I went back inside. The hideous girl was at the fireplace stirring the pot, while from the stove one could smell a stew made with unknown herbs growing up on the hills known only to the local women. Strangely, I thought about my childhood. My mouth was watering. The old cow wanted to get married then. Were her sisters making mamaliga as well? They were nowhere in sight. What if I randomly picked hers? Could I be that unlucky? Then some thoughts crossed my mind. There were girls that rejected the suitors.

Could the suitors reject the girls? And if so, what would happen to them? If the stubborn girls turned into cows, were the stubborn boys turning to... oxen?
 I went to the village at around noon.The mamaliga dishes were presented on a long table, covered with towels and the young men were circling around. They were tossing their hats, looking, tasting. Each mash had a sign underneath and that sign was recorded in a register kept by the village chief, so there was no place for cheating. Besides the mamaliga, the girls prepared other foods that could be eaten with the mash, like stuffed cabbage rolls, sauerkraut, or rabbit-and-partridge stew, and of course, there were plenty of glasses full of the local plum brandy, tzuica.