Backyard Barbecue

At the last minute, I decided to host a cookout for American Independence Day. Doina (left) came to help me skewer teriyaki veggie kebabs and whip up a batch of homemade marshmallows. Thanks to a care package I recently received, I also served up smoked salmon on toast. I am happy to report that at the end of the night, two lonely marshmallows were all that remained. Since the kiddos made themselves miserable with sugary indulgence, they simply couldn't bring themselves to finish the last two nuggets of gooey goodness. 

My host mother couldn't understand why I wanted to host a party outside, and spent the afternoon fixing up the dining room just in case I changed my mind. Thankfully, by evening, she understood how much backyard barbeques really are better than indoor parties. Most of the neighbors stayed late into the evening, sipping wine, eating until only those two marshmallows remained, and socializing, despite that fact that the celebration fell on a Monday night.

Just when my host Mom started bragging about how this adopted daughter learned all the Moldovan customs for parties (meaning I arranged the food in a frumos or "beautiful" way and served up at least one dish containing mayonaise), I failed miserably. I was trying to offer people beverages. There was a table covered with house wine and beer that the neighbors brought with them, but no one was drinking any. 

"Melissa," said my neighbor, shaking his head, " you can't 'offer' people things. You have to give it to them!"

He's right. For the past two years I've sat on the receiving end of whatever my insistent hosts managed to put on my plate or pour in my glass. [Hint: always too much.] So, I picked up a stack of cups and a bottle of wine and made the rounds. For those that didn't want wine, I came back with beer. For those that didn't want beer, I came back with vodka. Finally, for the kiddos, carbonated water.

Making a spectacle of myself in this way garnered cheers and encouragement from my friends and neighbors, plus approval in the "like that, yes, good" statements from all sides of the fire. 

The next day I was riding a city bus and I heard my neighbor's voice. Perhaps she saw me before I saw her, but the sentiment is the same. I recognized her voice because she was telling another woman about this great party she went to the night before. This American girl served the most delicious kind of fish and cooked vegetables on the grill instead of meat.

I.LOVE.MY.NEIGHBORS.

Earning my stay in cherries

Here are some of the fruits of my labor this week (pun absolutely intended here). This morning I picked what I hope will be the last of the sour cherries, but chances are my host mom will find another sketchy ladder/branch combination for me to try out as we attempt to reach the highest fruits on our trees. Picking fruit for my host mom became my sole duty this week. 

It's one of those things you have to time just right. If you pick the sour cherries too early, then well...they are S-O-U-R! If you wait an extra day to pick them, they get too sweet, soft, and rot quickly on the branch. At least, that is what she tells me as I pick cherries from the highest rungs of our three-legged ladder and she eats to her heart's content from the bucket five feet below me. I did manage to fall off the ladder once this week...ouch.

On the plate, clockwise from the top, are the sweet, sour, and black cherry varieties I've harvested this week.

The fall from the ladder earned me an afternoon off, but the next morning we started again on the neighbor's sweet cherry tree. We didn't have to take our three-legged ladder with us, my host mom said, citing that the neighbor has her own we could use. Turns out, that wooden ladder has one leg and resembles a Pogo stick that can't bounce. 

Again, I worked while my host mom feasted. When a particularly soft and juicy fruit suddenly fell on her shoulder and left a red stain on her shirt (to which I was oblivious), she called up: "Hey, what did you do that for?" Then left me on the Pogo stick that can't bounce to finish the work. 

As I said in the post Weekend with the Popas, my friend Aura and I recently made a sour-cherry pie. Someone snapped this picture right as the serving began. A little juicier than desired, but the almond extract my Granny sent last fall made a great touch. Today, Aura's older sister has invited me over to help make a sweet cherry pie. Wish us luck, my pie crust skills leave much to be desired.

Wedding negotiations

On my soon to be [host] sister-in-law's birthday, all gathered in her family's home for a six-hour dinner party that was much more about her upcoming wedding than her last birthday as a maiden.


In this first photo the bride's father is standing near the center of the table, offering a toast to the couple sitting across from him. He served this night's guests the wine that he will serve at the wedding, of which he has already purchased 60 liters.The couple he is toasting will serve as as the godparents of the newlyweds, an Eastern Orthodox tradition. It is their role to counsel the newlyweds, and with that role comes a few wedding day duties as well.

