While studying for a semester in Copenhagen, I longed for food that felt like home. So I travelled back to my Savta’s (grandmother’s) hometown in Bratislava, Slovakia in search of a dish she used to lovingly prepare for me: shishkelach, a type of gnocchi covered in rich olive oil and golden flakey breadcrumbs. But when I arrived, I could only find strange variants of twisted noodles smothered in sugar or cheese.
Everything in Bratislava had this same feeling of being familiar yet off, like wearing your favourite coat but two sizes too big. When I visited my Savta’s apartment where she grew up, it dawned on me that while Bratislava may have been her hometown, it certainly did not act like a home where she belonged when, at 12 years old, she was kicked out of then-Czechoslovakia and sent to the concentration camp Auschwitz.
It’s this dissonance between a culture intrinsic to your history and one that rejected your inclusion in it that makes travelling Europe as a Jew often a disconcerting feeling – revisiting the remnants of your ancestry that is now marked by its absence.

When I returned to Copenhagen, I called my Savta and asked her to teach me her recipe for shishkelach, so that I could finally feel at home wherever I went.
– Talia Slonim





























































































