often something other than what was truly needed. The needs of the population? An ignored detail, never a priority. This explains the chronic gap between supply and demand, a defining characteristic of communist economies. In Ceaușescu’s Romania, this imbalance was exacerbated by the dictator’s obsession with "heavy" industry, focused on the production of machinery and industrial equipment. Resources were directed there, while agriculture and the food industry were neglected—with predictable and disastrous effects on the population’s supply. In short, factories produced tons of useless machinery, while people stood in line for bread.
Disconnection from Reality
The economic policies of the communist regime created a complete break from market realities. Romania had begun to produce large industrial machines, but not the essential equipment for agriculture or basic necessities. In the 1970s, Ceaușescu decided that Romania must fully repay its foreign debt—a megalomaniacal, unprecedented goal. To achieve this, he imposed drastic restrictions on imports, allowing only purchases necessary for "heavy industry," his beloved sector. At the same time, he ordered massive exports, selling everything that could bring in foreign currency, including food—literally taking food from the mouths of his own people. The result? A severe food crisis, which the regime not only failed to acknowledge but claimed could be solved through the "scientific nourishment" of the population. Two cold words to explain rationalised hunger.
CHAPTER 1: FEEDING THE POPULATION
Feeding the population during the communist period was a true lesson in survival—but not in the classic sense of the word. Instead of discussing progress, efficiency, and abundance, citizens were subjected to a continuous display of humiliation and hunger. In fact, during the communist era, “indulgence” was when you found a piece of meat that didn’t taste like potato or rice stuffing. It was almost a miracle to manage to put more than a few slices of bread on the table.
Planned Hunger: The Scientific Nutrition Program
To manage the food crisis, in the late 1970s, Ceaușescu imposed food rationing. Initially, this measure was applied through verbal directives and "instructions" for the reorganization of certain economic sectors. Later, in December 1980, rationing was officially legalized. A particularly harsh decision targeted the peasants, who were subjected to even stricter restrictions under the pretext that they could raise their own animals and grow vegetables. In reality, however, the quantities distributed were far below the daily needs, often at the brink of survival. To justify this policy, the regime created the so-called "Scientific Nutrition Program for the Population," developed by Party-approved "specialists." According to this, Romanians supposedly needed only 2,700–2,800 calories per day, and the consumption of each food item was strictly regulated. Official annual rations, for example, stipulated 36 kg of meat, 210 liters of milk, and 260 eggs per person. To prevent the population from exceeding these quantities, food distribution was tightly controlled (details in the chapter dedicated to the rationing system). In practice, however, access to these products was even more limited than the official norms, and the shortage became ever more severe. Food planning had turned into planning for hunger.
Dishonest Statistics: The Regime's Numbers vs. The Empty Fridge
Even if the official rations, already insufficient, had been respected at the beginning of the 1980s, they quickly became an illusion—a mirage, a dry well in the middle of a desert. On paper, the figures appeared generous, but in reality, the fridge remained empty. The daily food basket consisted of half a loaf of bread, a few eggs, some kilograms of potatoes, milk and dairy products, some vegetables and fruits, one kilogram of sugar, and oil per month, and, at best, 2–3 kilograms of meat and fish. But that was only if you were lucky enough to find them. Most of the time, shortages were so severe that even these minimal quantities were unavailable. The result? People ate less and less, and hunger became a daily reality. With bitter humour, many said the entire country was on a forced diet—the strictest one possible.
Communist Fitness: Hunger, Queues, and Mandatory Exercise
In the '80s, Romanians became survival calculation experts: if you eat today, will you have enough for tomorrow? Why consume a whole loaf of bread when you can live on just a corner? Why dream of meat when you can master dishes made from soy and imagination? This is how communism turned into a forced nationwide diet: no sugar, no fats, no proteins. But, oh, how healthy we were! We didn’t have obesity, we didn’t have diabetes. We all had slim figures, like models nourished by air and survival. It’s a miracle we didn’t turn into a nation of mannequins. In conclusion, Ceaușescu’s regime offered us a “healthy” lifestyle: very little meat, tiny portions, intense physical activity (carrying heavy bags of rarely available food), and, as a bonus, an extremely active social life. For while today “networking” happens on social media, back then it was done in queues – the place where survival strategies and alliances were formed with every delivery of bread.