The negotiations were textbook:
Father of the Bride: "I want you to be really active at the wedding; give lots of toasts, lead dances, and basically never sit in a chair."
Godparent: "Well, I'm not much of a public speaker, but I can dance."
F: "Be really active."
GP: "How about the first speech and a few dances."
F: "Deal! I knew we could come to an understanding about these things. Let's have a drink."

After the meal with so many courses I lost track, and sometime after dusk started turning into dark, the mother of the bride (pictured above, third from the left) took the women on a tour of her home. After seeing the bedrooms, garden, and cellar, the tour ended in the kitchen where "woman talk" continued for a least an hour. Basically, until my host brother came looking for his bride (pictured above, second from the left).

The bride's teenage sister (first on the left), told me a few secrets about the dress she helped her sister find. She might be more excited than the bride, saying with great excitement, "She only gets married once!"

After dessert and a surprise serving of Greek coffee (they really should teach this to their fellow Moldovans), the bride's sister played a few pieces on the piano, much to her protest and Father's persistence.

Posh Corps: The [not so] rough life

 I recently spent a weekend at my host brother's vila (by which, I refer to a vacation home, outside the capital city, on a lake). It is experiences like this that bring to mind the "Posh Corps" label many Peace Corps Volunteers all over the world self-apply when their service fails to resemble the savannas and stricken poverty that appears so restlessly in Peace Corps promotional material.

The vila sits on about an acre of land, complete with gardens, a hammock tied between two cherry trees, the two-story house, a large covered patio, and a cellar full of homemade spirits. I wish I could tell you that the house does not have indoor plumbing, good windows, or electricity. But it really does have it all...and then some.

After three servings of sour-cherry liquor for breakfast, my feet took me just far enough to reach one of the big beds on the second floor. The walk in the woods and flower picking would have to wait until the afternoon. My host family says the vila is a place to relax, but like an amateur, I had not anticipated the relaxation to be substance induced. Silly me.

Perhaps I should have put this photo at the top of the post. Perhaps it could have hooked the reader. Perhaps it explains more about my host country's obsession with beauty and order than I or any other blogging volunteer could accurately convey.

Three men, one ladder without legs, and a  power tool.



All you need to know is, what happened to this tree to give it the look of pom-poms on a stick, was done to it on purpose. 

The annual family reunion: Memorial Easter

The Preparation
My neighbor, Zina, came to use our electric meat grinder the day before Memorial Easter. While I nibbled on a cabbage salad and she worked on her three-meat meatballs, she recalled her husband’s predictable words in the days leading up to a major holiday.

“This doesn’t make any sense.” He would tell Zina. “You are so busy making food for two days from now that you don’t have time to give me something to eat today!”

And such was the scene in our kitchen the day before Memorial Easter. Maria was fixing to stuff the lamb. A neighbor, also Maria, was wrapping cabbage rolls (sarmale). Zina went on grinding away at her pork, beef, and chicken mixture. I stuffed miniature crepes with sweet cheese and exactly two raisins each. Eventually, my host mom gave me the order to make a cabbage salad for us to eat while we worked.
Celebration in the city

The morning of Pastele Blajinilor (Memorial Easter) we raced to the cemetery in our town. The priest was to arrive around 09:00 and Maria was anxious to get her husband's grave blessed as soon as possible so that we could make it to her village celebration as well. We succeeded in getting our grave blessed first because of my host brother's close friendship with the priest's son (uh, Catholicism take note?).

In the photo above, people are lined up around a long table with their food and wine, ready for it to be blessed and offered to others on behalf of the souls of the departed. Eastern Orthodoxy dictates that the fate of the souls of the dead are the responsibility of the family. Rituals are carried out on behalf of the dead to assure their eternity in heaven. 

Celebration in the Village

Throughout this post, readers might notice the tables and benches in the cemetery. Typically, each family has a table near the cluster of gravesites they maintain. Here's a shot of my immediate family and host cousins in the village cemetery.

