Sixty-five years ago, she moved from her native Raje Sele in Croatia to Slovenske Konjice. It was love that brought her here - that strong, tireless sense of belonging that has guided her through life. She experienced hunger and deprivation as a child, and now understands more than anyone the value of a full plate and a hot meal.
Her apartment is always full. The smell of freshly baked scones wafts through the corridors of the block she lives in. Her door is always open, her kitchen always warm. Everyone who comes for coffee leaves with a full stomach. "I can't cook for myself and my son," she says, "I can't cook for two. You always have to cook for at least four or five people, otherwise there's no point, I don't know how to do it."
Since her husband died, the kitchen has turned into a place of solidarity. Her neighbours, many with modest pensions, know that she will never run out of a hot meal. Nothing is thrown away, nothing is wasted unnecessarily. Ruža prefers to overcook and feed hungry mouths rather than let food go to waste and throw it away later. Her kindness and generosity have become a real warmth in a block where many people are going through difficult moments and hardships. Both in terms of loneliness and financially.
Every time she sits down at the table, surrounded by her neighbours, with a cup of coffee and fresh kifli in front of her, she just smiles. Memories sometimes take her back to her childhood, when she often went to bed on an empty stomach. When she moved to Konjice, she vowed that no one around her would feel the same hunger she once did.
On Friday eve, it started snowing again, and Ruža watched the white snowflakes falling through the living room window. She was startled by a gentle knock on her front door. A neighbour, a widower, was standing outside. His hands, shaking and shivering and visibly tired, clutched his tattered and holey woolen cap, which looked completely worn out. In a trembling voice he said, "Ruzha, I don't want to disturb you, it's just ..., you know, I have nothing in the pantry, and I didn't even have lunch today ..."
Ruža beckoned him to come forward with a warm smile. "Sit down, neighbour, I have some soup left from lunch, and there will be some meat. And of course, the muffins are still warm. I'm happy to give you some - my grandchildren are coming to visit tomorrow because it's the weekend, so I've baked more than usual."
My neighbour was sitting at the table, his eyes wide. "Thank you, Rose. You know, sometimes it's hard to ask..."
Ruža leaned forward and reached out to shake his hand. "You know, neighbour, I don't give because someone asks. I give because I know what it's like not to have. And because I enjoy cooking for others. You are never alone as long as you have someone to sit at the table with."
When the neighbour reached for a plate of warm soup, the kitchen was filled with a comfortable silence, filled with gratitude and warmth. And so it was every day, with every neighbour who dropped in to see Ruza. Her kitchen was not just a place to eat - it was a sanctuary, a place where life made sense and friendships were forged with the smell of fresh muffins and a hot cup of coffee.
Zala Krupljan, 13. 2. 2025
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