CHAPTER 2: THE HOLY QUEUE
The queue was a remarkable social phenomenon. It didn’t even matter what was being sold – you didn’t need to ask yourself if you actually needed the item, what mattered was being in the longest queue possible, because you could never know if that product would ever make it back to the store shelves. It was like a game of chance, but with very slim odds of winning.
The Queue as a National Institution
The food queue became, in communist Romania, more than just a simple phenomenon—it was a symbol of the regime, a national institution, a place where people and destinies met, a school of patience, and sometimes, an extreme sport. It was a collective ritual, a communion of hunger, a practice that transcended mere waiting for food products. People gathered in endless queues for the most basic items: dairy, oil, sugar, eggs, potatoes, and, of course, meat. When hunger became unbearable, there were no alternatives but to wait. In line. In a way, the queue wasn’t just a manifestation of the food crisis; it was a way of life in itself. During those years, queues became a kind of daily reality show, where the question wasn’t whether you had patience, but: “Who will still be standing after 12 hours in the cold and hunger?” These were true tests of endurance, where not only the body, but also the nerves had to be made of steel. People would stand in line for hours, often without even knowing exactly what would be distributed. In essence, queues were maps of scarcity—wherever there was a crowd, a queue would form, and instinct would drive you to join. "Detectives of scarcity" might have been the most fitting name for us, the survivors of those times.
The Language of the Queue
Around the queue, a language of its own emerged—a code that reflected the harsh reality of the time. Goods were no longer delivered to stores; they were brought in (se băga). Inside, products weren’t sold; they were handed out (se dădeau), and we didn’t buy—we simply took (luam). When a truck rumbled down the street, the alarm cry “Vine mașina!” sparked collective panic, sending people into a frenzied dash toward the nearest shop. And what was brought in? Something—a word that could mean anything, from food to household goods—a relative concept, depending on whatever was still available. Scarcity had become so deeply ingrained that any product appearing on the shelves felt like a small miracle. No one knew when the same item would reappear—maybe in days, maybe in months. The Alimentara had turned into a kind of communist “supermarket”—quotation marks fully earned, since today’s supermarket abundance would scoff at the idea—where prosperity consisted mostly of… dust. And empty shelves symbolized austerity far more than they did plenty.
Adventures of an Urban Survivor
When rumors of a new delivery spread through the neighborhood, I was ready to launch into a mad sprint to secure a spot in a queue that formed faster than a flash mob at a rock concert. More often than not, I found myself alongside the elderly and children—the true veterans of this survival lottery. I remember those freezing winters, standing packed together like penguins in Antarctica—yes, a real-life Winter Survival Challenge. We leaned on each other for warmth, while time seemed to stretch endlessly in that relentless cold.
I can still see myself in line at Magazinul General (a kind of supermarket of that era), on the corner of Dristor Street and Mihai Bravu Boulevard in my neighborhood in Bucharest. It was an obligatory pilgrimage site for survival, an involuntary "tourist destination." Sometimes, I missed school, but don’t worry—I wasn’t considered a truant. The teachers knew I was absent to collect the ration. A true extracurricular program, one you had no choice but to attend.
Papers and Memories from Hard Times
An acquaintance worked in a construction design office, meticulously drafting technical drawings on paper, following the architects’ instructions. The office was near Piața Romană, close to a Magazin General. At work, an informal “watch duty” was in place: at regular intervals, someone would go on reconnaissance to check if anything had been brought in. If the answer was yes, they would rush back to sound the alarm, and the office would empty at an astonishing speed. On rare occasions, they managed to reach the queue before the pensioners—the rightful holders of queuing privileges. The pensioners, however, did not hide their displeasure, expressing their fury in language... not suitable for those under 18. More often, though, the office workers arrived to find a queue already well-formed and had no choice but to wait for hours, hoping to get their hands on the coveted product. Sometimes, the precious goods ran out just before their turn. And not infrequently, even when supplies remained, the shop assistants set them aside for their own arrangements. With unimaginable cynicism, they would mockingly say: “You make papers, so eat papers.”