We stayed in the cemetery for a few hours visiting with cousins and taking part in the rituals. Each grave is decorated with bowls of bread, candy, and red-colored eggs before the priest blesses the grave. Then the family gives away these bowls, often accompanied with a shot of wine, "on behalf of the soul of [insert name]." Thus, many Peace Corps Volunteers in Moldova will tell you this holiday is something akin to trick-or-treating. I always go home with a small collection of dishes and stash of chocolate treats. 

Just like last year, we spent the afternoon at Granny Liuba's house. We had a huge meal, and spent the afternoon relaxing, playing games, and watching my three-year-old host-nephew plant onions in the garden (see above slideshow captions for commentary). 

In this picture, Vitalie (my oldest host brother) and I are playing with our food. It's a simple game, smash your boiled egg on someone else's and see whose egg implodes. Yet another thing America kids miss out on because they prefer those plastic colored eggs instead of the regular ones. 

Easters in Moldova: Two beautiful days

For the play-by-play of Orthodox Easter, click over to my post from last last year. I hope that post and the pictures below convey the high regard I hold for Orthodox Easter in Moldova--two of my favorite days in my whole service. The Easter customs and traditions in this faith community are some of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.


Think of a family-friendly Christmas movie in which, perfectly, the entire town carries candles to the central square and carols around a large Christmas tree. Fast-forward from that scene to Easter, and there you have it. Easter in my community means that the church courtyard is filled with warm smiles, anticipation, and candle-light.

It means that adults and children alike will squeal when the holy water landing on their faces chills their bones. It means the number of meals in a day will double. It means that sun will shine (at least that has been my luck) and we will go to the cemetery to be with those we loved and lost. It means we will greet an unusually high number of strangers we pass on the way. This is Easter in Moldova.

*Big thanks to my host brother, Sergiu, who spent his last two Easters teaching me everything I've shared in these posts. Merci mult, Serji!

Sitcom material

On our third day in Moldova, a colleague famously proclaimed that if things got awkward on his first night with the host family, then he'd just pretend it was a sitcom.

Lately, I feel like the writers need to visit my home and check out all the material I have for them. Here's a few examples of Romanian (as spoken in a home bursting at the seams with women) being translated back to English and just sounding plain ridiculous, or in turn, like one of those wholesome shows that gets cancelled after one endearing pilot season.

"Be healthy! Be a bride!"-Bunica (Grandma) Liuba's words every...single...morning.

"Laugh to live."-Bunica Liuba at the dinner table.

Me: "Maria, I had something I was going to tell you, but I forgot what."
Maria: "Okay, so go back to the last place you remember thinking about it and wait for it to come back."

...Maria calling from the kitchen to my room: "Melissa! Did you find that thing you needed to remember?"

Maria: "Are you sure you don't want me to make you fried toast before you leave on the bus, at 6 o'clock tomorrow morning?"
Me: "Yes, I'm sure. It's too early for me to eat."
Maria: "Hmmm...so you can't eat in the morning, huh. I can. No problem!"

Bunica Liuba, while interrupting her prayer to throw her hands in the air: "Look, Melissa is barefoot, again! I give up. She just must be one hot girl."

Meeting the in-laws

More than any other Moldovan/Eastern Orthodox tradition, I am particularly well acquainted with the praznic. I wrote about two of them previously (here and here), so I won't spend much time explaining this tradition.

A few things made this praznic different from others I have attended. Most obviously was the new people with whom I was meeting. I finally met Maria's in-laws. This praznic was held to mark the seven years since her mother in-law's passing. Since Maria's husband has also passed, it was host by her two remaining children.

The women in the room immediately greeted me with kind words and those imperative European cheek kisses. "Finally we meet you," they said. "Yes, Melissa. Like the tea plant, yes?"

After my host brother quizzed my Romanian skills in front of the whole table, he kindly informed me that his Uncle Galaction (pictured below in the suit, on the left side of the table) is the Secretary General for the Institute of Philology, at the State Academy of Sciences. He has a doctorate in Romanian! Doamne fereste! 

As with any family gathering, the good-ol'-days stories, lubricated by house wine and brandy, eventually dominated the conversation. It just so happened that I arrived that morning in the capital city from this family's native county. I spent two days there facilitating a youth experience exchange. Hence, village tales were interrupted to explain to me where particular stories took place in relation to where I had just been.

