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.

Recipe: Spicy Carrots

Spicy carrots/marinated carrots/sweet carrots are pretty much a staple in Moldova. You can buy a small package of them for around 8 lei (~$0.80). They are a delicious, sweet, and tangy side dish to any meal. Recently, my Ukrainian neighbor Tatiana taught me to make them from scratch. I promise you it takes no more than 15 minutes to make a whole kilogram of this wonderful deliciousness. By popular demand, I'm posting the instructions here. 

Step 1: Peel and grate your carrots. This particular grater was a gift from Tatiana, you can find them at any piata/market. What makes it unique is the squared form it gives to the carrots as you grate them.

Step 2: Heat the carrots in an oiled pan. Of course, our Moldovan friends will pour a centimeter of oil in the pan and call it a splash, but take control!  This goal here is not to cook the carrots per say, but soften them up a pinch. 

Step 3: Remove the carrots from the heat and put them in a large mixing bowl. Add as much pressed garlic as you can handle, salt, sugar, and vinegar. For one kilogram of carrots, I used two big pinches of salt (opa!), one tablespoon of sugar, and two tablespoons of vinegar. But Tatiana pretty much said, do whatever you like! I think you could also use garlic salt/powder easily too.

Step 4: Add your spices. At the piata in Balti (the indoor area), the woman in the center of the building selling mixed fruit and spices has a pre-made "spicy carrot mix." The label is written in Russian, but she speaks Romanian too. I think the mix is 80% paprika (does that really have flavor?), plus some thyme, sesame seeds, and pepper. I bought a few extra portions of this to take home, but again, you can put in whatever your taste buds desire!

Step 5: There is no step five. Pofta buna!

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.

Weekend with the Popa's

We'll readers, the end is near. The last post from Moldova is just about a month away, as I'll be jet setting for home, my kayak, and auntie time with my niece. 

While a few small projects and day events do remain, most of my engagements for the next month are of the social variety. Take last Friday, for instance. I spent the afternoon teaching my 14 year-old neighbor, Aura, how to make a sour cherry pie. We picked cherries in the rain, pitted them in the kitchen, and baked the beautiful lattice-topped pie in my one and only cast iron frying pan. [Eat your heart out Teflan!]

Through the rain and thunder, dressed in inadequate sandals, and laughing the whole way, Aura and I managed to get the warm pie to her house just in time to watch her father start the barbecue. Aurel may not have a gas grill on a covered patio over looking a fairway, but this flame torch seems to do the trick on those corn cobs. 

Despite the heavy rain and thunder, Aurel managed to grill up some tasty chicken while Angela tossed a salad with fresh cucumbers and tomatoes from their garden. Good conversation and house wine flowed as per usual at the Popa house. The Peace Corps Volunteer who lives there had two family members visiting from Kansas, so I spent the night trying to show how much there is to appreciate in Moldova, explaining inside jokes, and thoroughly enjoying my time with a family of Moldovans that has been so good to me these past two years. 

The Popa family then invited me, perhaps even insisted, to go with them the next morning to the capital city for their niece's graduation from dental school. 

My favorite quote from a graduate speaking at the podium: "We are going to accomplish such beautiful things that the only things that could be more beautiful are the clouds we will pass on our way to heaven."

Natasha's graduation from the State University of Moldova for Medicine and Dentistry was similar to graduation ceremonies in the United States. I appreciated how not every graduate walked across the stage to get diploma's, but they all stood at once together and changed their tassels from right to left.

 Despite the rain, we did our best to show Doina and Aura (far left and far right, respectively) some of the highlights in Chisinau's city center. This was Aura's first trip to the city. She's 14 years-old and the farthest she's ever been from home was this 90 minute bus ride. In this photo we are standing in front of a monument in the city center.



Spending this day in Chisinau watching Aura try to be independent, always walking at least 20 meters ahead of the rest of her family, reminded me that being an awkward, confused teenager is pretty much the same experience universally. Thank goodness that's just a phase!

At Doina's insistence, our last stop before heading home was to Moldova's largest pizza chain. Neither of the girls had ever eaten at this chain, but Doina insisted, "Andy's Pizza is the best pizza in all of Moldova."

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. 

Misha's 40 Day Praznic

My neighbor passed away on March 22nd. He was only 50 years old. As per Eastern Orthodox custom, we held a feast in his honor on the day marking 40 days since Misha's death.  

Alina, Misha's daughter, knocked on our door at 09:00, inviting us to the feast that was about to begin. Just then the priest came to bless the home. By 09:15, we were taking our first glass of wine toasting Misha, "May God forgive him. May we live to memorialize him."

Given the early hour, our hostess was not too persistent with wine, though the World Health Organization's recent assessment of Moldova as the world's largest consumer of alcohol did come up in conversation. Usually, people tell me the report's not true: "How could they know how much I take from my cellar?" or "But  what about the Russians?!" But on this morning one woman offered a completely original response. With a single shake of her head and her right hand passing from one side of her body to the other she said, "Eighteen liters? That's nothing."