CHAPTER 3: THE RATION
And yet, despite all these meaningful experiences, I never quite felt fully satisfied with “our beautiful ration for a healthy life.” This was the official name of the list of food items and their quantities that the Communist Party, under Ceaușescu's leadership, deemed sufficient and necessary to ensure the survival of Romanians.
The Ration: Living in Predefined Quantities
Very quickly, the term ration took on a much broader connotation, being frequently used to refer to almost any product, not just food. Thus, expressions such as “the oil ration,” “the bread ration,” or “the firewood ration” (for those living in houses who needed such supplies) became part of everyday vocabulary. The ration essentially became the predetermined quantity of a specific product you were allowed to consume—a imposed measure, a control over resources that became imperative. Over time, the ration took on a symbolic dimension. During the days of the Revolution, people would chant: “We came to take our ration of freedom.” This term, once associated with food restrictions, transformed into a metaphor for the desire for emancipation—a symbol of the demand to break free from the constraints of a system that controlled not only physical resources but also individual aspirations.
The Ration: Propaganda and Scapegoats
The imposed ceiling on food quantities had a purpose beyond simple rationing: it deepened the divide between urban and rural life. People in the cities had access to more resources, while those in the countryside were limited to much smaller quantities. This distinction was not just an economic matter but also a strategic tool for Ceaușescu’s regime, which used rationing to manipulate public opinion and exacerbate social divisions. Following the principle of divide et impera, the Communist Party fostered subversive hatred between urban dwellers and rural people, casting the latter as "enemies" of the state.
To justify the imposition of the “bread ration,” the regime employed a highly effective propaganda mechanism. Rural inhabitants were accused of coming to the cities to buy bread in large quantities, only to take it back to the countryside to feed their pigs. These propagandistic accusations were spread through all the regime’s media channels, and the peasant became the “scapegoat” for the regime’s failures—an individual always “guilty” for the country's economic shortcomings. Starting in 1982, as part of this process, city dwellers were informed through newspapers and television that they would be required to purchase bread on a cartelă (ration card). This meant an official restriction on bread access for anyone not deemed “authorized.” The bread cards were color-coded depending on the region—an additional way of marking and distinguishing the status of urban residents from that of rural ones.
The Ration Card: Regulating Every Bite
The “cartela” (ration card) emerged out of necessity as a tool for the Ceaușescu regime and the Communist Party to control the population’s food consumption, ensuring that it did not exceed the quantities prescribed by the “Scientific Program of Nutrition for the Population.” It was a method to impose limitations and strictly control what and how much people could consume. Through the ration card, the state prevented individuals from eating more than what was allowed according to their established “ration.” The card was usually a piece of cardboard or a small booklet containing a table with 30 or 31 columns for the days of the month, specifically for bread, and 12 columns for other products such as sugar and oil, which were distributed monthly. There was no standardized form for the ration card; it varied from one city to another or from one county to another. Generally, each family received a card for each product. Losing a card was considered a tragedy because it meant losing that product’s ration for the entire month. Obtaining a replacement took a long time, often resulting in the absence of that product for an extended period. The purpose of the ration card was to control product distribution strictly, but in practice, this rarely happened. Instead, goods often ended up on the “black market,” where they were sold at higher prices, further undermining the intended control of food resources. The ration card system, while intended to maintain state control over supplies, created a parallel economy, demonstrating the inefficiency and widespread dissatisfaction with the regime’s management of resources.
The Perforated Right to Survive
My father, as the head of the family, had to be present to claim our right to the food "given" on the "ration card." Since he worked, the burden of standing in line for hours fell on me, starting from the age of 10 or 11. I would stand in endless queues, clutching the ration cards as if they were valuable documents, waiting for the comrade behind the counter at the "Alimentara" to "perforate" our right to survive. Upon reaching the counter, the inevitable interrogation would begin, as the person behind the counter was, in fact, a small communist of the socialist food system. The questions would follow: "- How many family members are you buying for?" For four. "- Do you have ration cards for everyone?" Yes, comrade. "- Do you have tenants?" No, we don't. Any mistake in the response could be fatal—not for life, but certainly for your "ration" of sugar, oil, bread, and so on. I was always afraid that I wouldn't receive the food for completely arbitrary reasons—maybe they didn't like my face, or perhaps my voice was too cheerful for the standards of that time. After this real psychological test, the "ration" would begin to be distributed. Everything was sold in bulk—oil was poured directly into bottles brought from home (without traces of diesel). The pouring was done with a funnel and a ladle. Then, sugar was stored in large burlap sacks, with various pieces of twine and other unidentifiable objects inside. Next, the flour, sifted with hope and almost divine dexterity. My luck? I lived nearby. My misfortune? I had to carry 4 liters of oil, 4 kilograms of sugar, and 4 kilograms of flour. Thus, my day of standing in line was equivalent to a weightlifting workout. But the provisioning day didn’t end there, as next came the queue for meat—if there happened to be any.