On the whole, the stories told about Maria's Mother in-law were gracious and endearing. Her memory was revered by another of her daughter in-laws, as a hard-working, constantly in-motion, and attentive woman. Though, the stories of her two sons drinking milk straight from the source without their Mother's permission were all the more entertaining.

Though, as every village does, theirs also has tragic memories. According to Galaction, their village was particularly affected by Stalin's deportations in the late 1930s. Galaction said many people from their village were taken away in trains, fed only salt-cured fish and denied any water. Those who died along the way were never recovered, those who made it to Siberia only arrived to find hard daily work in the labor camps. Modern estimates put the total number of deportation victims around 90,000. For more on this history, click here. As Galaction spoke I was captivated, these are the moments when I wonder why the world doesn't seem to learn from it's past. Trail of Tears. Balkan wars. Holocaust. Rwandan genocide. Sudan. And all those others I don't even know occurred.

So as not to end the post on such a low note, and to get back to the story of the party. I'll leave you with this photo of my host brother and his fiancée. Let the world know the date is set! October 14, 2011 these two will finally tie the knot, in Chisinau, on the same day as the city's hram. Felicia said she hasn't started looking for a dress yet, but will do so just as soon as the weather smartens up, in spring.

Meetings with new people seems to be my elixir of choice these days. I can't seem to leave one of these parties without a rejuvenated sense of my contentment in this place. 

Family Dinner

Humanity rather let me down a couple times this week, and a grumpy disposition was attempting to cut in on my usual, cheery demeanor, just when my host Mom came through the door and said, “Let’s make food! You put the water on to boil, and I’ll get the meat.”

Someday I’ll get the “Honey! I’m hooome!” kind-of caller, but for today, Maria and Fedorița were exactly what I needed. With grumpiness defeated in the end, I thought I’d relay a few of the topics that graced our typical dinner table tonight—mostly just a whole lot of humble pie with a side of comfort (in knowing  our place in this little community of ours) and concern (for what is to come of said community).

Dinner conversations:

[+] The astonishingly ridiculous idea that someone needed to rip out the heating system at Maria’s office, in the middle of winter, to build a wood/coal burning stove instead. Thus, leaving all the employees without heat, a custodial worker—because all the construction dust made her sick and she landed in the hospital--or the employee’s salaries for the last two months of work.

[+] The sad financial state of the state-owned bread factory where Maria is an accountant. Politics play a HUGE role here, but the latest analysis by the head of accounting at the firm says it’s going kaput no matter which party looks at it.  The only way she sees the factory getting itself out of this morass is to close-up shop.

 [+] Which neighbor is sick and what pills Maria gave her to try.

 [+] Why I so thoroughly enjoyed teaching a course on local fundraising in Chisinau, yesterday a)people seemed to appreciate it, b) people were generally excited about it, rather than skeptical about its ability to produce “big” enough results *hint, not all assets are monetary*

[+] The email from Gregg, the first Peace Corps Volunteer to live with my host family. He is coming for a visit soon. Maria had tears in her eyes she was so happy.

[+] How I’m going to spend the last few months at my site, working with the youth council….or more correctly, how I need to dedicate serious thought to it before it slips away.

[+] The American idiom “He is talking just to hear his own voice.” Sorry, for my safety, I probably should not tell you who we directed one towards. Also, the Moldovan idiom, “That’s life!”

[+] The neighbor Fedorița walked home with today. Fedorița thought the walk would never end because the woman never stopped gossiping the whole way. Yes, “radio baba" is rather noisy. 

Readers, serve up some of the outside dishes please! What did you and your families talk about at the last dinner table?

Feasting during fast

As per Orthodox custom, we host a special meal each year to commemorate the death of Maria's husband. Last year, we held the event on the actual anniversary of his death. But a combination of things prompted us to have the "praznic" early.

First, the praznic is required for the first seven years after someone dies. This is the seventh year, and as such, there are a few extra customs, including a home visit by the priest to carry out a few of the appropriate rituals. Since Costel died on January 7, Orthodox Christmas, the priest would be unavailable to come to our home if we waited to do the praznic in January.

Interestingly enough, we decided to hold the praznic during the 40-day fast leading up to Christmas. During this time, many Moldovans adhere to a strictly vegan diet. No meat. No sour cream. No homemade cheese. 

