To each cook, his own kitchen

In this picture, you can see my entire kitchen. Our townhouse is small, having exactly four rooms of almost equal size.

But in the village, the soul of Moldova, it is much more common for kitchens to be separated from the rest of the houses.

Below are some photos I snapped of a colleague's kitchen, while he prepared some scrumptious curried chickpeas for our dinner. We also made a couple trips to the cellar, where another colleagued risked the future use of his fingers by pulling pickles out of their freezing liquid with his bare hands. Ever heard of a fork, Mr. Laurie?

This kitchen is pretty typical of a village home. Since it's not actually in the house, to me it feels a little like cooking in the garage. Where my Dad might hang coiled extension cords and a collection of wrenches on a wall, this kitchen is bedecked with pots and pans. 

It's also unheated. In the summer, that is a great method of keeping the home cool. In winter, it means we exchanged house slippers for regular shoes and I donned one of the thick winter vests for the duration of our cooking. 

"The vest is better for cooking," explained my host when he brought me this vest instead of my coat, "no sleeves to get in the way."



Just like we should have anticipated, this meal (with two Moldovans and three Americans) quickly digressed into a tri-lingual spectacle that only we, Peace Corps Volunteers and our Moldovan friends, think is entertaining. Everyone arrived at the house that day from different locations, somewhat road fatigued and attempting to fight off the common cold. So, fits of laughter would quickly turn into fits of coughing, thereby inducing more laughter given that the coughing because of the laughter was just that hilarious.

"And that is why we are Volunteers," declared my colleague. "That is world peace and friendship, right there."