CHAPTER 4: THE BLACK MARKET AND THE BARTER
In communism, Romanians developed a sixth sense for survival, a perfected ability to negotiate and trade goods in a parallel universe where the queue for milk never ended, and store shelves had a life of their own – full in the morning, empty by noon. Relationships and bartering became the new currency, because, of course, toilet paper had no value in the free market of essential resources. So, if you wanted something more than what the state offered, you had to have some "contacts" who knew "someone" who could "help you." It didn't matter if you already had an engineering degree or an office job – if you didn’t have the right connections, you were doomed to eat "potatoes with donuts" – meaning nothing.
Relationships
The social and economic system was characterized by inequalities and abuses. The relationships between different categories of people, such as store employees, factory workers, and those in the security system, were complex and filled with compromises. Those with access to goods were the employees of stores, purchasing centers, food factories, canteens, and restaurants. They would announce when goods were being stocked and set products aside for family, friends, or in exchange for services. Theft had become a common practice, and those caught without protection would end up in prison. The members of the system were the militia officers, Securitate agents, and high-ranking officials. They held the power to ruin lives or facilitate “selective” provisioning. The higher-ups had access to special stores where they could find everything that was missing from the shelves of regular shops. In conclusion, if you had a friend at the Alimentara, you were lucky. If you had a relative in the system, you were a king. But there was also a risk: any supplies beyond your allotted ration were considered speculation and were punished with imprisonment. Therefore, if you wanted to avoid starving, you risked ending up in prison.
The Night Trade: Transactions Between Those Who Had Nothing
My father, our misunderstood hero, spent his nights in the obscure markets of Bucharest, where bartering was closer to religion than actual commerce. In a world where money existed only as a grim joke, everything was traded based on an invisible, yet universally known, mercantile system. The peasants came with chickens, vegetables, flour, and cornmeal from the mill, while my father engaged in transactions like a magician of survival, exchanging "city delights": bread, marinated anchovies, and other delicacies that, in those times, were as rare in the villages as unicorns in Scotland. While the peasants were more interested in bread and anchovies, my father learned the unwritten lesson of subsistence economy. He would bring home country chickens, which he obtained for the price of 20 loaves of bread. My mother, like a kitchen witch, would transform that chicken into a culinary feast that would have made even the wealthiest bourgeois envious. With one chicken, my mother could prepare meals for an entire week. From those same obscure markets, my father brought home sacks of flour, cornmeal, rice, and—of course—trunks full of "Jonathane" apples, those fruits that had become almost legendary.
In the Shadow of the Sacred Sack
Those who had relatives or friends in the countryside were no longer obliged to go to the "night market"; they simply went to "visit" them. By maintaining these relationships and, incidentally, returning with a lot of "goodies." Every time my father brought the flour sack – that sack, actually sacred! – we hid it under the bed, because you never knew when "bad times" could come. In a country where nothing was certain, not even that sack of flour could be left in plain sight. For the peasants, those from the "city" were a precious source of food, especially bread, but also other non-food goods. These were very rare in the only "General Store" in the village or commune, which stood out by its... emptiness. The peasants had their own ways of disguising poultry, vegetables, and even animals, avoiding the watchful eyes of the Party’s officials, to secretly trade them.
CHAPTER 5: THE QUALITY OF FOOD
The quality of food during communism was such an abstract concept that you would have thought it had been banned by decree. Taste, freshness, or variety were bourgeois notions, irrelevant in the grand battle for the socialist economy. What mattered was that something existed on paper — that production was happening, that the five-year plans were being fulfilled, that we were exporting meat, milk, and eggs for the glory of the country. Did the people get the leftovers? Irrelevant details.