The vegan twist on Maria's usual fair limited the number of fried foods that would be gracing our table, so most of it was actually cooked on our wood stove, or what we call our "soba."

Stewed potatoes and mushrooms in place of fried meat dishes.

"Sarmale" or "Galuși" prepared without meat.

White beans with sauteed onions and tomatoes in leu of what Peace Corps Volunteers commonly refer to as the "chicken jello" was a welcome change.

This year's pickles, shredded beets, and spicy carrots.

Rolled cabbage pastries, walnut pastries, and apples baked with rose-petal jam and sour cherries. No vegan changes there, just classic Maria goodness.

Desert of boiled rice with sugar, fresh orange juice, orange zest, and white raisins. Usually this dish is prepared sans orange deliciousness and with milk, instead of water as a cooking agent.

And at the end of the day...Fedorița and I know our place in the kitchen organizing and washing, organizing and drying, organizing and re-shelving the dishes. The presence of a dishwasher in this house would actually have meant that she and I would have spent far less time together. O iubesc matușika mea!

Maria: A Theatrical Performance

We are scrubbing the house inch-by-inch, as we prepare to host our praznic, next Saturday.

One the things Maria's been advocating for is some serious curtain washing. Almost with out fail, she hasn't been able to enter a room without looking up, saying we need to wash the curtains and vacuum the ceiling.

After dinner last night, and her evening tea, we pulled the clean curtains from the line and headed to my bedroom to re-hang them.

"Melissa, I'm going to go up there, and you hand me the curtains," she said as she stepped onto my bed, then maneuvered the old radiator like it was her last step to the summit of K2, and finally stood in the window ceil. Her frame is just the perfect height, as she was able to stand in the window ceil without hitting her head. One might say it was her custom built stage...

By this point, there are three of us in the room, including a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer with whom my host mother is fascinated. He is a Russian speaker. We talk and joke for a few minutes in the way only PCVs and host country nationals from Moldova can, a ridiculous mix of Romanian, Russian, and English languages. Then Maria begins to praise her work for the day, and call for recognition.

"Very nice. Look Melissa, now you won't be able to see anything from the street, and no one from the street can look inside at us." She said from behind the curtains, her fingers fastening the last clips at the top of the curtain being the only evidence she was there at all.

Already having a case of the giggles, I took her bait for play, "Thank you, Maria! But are you sure you don't want to stay up there and do a little show? I mean, I'll go call the neighbors and have them stand in the street for theater night!"

And then there was silence. Silence. My colleague and I exchanged mutual glances that whimpered embarrassment and "oh no, she didn't think that was funny."

But Maria is rarely one to miss a punch line. As I squirmed uncomfortably for three seconds that passed like an hour on a crowded mini-bus, she was behind the curtain scheming up her next move. One that included just the right amount of gesture, the appropriate words in the most appropriate language, and something she could pull off without laughing throughout the execution.

The result was one perfect theatrical performance including exactly one gesture, one word, and one language. Bold enough to induce hilarity, yet short enough that she could wear a smile as she did it and laugh all she wanted when she successfully completed it.

Her gesture? Pushing the curtains open with both hands as she held a sassy pose, still standing squarely in the window ceil. Not one bit shy either!

Her word and language? An ethusiastically delivered, Russian "hello"..."Здравствуй!"

Did she laugh afterwards? Whole heartedly... as did we.

Obligatory Thanksgiving Post

The best job in the world. A supportive family that is one member larger than it was this time last year. Dozens of  loving Moldovan friends and family members. Phenomenal friends, both old and new. A beautiful language. This day of thanks!

Embarrassingly generous, much appreciated

*Last post ever about birthdays, see 'holiday' posts for more*

Here's my PCV colleague Craig putting some remarkable mayonnaise art on the little tomato and eggplant stacks. My idea for a simple, American-style dessert gathering with the neighbors turned into a full-blown Moldovan masa. Maria was having none of that American nonsense this time around! Instead, she dedicated about a day and a half work to preparing this meal.

The menu went something like this: cheese pies, potato pies, chicken/pineapple/olive/cheese salad, beet salad, cabbage stuffed bitter-peppers, smashed beans, walnuts in about every dish, walnut pie, a roast chicken with potato wedges, adjika, those tomato and eggplant stacks, a dozen beautifully crafted pepper flowers, and homemade cake.

