The word "zizin" is an extraordinary word, a word I grew up with used to communicate the possibilities of a small last bite of food, a leftover dollop, a kernal, a tad, a bit. Too little to throw away, packed with big flavors and memories of a great meal just shared with family and friends. A taste of a brilliant recipe or a familiar and loved pot of mashed potatoes. Save it for tomorrow. Or lunch. Or midnight. Much joy exists in a zizin of food.
I have no idea how the word came to be, I just know it was a key word in my Memere's, my maternal grandmother's, vocabulary. My mother, my aunt and my uncles use the word today, as do my siblings, cousins and any of our partners that have come to, if not totally understand our passion for all things food and all things creative, know the possibilities of zizins in creating a meal.
Zizin is also the name of a city in Romania, a place I have not yet traveled. The Zizin River, a tributary of the Tarlung River in the same country. A geography lesson as I have searched for uses of the word. I suspect the word, in the context that we use it, started at that linoleum kitchen counter in Fall River, Massachusetts, and maybe it was my Pepere that used the word as he built a pot of goulash out of broth. Or maybe it goes back to his parents at a table in Quebec. As I discover the stories, I will share them.