Not that Praznics are usually happy feasts, but this one was particularly tough to swallow. The room was just barely filled with our neighbors and Misha's colleagues from the local water-bottling plant. But his son is away in Siberia, working. His daughter is home caring for her ill mother, despite she herself having a rough time with her first pregnancy. Misha was the glue that held that family together, Dumnezu sa l-ierte!

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!

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."

[Orthodox] Christmas

The only thing truly Orthodox about my second Christmas experience, in Moldova, was my host brother's recitation of the "Our Father" prayer before our meal. He said it so fast I hardly understood! After that, it was just one big day of celebration. My 80 year old host-grandmother, Liuba, consistently and gently reminded us that in fact, we were given the chance to have this celebration because of the Lord's birth. Her sharp wit is a sure sign that she is feeling well and strong these days.

 For the celebration at our house, my host brothers came from the capital city, a family of cousins came from a village in the district south of ours, and a couple more cousins from here in town. This was my first chance to meet the newest addition in the family, six-month-old, Severina. Watching Liuba hold her great-granddaughter was a treat, until I started doing the math and realized just how many years behind I must be if I ever want to meet my great-grandchildren! I'm thinking that's a no-go...

While I was in the United States for western/commercial Christmas, it was brought to my attention that I have never discussed the key food that graces our celebration tables. Pictured here, is racitoare. Maria prepares it for every major holiday meal, except Easter (when we have lamb) and any feasts taking place during a religious fast. It is prepared by boiling roosters, and contains a lot of salt. The meat is arranged on the plates before the hot liquid is poured over it. The gelatin sets rather quickly, particularly if it is kept cold. To convey how regarded the dish is, let me just say that right after I snapped this shot, Vitalie scooped up half of this platter and put it on his plate. There were four more platters just like it on the table.

The medical team at Peace Corps tells host families that volunteers do not eat this dish, like we don't drink water straight from the well. Though, I know of volunteers who really like it, for my taste, it is far too salty and I only tasted it for the first time when I was visiting someone new, and it was the only thing they served besides bread. 

In my host family, we exchanged gifts the moment people walked in the door. Vitalie blew me away with this beautiful gift....two bottles of collectors' wine from Milesti Mici. In fact, he said, the wine is from the year of your birth! Although he missed the year by one, 1987 is hand-written on a special label. After spending 13 years in barrels 70 meters underground, it was bottled in 2000 (and will fly home with me in November). Merci mult, Vitalie!! Go here to read about my trip to Milesti Mici, which according to the Guinness Book of World Records, owns the world's largest wine collection. 

As my host brother's were headed to their car, the Popa Family called me to say, "Come carol to us in 20 minutes!" The night before, they taught me my first Moldovan Carol. It's a story about wanting to go caroling, but after getting to the house we realize that the hosts aren't home because they went to the market to sell a goat. In the end, the don't sell a goal, but manage to sell a cute little bunny for someone to make a man's winter hat. 

Upon my arrival, I quickly sing the song (through fits of giggles and pushing away the thought of how much better my voice sounds when I drive alone, in the car, with the music up loud and the windows down). For my effort and the second time that day, someone pushed 50 lei (about four dollars) in my pocket saying, "tradition, tradition, it's tradition, Melissa. Take the money."

The whole evening was incredibly memorable, but it is a wonder, since Aurel kept pouring and sharing the gift I brought him from my Dad and his buddy that runs the state liquor store in Purdy, Washington--one bottle of Wild Turkey. I assumed, apparently in error, that being of my gender I would not  be subjected to drinking it. The whole bottle lasted 40 minutes. Maybe Aurel just really likes getting gifts. Here, he's wearing the apron my Mom actually sewed for his wife, and holding the "best father" mug Yoel got him in Romania.

The evening's entertainment:

For the sake of not writing a novel, I'll leave the rest of the evening to be conveyed through the photo-slideshow. Check it out for my first accordion lesson, more racitoare, more gifts, and the adorable couple Aurel kept taking pictures of saying, "53 years together and they still have a marriage of love." Merry Christmas everyone!

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!

Because he wasn't going to celebrate...

Lemon bars are absolutely not a Jewish tradition...just plain tasty.

I had plans, then suc happened

I really did have good intentions about LSAT studying and email writing tonight. But how could I turn down an invite from my favorite neighbors to help make the last batch of this year's adjika (a spicy tomato sauce)? The whole process starts with tomato juice ('suc') pressing, and as you can see in the photo, Aura and I took the lead on that little project. Later, we ended up pressing hot and sweet peppers, garlic, and a ginger-like root too. It took all night!

Getting to know this family has been one of the highlights of my service (as if I haven't already explained that here, here, and here). Through our tears of laughter tonight, Doina, the oldest daughter, put into words exactly how reciprocal this relationship has been. "Melissa," she started, "even if I'm in a bad mood and I think I don't want to see anyone, when you come we end up giggling and I forget about everything else!" If only you could have all been there to see her point around the room and mark the ridiculousness of the evening. She was sewing plastic sacks together to haul the corn in from the fields tomorrow, on little Singer machine, while her kid sister walked around the house with shaving cream on her hand because she supposed it would sooth the hot pepper burns she received from the juicing process, and their shirtless father somehow manages to nail every single punch line in-between the adjika taste-testing.