I can't really put into English words how much I appreciated this event. As I told the guests in my toast, last year I was in Chisinau, with other Peace Corps Volunteers, on my birthday. I thought those people were my friends. But all day my Moldovan neighbors called me to wish me well. So for over a year, it's been decided that I would do something with them to show how much I appreciate getting to know them.

Though, for all my efforts to make this evening modest (failed) and as little work as possible for my host mom (utterly failed), my friends and neighbors still managed to trump me. In the photo below is a snapshot of the beautiful table cloth eight women pitched into to buy for me. EIGHT! As they hoisted it above their heads and started whooping in high pitched tones, I knew what was coming next.

"Dear Melissa, we probably won't be able to give you this at your wedding. So we wanted to do it now," Svetlana said.

"It's for your home someday," Eugenia said.

"Get married soon!" Aliona lectured, again.

"To remember us at every special occasion," Maria said.

"I don't know what Mrs. Svetlana is talking about, I'm coming to America when you use this table cloth," Fedorita said, winking as she did.

What's left to say? I love Moldova. I love Moldova. I love Moldova.

Friday night fun

People tell me blog is "so positive," but to be honest, what is the alternative? I love Peace Corps life. Particularly, how far it takes me back to social square number one, and how deliberate my effort to establish friendships needs to be. Thus, my relationship with the Popa family (neighbors, dear friends, and host family to the newest Peace Corps Volunteer in town), is one of the most rewarding fruits of my service.

On Friday night, friends, colleagues, and a couple extra Peace Corps Volunteers crowded into the Popa family's dining room to celebrate our sitemate's birthday. That's him, Yoel, with the fork. If anyone left this table hungry, my mother would have told them it was his/her own fault. This table was literally overflowing with kebabs-style chicken, salads, bread, sliced meats, and veggies. My contribution: a double batch of lemon bars. Happy birthday, Yoel!

To my absolute pleasure, the party turned to song and Aurel to his accordion. Now, Aurel isn't exactly someone you'd pay to play at a wedding party, but I would most certainly drop a few coins in his pitcher if I saw him at the local pub. If not for his music, then the way he wears his music on his face. As if the notes aren't quite conveying his efforts, he manages to illustrate the rest in the furrow of his brow and the upward and downward turn of his smile. In this clip, he's just warming up you see...so when he says "my repid" and starts over, he's really begging the rest of us to pick-up the pace. The song title translates to "this is my life, and I like it this way."

Again, one of my favorite traditions at these celebrations is the long winded, adjective bloated, speech giving. For Yoel, I plagiarized a toast from the last birthday party we had in my neighborhood, wishing him "one horse cart full of good health, because if you have that, then you can have at least two horse carts of happiness." Yes, please, roll you eyes now. 

The man in the blue sweater really pulled out all the stops though. Explaining the family tree to the extent that Yoel could be called a legitimate nephew of the family, he told Yoel, as many Moldovans do at these events, that he is waiting for the next generation of nieces and nephews. Better him than me!

Yoel and Aurel have literally become "buddies." It's something I've heard around town, but finally observed after all the other guest had left and my attempts to help Angela clean up resulted in her re-setting the table for us. Aurel playfully messes with Yoel's hair in that "noogie" kinda way. They give each other high-fives when they make jokes, and slap each other on the back. If Yoel learns to play the accordion, he'd go down in volunteer history.

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The members of the Popa family are recurring characters on this blog, you can learn more about my experience with them here, here, and here. 

My favorite place in my favorite host country

I'm overflowing with love for Moldova after two days of fresh village air, delicious grapes, and honest work. On day one, Fedorita and I headed out to prepare the gate and fence for it's first paint job in over ten years. As we worked, we received the standard "May God help you" salutation, to which, the answer is always, "yes, with God." About every third person delivering this greeting turned out to be a cousin. Got to love the village! Whenever I go there, I know we are going to work hard and laugh harder.

For instance, as the sun eventually slipped away from view on the first day, Bunica Liuba (a recurring character on this blog) heated up a pot of water for me to wash my feet. Of course, I was told to go first, and as I wrapped up, Fedorita told me not to look for the towel, "if you dry your feet, you dry away your luck," she said.

