Šaltibarščiai

Lithuanian pink cold beetroot soup

Pink has always been my favourite colour.

When I first saw this word,

I couldn’t believe its length—

a stack of consonants and vowels at the end: rsc and iai.

My Anglo eyes squinted at the two is

as if they were guarding the a…

the first letter of my name—Andrea.

Their hidden protectiveness took on a certain charm.

Because you don’t pronounce them like English sounds—

like in I: I think, I believe, I want…

The English Is are mute, combining with other characters

to make something bolder.

The ti is pronounced like the sound tee,

and the aiai more like the English eh… cheh.

Hooray, Šaltibarščiai!

In the summer you can eat it every day—

hip hip hooray!

The šal sounds like shahl,

like shalt not—

thou shalt not… divine commandments.

Not have fun.

But here, you shalt.

You shalt do as you wish.

You shalt have a day-long Šaltibarščiai festival—

you shalt slide down a giant 50-meter fuchsia soup ladle slide

into a pool-bowl;

you shalt eat at a 362-meter-long pink banquet table

with over 1000 people.

You shalt dress up as a pink soup ingredient.

A white boiled egg dress with an orange-painted face—

that would be my outfit.

Or to get shade from the orange sun,

a white hat with an orange center.

Or perhaps I would be a split egg,

with white sleeves and an orange top bulging out—

an egg that was accidentally dropped on the kitchen floor

and didn’t make it into the soup.

My outfit that says:

Do I really have a place in this festival…

in Lithuanian land?

Or—

everyone belongs.

Every effort counts.