On Sunday I ate the worst food product ever conceived, a salad concocted of shredded beets, hardboiled eggs, and big chunks of canned fish. It actually looked quite good, kind of pink and gelatinous, with bright yellow yolk crumbled on top. If it had been made with red hots, cream cheese, and anything other than sardines and stinky beets, it would have been quite a hit. I guess it’s a Russian party thing, as that pretty well sums up the circumstances that led me to put it near my face.
I was not feeling well anyway, and Jana was actively throwing up with what I would describe as a fierce, methodical determination. She thinks it was the undercooked pizza of the night before, I’m not going to venture a guess. We eat some funky stuff, everyday. I have eaten uncooked pig fat from a festival a week previous that had never seen a refrigerator. And that wasn’t even the worst food at that particular party. Anyway, Jana is a serious wreck, and I’m not feeling super hot so I decide to start turning over the yard with a shovel. I knew it had to be done at some point, I figured I would get a jump on having my host mom ask me to do it. I had just started when her daughter Elena asked Jana and myself to come inside. They knew Jana wasn’t doing well so I figured it would be some sort of friendly folk remedy, like pinching a cat’s ear, or something, and we would be on our way. (I made the cat’s ear part up, it probably doesn’t work, FYI) Jana sends me over to find out what the deal is. At the table is a guy I knew from work and his wife, older and vivacious and fun. They were celebrating the birth of a granddaughter in London, and just returning from a vacation in Turkey. The inevitable bottle of (in this case real) cognac, and several food-stuffs I do not recognize. I do the obligatory one shot toast for the child, remember I’m not feeling to good in the tummy here, and eat some toast. Even though I objected, I still get a good fist sized amount of the purple salad. I hate beets. I really do, always have, always will. I hate beets like I hate polio. I just want nothing to do with the stuff. And then a bunch of thumb sized chunks of oily fish? Uhhg. I almost ruined the party, I will tell you that much.
I went to bed after that, I needed to get away from the rest of the day. When I went out the next day, I saw my host brother-in-law had tilled about half the yard while I slept. So Moldovans don’t have yards, they have gardens. I have only seen one yard with grass in it since I’ve been here, and he owned a winery in Crickova. I have a theory that Moldovans (and everyone else, for that matter,) are primarily motivated by external ideas of what they should do, have, or behave like. Of the two families I have lived with, they both maintain huge gardens, but don’t plant things specifically for food. My current host mom has an ulcer, and cannot eat tomatoes, yet has dozens of bushes. I haven’t seen anyone eat a squash, but everyone grows them. (I saw a man saving the seeds of squash he was literally throwing on the side of the road) My host mom keeps rabbits and chickens, but not for eggs or meat, I really think its just because that is what is believed people should do.
Anyway, the whole yard has to be turned over, spring and fall. It’s a big yard, and of course the chickens want in on all the worms, so I’m picking up a chicken with every shovel full. The phrase “pecking order” becomes quite clear during this process, and also apparent is why a little white chicken I call “Cletus” is missing a toe. No, I did not chop off any chicken’s toes, but it took some serious effort. Nicolai, the son-in-law, and I finished earlier today. I was beat after that and I started thinking about my nephew Tucker, about how he is all cozy and building up his pretty gym muscles, and about how his poor old uncle Dan is working away with a shovel in a field, far, far away. But I’m thinking about him, oh yes, and I should include Parker in there as well. I have taken some lumps from the two of them, and I don’t forget. I’m thinking about both of them. Two short years, my friends.
chillin’ with my peeps…
lostpaddle 