Well, Bunica Liuba was not in any mood to let me stand there on the cement with wet feet and before I knew it her hands were flying in the air, only to fall quickly to my feet, which she dried while exclaiming, "the girl is too lucky as it is! Let me dry her feet!"

Jen's village

Upon returning from Odessa, we hopped off our transport in Jen's village, greeted by mosquitoes loving the flooded Nistru River, her host parents, and the Romanian language (which at this point I hadn't heard for about a week).

In-between three hour naps and eating, we had some really great experiences with Jen's host family. Fulfilling one of my wishes, Jen's host mom showed us how she makes her homemade brinza (like feta cheese). This is one of the last things I needed to learn, in order to recreate a Moldovan masa back home. Now the trick is to have my dad find someone with a dairy cow, because I'm pretty sure that pasteurized Dairy Gold wouldn't quite do the trick. Jen's host mom has seven cows right now (probably triple the average). In the spring she could hardly keep up with the milking, but now the heat is getting to the animals and they are eating less. Now she averages about 30 liters of milk a week.

In fact, the last night of our stay she invited me to milk the cows with her. I am not going to bother describing this in detail, all you need to know is that my tenure lasted less than ten minutes since my pour aim seemed to spray the milk directly down my leg instead of into the bucket. Opa!

From that fresh cheese, we helped Jen's host mom make dumplings. This is a really labor intensive job for one person, but for a team of four, it took less than an hour. Above, Jen is whipping up the potatoes for the second batch. When you eat this dish, you can't decide if you like the cheese or potato ones better, so you just keep testing them out until you can't remember how many you have eaten. Sneaky little things!

I really enjoyed spending time with Jen's host family. For starters, she has a host mom and a host dad. I don't have a host dad, and hers is a character. I guess he is quite the midnight snacker, and when Jen started figuring it out, they started referring to the pisica (cat) that got into the refrigerator at night. But I guess if every host family had Jen making fresh peach cobbler for them, they would all have that problem too.

The three of us (Craig, Jen, and me) are quite a team, but among us Craig is the sole Russian speaker. That came in really handy when Jen's host dad's Moldovaneasca started taking on Romanian verbs and Russian nouns. Also, Craig said her host dad speaks Russian with a Romanian/Moldovan accent. Add to this mix that the wine glass was being passed around during these conversations and you have three rather mind-blown volunteers. Off Doamne!

Maria's 60th Birthday!

Maria thought she wanted a modest birthday at home, but about a week ago, she realized that wasn't going to happen. Just like in this picture, people starting calling to ask where the party was. Yesterday, she finally turned off her phones after 35 people called to wish her a happy birthday. They called from as far away as Italy and Moscow to wish her health, happiness, and an abundance of grandchildren. The day before, Sharon (the previous volunteer) and I arranged a surprise Skype call for her and Sharon to chat. 

In Moldova, if it's your birthday, you have to throw your own party, so it can be a lot of work. That's why Maria decided to rent out a space in town where the food would already be prepared and we wouldn't have to wash any dishes. In the afternoon, she had a masa (meal/party) with 17 of her colleagues from the bread and wine factories. Then in the evening, we went back to celebrate with the family. One of my favorite Moldovan traditions is the toasting. When it's your birthday, everyone says things to you like "I wish you one horse cart of health, and two carts of happiness. This comes from my soul." And then the toasts go on to commemorate those who are no longer here to celebrate with us. By now, even I can participate in this by explaining to the family that every time I tell someone I live with Maria, the first thing they say is, "her husband was such a good man. Smart. Honest. Hard-working. Loving."

When we got home, another tradition commenced. This one always just falls into place and I find myself standing on the front patio holding a plate of pies while a single glass is passed around the circle by the man pouring the wine. Toasting, drinking, and laughing go on until the bottle is gone. And true to form at my house, never before at least one hora has been danced. 

This morning, I hear at least one person wasn't feeling so well, but our house smells amazing since there are several large bouquets of flowers in every room. Tonight we go back to the cooking, as there is one more masa to be held, here at home, tomorrow afternoon. 

La multi ani, Maria!

