Brânza (My article from The Beacon, 10/8/10)

Brânza. The very word can strike terror into the heart of five study abroad students. Perhaps ‘into the stomach’ would be a better way of putting it. For brânza, you see, is a cheese. I cannot claim to be a cheese connoisseur, so perhaps I simply lack the taste to properly appreciate this particular delight, but I can tell you with certainty that there is nothing scarier to my compatriots and myself than the idea of Brânza for breakfast.

A sheep’s-milk cheese with an exceptionally strong flavor, fresh brânza can be found in the piața (market), the grocery stores and the fridges of all our host families. A single block of brânza has been known to inspire The Hungry Thing (name has been changed to protect Zach Hankel’s privacy) to skip breakfast entirely.

The flavor is not all we dread, though—the smell is perhaps worse yet. I’m certain that I can now pick it out subconsciously from 100 yards away, and it is this new sixth sense that I blame for my periodic desire to take the back way to the Impact Building.

“Aha!” says my subconscious to itself (because to tell my conscious self would be to inspire panic of the worst variety), “Brânza ahead.” And it begins to sneakily hint (…be subtle…look casual…act natural! Don’t make her suspicious…) to my stream of consciousness that perhaps I would like to walk along the river-path today. “Oh, no particular reason,” I think….

You suspect that I exaggerate the matter? But while it is potentially true that many people enjoy brânza (I am not convinced), this category does not include either my fellow study-abroaders or myself. We’ve all got one another’s backs on this one, too; if anyone has inside information about impending brânza-doom, they will immediately divulge it. The word is often an expression of extreme frustration. If brânza were ever used as practical joke fodder, the joker would certainly be stoned upon discovery. Possibly drawn and quartered, as well.

When a new sign appeared in the window of our favorite pastry shop advertising the addition of a brânza pastry to the menu, we sighed sadly. We will have to find a new favorite pastry shop, since the smell will undoubtedly contaminate the whole place.

It has been discovered in lingoși (a delightful fried-bread-like treat), a very unwelcome surprise. It is a frequent addition to mamaliga (an otherwise delicious cornmeal dish). It can even show up in cakes, I found to my dismay.

So far this semester, I have faced most of my worst fears. My fear of heights by running across the high-ropes course catwalk, a mere 20 feet in the air (it’s over sooner if you run, the logic goes!); my claustrophobic terror in a series of tiny, winding, scary caves. I have conquered my gag-reflex to eggs and, heck, I even gave up my vegetarianism of 5 years in order to experience the culture more fully through its cuisine. But I’m fairly certain this one is beyond me: Brânza—the bane of my Romania semester—is a fear I intend always to flee.