Our Treasure: Sneakers and Pigs’ Feet
At the beginning of Ceaușescu’s era, you could still find meat, but gradually it became more and more scarce, until it almost disappeared completely. In the final years, meat was “given” in bags full of chicken heads and feet; if you were lucky, you might catch a stray pig’s kidney lost in the socialist destiny trenches. Occasionally, you’d find “sneakers”—pigs' hooves, true treasures, because they could be turned into piftie, a rare and precious delicacy in those times.
The Chicken and "Petreuș Brothers"
The supreme star was the chicken. In its version of a translucent white chicken weighing 800 grams, half of which was ice—about the weight of a well-trained pigeon for long flights. Some buyers even swore they could hear it cooing in the bag once it had thawed, of course. However, there was also the "deluxe" version, called "Frații Petreuș"—a bag containing two chickens, each weighing 750 grams, ice included. They were named in honor of the two famous Romanian folk music singer brothers.
Flour, Oil, and Company: Delicacies of an Era of Scarcity
When luck was on your side, you might find cans of fish, beans with sausages (which only existed in the image on the can), or pate. Often, the can was rusted, requiring an almost ritualistic opening process to avoid cutting your fingers and risking tetanus. As for the oil? Viscous, with a color ranging from "motor oil" to "swamp sludge," poured with a ladle into bottles you brought from home. The sugar? Taken from large sacks, shared with rats, and measured with a shovel for "absolute precision." And the flour... oh, the flour! A paradise for cockroaches and all kinds of pests, which had to be sifted with a magnifying glass to avoid surprises in your pie. I felt most accomplished when picking stones out of beans or chaff out of rice. I had the sublime feeling that someone, somewhere, was paid to slip those items in there so we wouldn't miss out on training.
The Unbeatable Banana
An unbeatable concept, with cultural value surpassing the common understanding, the banana became a symbol of the communist regime. In those times, a green banana was not just a fruit—it was almost a fiction, a vain hope, a cult. For us, children of that era, bananas had the status of a divine blessing. We viewed them as sacred relics, and we could hardly wait for them to ripen. The ritual of peeling the tough skin and the bitter taste of the beginning were almost sacred, and we devoured each slice as if in a religious trance. Bananas, though green, were "food for the gods." We ate them breathlessly, as if they were the last meal. It was, in reality, the price you paid to live another day.
Communist pastry shops were "our little corner of paradise."
However, instead of fine pastries, you would find "biscuit potatoes"—an enigmatic combination of flour, a kind of cocoa, and sugar, but in reality, low-quality substitutes. To drink, there was the infamous Quik Cola—a grotesque parody of the famous Coca-Cola, tasting like a mix of burnt bread and dust, with the smell of dry manure. If you had an iron stomach, you could even call it a "treat." On rare occasions, you might find an "Amandina" or a "savarin"—a "cake" that dissolved on your tongue in a "feast" that seemed to last forever, only to transform into the sensation of "what the hell did I just eat?" And then there were juices like Cico, with a vague lemon flavor, or Brifcor, made from skeletal fir tree buds...
CHAPTER 6: FOOD PREPARATION
Cooking in communism wasn’t just a simple domestic task; it was a true test of strategy, patience, and adaptability. It wasn’t enough to have a good recipe – you had to ask yourself a few existential questions before turning on the stove: Do I have all the ingredients? Do I have gas? Do I have electricity? If the answer to all was "yes," it was probably August 23rd or an official visit, and you had been blessed with a fragment of normality. However, the usual scenario was quite different. Perhaps you had managed to get some meat from a "helpful comrade" or had triumphantly returned from a three-hour queue with some potatoes and a cabbage. Only to discover, surprise! The gas had been shut off, because the socialist economy imposed “rationalizations.” Well, you could make do with the electric stove, but do you have electricity? Not really, because that came and went on a schedule as secretive as the Party's directives. So, the backup plan: maybe you could improvise something that didn’t require too much cooking – a potato salad, a vegetable dish, anything that could be eaten without much thermal processing. Or maybe just bread with margarine and sugar, the dessert of childhood for many generations. And dinner? That was eaten by candlelight – not out of romance, but because electricity was a luxury. All this while you listened on the radio about how the country was "getting better and better," as you methodically stirred a stew where meat was more of a concept than a reality.