So, I guess the LSAT studying will still be there in the morning. People keep asking me how much longer I have in Moldova. I've heard it so much it makes me want to scream A WHOLE YEAR, STOP ASKING! But, I guess it's actually less than that now. At the risk of sounding sentimental, today was a really great fall day for my book of Moldova memories. 

Oh, and in this last photo is my new site-mate Yoel. He happens to be living with this awesome family. I don't think he was much into the juice pressing, but he does impress my host mom by wearing that fancy suit everyday. That's Doina and Angela sitting in front of him...they are reading the fancy article published about him in the local newspaper. The article is 40% about Yoel's awesome experience thus far with his host family. How's that for warm and fuzzies?

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!

Over a river and through a border

Six Peace Corps Volunteers and two Moldovan ladies headed across the border for three days to fairy-tale city. Neighboring Ukraine is home to the port city, and summer hot-spot, Odessa. Much like Prague, Odessa is one of those cities whose architecture is a standing reminder of it's complicated history; ruled by this kingdom, over taken by that empire, and so on. The photo above is the beautiful opera house, which serves as a major hub for the downtown (mostly Russian speaking) tourists.

On the day we arrived, we had the chance to meet up with some Peace Corps Ukraine Volunteers, in the city for a weekend of sunshine and falafel from a sketchy blue and white shack. Naturally, comparisons between our host country and theirs became the topic of conversation. One volunteer from Ukraine, who spent some time in Moldova, observed a difference in living-allowances between the two counties, one more generous than the other. I was also interested to hear that most volunteers in Ukraine don't live with host families following PST. My host family experience is more important to me than my goal one accomplishments.

                                              

But I would by lying if I didn't admit that my true motive for seeing Odessa was seeing the sea, the Black Sea, swimming and catching some sun. Now that I'm back at site, Moldovans can't believe I swam in the "dirty sea," but ironically, I hardly even noticed. All that mattered was the sun, sand, and sea! Again here, most of the beach goers are speaking Ukrainian or Russian. I didn't hear English on the beach once. When buying an inter tube, I was reduced to rubbing my fingers together to acquire the price of the floating device. My Romanian did me absolutely no good here. 

And if you didn't find us on the beach, then you probably found us devouring yummy yummy sushi, mixed drinks, espresso, or pizza. Our taste buds were very happy on this little three-day get-a-way. 

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!

Making Compote

This story is very typical of my house. My host aunt is incredibly hard working. A month ago she was bringing home sour cherries by the 10-liter bucketful, which we would pit and preserve nightly. Last night, it was apricots. Since Moldovans really don’t like to let fruit sit long, we decided to make a batch of compote, a boiled fruit drink for winter.

So, Maria and I went to a small birthday party, got home at around 8:30 pm, and got to work. We managed to wrap it up around 11 o’clock, with about thirty fresh liters of compote. While we worked, a few neighbor ladies stopped by to chat, we danced casually to Radio Iasi playing the Eagles, and giggled our sleepiness away.

Here is a photo slideshow of the compote making process.

Thanks, Granny!

Salsa in a can? Gourmet to the PCV tastebud! Thanks, Granny!

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!

Cake is to cool, as pie is to perfect.

Here is a snapshot of my first “American” pie in Moldova. Like my brownies, cakes, cookies, bread pudding, French toast, and sweet breads, it too is made in our all-purpose cast iron skillet. It’s as amazing as it is heavy. I’ll admit it took longer to pit the cherries than to pick them for this pie. These are sour cherries from the tree outside my window. Big shout out to all the other gospodine (bakers) back home that helped me modify my pie crust recipe! Thanks! I can tell when my host mom likes something or doesn’t based on how quickly she returns to it after she’s tasted it. Let’s just say, those were some CLEAN plates.

For comparison, these are Moldovan pies (placinte; pla-chin-te). My host mom makes the best placinte around and she knows it too. She makes them with chopped onions and potatoes inside, or cheese ( right now she is making them with cheese and fresh dill), apples, or cherries. In the fall, everyone seeks out the pumpkin placinte. Tomorrow is Saturday, so I know I’ll be waking up to a fresh batch.

Dairy cycle of life

Three days ago, milk was poured it in this old jar. It's been sitting on the counter since then. Observe that the bottom and top third have begun to pull away from the edges of the jar, leaving a center of congealed fat surrounded by murky water. Tomorrow, it will be called sour cream. It will be put in food; mixed with sugar to put on crepes or smothering yet another potato or cabbage roll. And even if it does make it to the refrigerator after that, it still might return to the counter for one last stand. One more night on the counter, and apparently, this stuff is as good as yogurt. It can be eaten on a spoon with salt, it can be put in coffee or tea, or mixed with apricot preserves in a nice tea. Or so I'm told. There are a lot of things I enjoy about Moldova that I would never consider back home, but I fear too much that these dairy products would haunt me far past the date of consumption that I have yet to will the spoon to my mouth. Go ahead, say it...cultural integration wimp.