My Moldovans

Last week I headed back to my roots, at least the ones that were developed in Moldova, and returned to the village and family where I trained last summer. In the afternoon, we did a short seminar for the new trainees, but really it became just an excuse to go back to the village. I  much appreciated the time I was able to take with one of our old language teachers, over tea, to converse no longer as child-to-adult, but as colleagues. She is among the most patient women I have ever met—proof is in her return to Peace Corps for a second summer to teach us clueless Americans.

I thought that going back to visit my old host family might be a little awkward, since so much time has passed and I know I wasn’t around for a recent wedding. But arriving to open arms, kisses, and smiles…followed by the dragging of my own two feet at the night’s end, when I needed to leave, is testament that we really did appreciate each other’s company last summer. As the house wine flowed, so too did some of the best conversations I ever had with the family. Amazing what a few more months of study can unlock! 

Since they are knee-deep in remodeling their home right now, I couldn't stop commenting on all the changes. For a woman with so many grandchildren, the installation of bunk-beds was a fabulous idea! They've also added new paint, a dining table longer than a village road, walls, doors, energy efficient windows, and gas heat. To cut to the chase, one of the daughters recently returned from her work in Canada.

My host mother and sisters were also adamant that I had changed too. Since I've heard this even here at my regular site, I think it's time to just come out and admit it. Moldova is teaching me to be a girly girl. I'm okay with it, I think. Maybe some day I'll even decide to have some of those...yikes...children.

In the Village with Bunica Luiba

There is another PCV that gives me a hard time for falling right into Moldovan gender roles...taking my place in the kitchen with a knife, making every kind of juice under the sun, and pitting cherries by the bucketful. But whatever, I embrace it. I love it when five women (and the toddlers on their hips) are gathered in our tiny kitchen to try a new recipe someone found. Even more, I love going out to the village to help Bunica Luiba (left) prep the winter stores of canned fruit and pickled veggies. 

As Maria and I pit the sour cherries, she teases about her mother in a quiet voice. She explains a russian proverb to me in Romanian, "You just can't please the old people." 

Later on I try to tease back, "I can't wait to come back to Moldova when you are the baba! We are to joke about you out of earshot."

 But as always, she wins, "You know, at that time, you will be 44 years-old." I quickly change the subject after declaring that will never happen and my host cousin chokes on his cherry pit, laughing and coughing.

Doamne fereste!

The Welcome Back Weekend

Man I missed Moldova. While riding my fourth overnight bus (this one from Bucharest to Chisinau) in two-weeks, I wasn't sure how I felt about coming back to Moldova. But after a good night with friends in the city and some sleep, I couldn't wait to get back to site. The whole routiera ride home was beautiful and green I forced myself to stay awake and watch it all go by.

And look what greeted me at home, an overgrown garden that barely had leaves when I left! Things changed so much I feel like I missed something! Apparently it rained and poured (which I'm glad I missed) the whole time and the plants took off. Check out these sour cherries outside my bedroom window. The ones at the top of the tree are already turning red. The minute they do, I'm busting out the ladder.

My host Mom and I sat in her bed that night catching up on the latest news. Our neighbor became a grandmother a month early, there were two weddings for her to report on, a nephew who needed some medical treatment, a niece who is eight-months pregnant and her husband won't be here for the birth, etc. So. Good. To. Be. Back.

I then learned that I wouldn't be staying home long, as we were headed out to my host-aunt's village for Hram (a celebration every locality has once a year, date is decided by who is the patron saint and the corresponding Orthodox calendar). I love villages, where things are green and quiet. More like home to me. I also love my extended host family. They welcome me to their tables, treat me equally as a guest and family member, and I always sleep comfortably in their homes. This is a photo of my buddy Viorica (who is about to become a big sister!) and her new bike. Me teaching her to ride turned into rather lengthy sessions of me pushing and her relaxing. But she had fun and only fell once. Most energetic little girl in the world.

One last thing I was really excited to find, upon my return, was a two-part series of blog posts by my friend and colleague in the Community Development program. He writes (Part 1 , Part 2) about the central focus of the COD program--its true mission as opposed to the "grant writing = community development" notion that seems to be accepted by many in and around the Peace Corps Volunteer community. I hope you take the time to consider what he writes, particularly if you are one of those invitees headed out way. Drum bun!