The Soup as a Symbol of Survival
Breakfast was invariably made up of bread and herbal tea – mint, lime blossom, or chamomile – plants that we harvested with an enthusiasm worthy of great explorers, and the tea became a magical elixir. At school, we had a sandwich with cheese – a slice of bread with a layer of cheese thinner than a hair. When there was no sandwich, apples came to our rescue, saving us from hunger. And when we were "lucky" – meaning when we managed to buy them after hours of waiting in line – we might have cookies, eugenia biscuits, or wafers. The evening meal was a true "feast": soup or traditional Romanian broth, made with whatever we had around the house – a carrot, a slice of potato, maybe a small piece of meat. Anything that went into that "soup" was perfect for us. Then came the main course, prepared with "love" by Mom – a meal that made you wonder if, secretly, she was a chef at a Michelin-starred restaurant.
Lostrițele: From Lake to Plate
As a child, in the spirit of adventure, I would go fishing with my grandmother in IOR Park. We had two tiny fishing rods, no bigger than matchsticks, which we used to catch the "monsters" of the lake: the lostrițe. These were small, colorful, and helpless fish, struggling for each blade of grass, like heroes defeated in a battle with no chance of victory. Once we caught our "prey," we brought them home like pirates who had found treasure after a storm. Then, my grandmother, with a dexterity I still don’t understand, would gut them – or rather, transform them into a feast worthy of an interdimensional banquet. She coated them in cornmeal and fried them, and I swear, they tasted better than anything. We ate the heads and bones – "delicacies" for the child that I was. Today, it might seem like we had fished fish from a toy aquarium and turned them into a legendary lunch. But back then, it was just a small adventure, an escape in the midst of scarcity.
Pork Meat: A Culinary Masterpiece Designed to Endure
Pork meat was cut with masterful precision and fried in its entirety, alongside lard, which was far more valuable than gold. Jars were filled with liquid lard and pieces of meat that would solidify in the cold, becoming a “reserve” for hard days. Nothing went to waste. When my father felt hungry, he would take one or two slices of bread, spread the solidified lard from the jar, and add a garlic clove, savouring it as if it were a rare delicacy. We, the children, didn’t understand this “luxury” of bread with lard, but for our parents, it was the simple food that helped them endure the harshness of winter days.
The Soy Salami and the Revived Bread
Under Ceaușescu's leadership, Romanians invented dietetic recipes out of necessity. In the absence of pork, the traditional "sarmale" (stuffed cabbage rolls) were filled with soy salami, which had become more accessible than other options. In the absence of chicken, Romanians made fried salami with fried potatoes, though even this became increasingly scarce towards the end of the regime. The egg ration didn't allow for homemade cakes, so crushed biscuits were used as substitutes for tortes or pastries. Additionally, Romanians found a method to "revive" old bread: the loaf was kept above steam until it softened, achieving an almost fresh texture. Bananas and green oranges, which appeared only at Christmas, were wrapped in newspaper and placed near a heat source or in a wardrobe to ripen faster.
Sequelae of a Collective Nightmare
Now, all of this is just memories – fragments of a collective nightmare born from poverty and propaganda. It was humiliating, exhausting, revolting, but also satisfying... because each "ration" obtained was a victory against the system. Now, with all those strange habits imposed by that "glorious" period of bartering and scarcity, I can laugh and say that my mother and father were "gods of survival." They were not just people struggling to live; they were artisans of a world that, although impoverished, had its own rules and, for some of us, its own taste of "blessing." Today, 36 years later and having lived in New Zealand for 23 years, I carry within me the sequelae of that period: from time to time, I find myself buying huge quantities of canned goods, flour, oil, and sugar, just in case they "get stocked" again. Sometimes, I find myself staring at a truck passing by and reflexively looking for the store where the goods it carries will "arrive." I take my phone out of my pocket to search for it on Google Maps, and only then do I wake up to reality and breathe a sigh of relief: the nightmare is over. Or is it?
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