With Peoples’ Lives Stretched Between

November 9, 2014 may not be a big deal to you. It may not be a big deal to most people. Perhaps you went to church, perhaps you’re waiting for the game to come on television. Perhaps you didn’t do much anything. Afterall, It’s just another Sunday, in that anxious-yet-anticipating time where there’s not much going on quite yet, but everyone is beginning to give in to the hustle and bustle of the holiday season.

I don’t know If November 9 should be celebrated, but it certainly deserves a remark. You see, this year, on November 9, 2014, we have reached the 25th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall. As a student of History (and particularly, Eastern European History), the divide between east and west fascinates me. I wasn’t old enough to understand what was happening at the time, but it is fascinating to look back and realize how different the world was when I born to the world it has become. I spent enough time in Poland to gather some depth to my perspective on the subject, but at the end of the day, I was and still am an outsider. I’ve heard stories about empty shelves at supermarkets and the unavailability of things I might take for granted, and maybe I’ve seen a glimpse of it myself in barren Kievian downtown shopping malls–devoid of everything except astronomically expensive crystal statues and posters of American rappers. I’ve seen the remains of broken buildings and concentration camps, and walked the uneasy streets of Krakow’s “model  Soviet neighborhoods”, whose unconvincingly cheerful playgrounds and tree-lined sidewalks masked the cold facades and glaring ideology as makeup might cover a scar.

But perhaps more notably than that are the things I haven’t seen. The Lenin statues and the streets named after Marx. The old Communist party buildings and border checkpoints. The hammers and sickles and the gray soot from soviet factories. Instead, the squares are clean and sparkling, the statues replaced with new ones for a new generation, squares are dedicated to Democratic leaders like Roosevelt and Reagan and street names are reverted to their pre-WW2 names, as if an entire period of history never even happened.

But maybe I’m not the best one to speak of these things. I was, as I said, an outsider, an onlooker. A person who could not have experienced the reality of communism, but comes to gawk and gather momentos from what is left of it. There is nothing respectful about pretending to understand the very real hardships and desperation and banality of life under a Soviet regime. In our casual recollections, we remember the “fall of communism” as if it was there one day and then it tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, hit the ground and was gone, and all the people rejoiced and finally the Eastern Europeans were able to buy orange juice like everyone else. But this is not fair, and it ignores the complexity of human emotion, the consequences, victories, and challenges of  remodeling countries. And so, for this perspective, I don’t usually do this, but I’d like to take the time to share with you a voice worth hearing–Slavenka Drakulic, from her book, “How We Survived Communism and Even Laughed.”I think it’ll provoke some interesting thoughts.

(In the pages preceding this snippet, we are introduced to a lady named Ulrike, who risked her life to escape her East German existence. As a result, her family was forced to disown her, she lost her health, and was jailed before finally being “bought out of prison” by West Germans. Ulrike then goes on to create a museum to the wall and the people behind it. Drakulic picks up the story by recollecting her own experience visiting Berlin and the musuem immediately after the wall’s destruction–the changing landscape, the erasing of soviet statues, the renaming of streets, and the grotesque repackaging of a dead regime into what essentially amounts to cheap souvenirs.)

“Again this November, I am thinking of Ulrike. What would she feel right now, in front of these white crosses, the absent Wall, the Reichstag Building with the German flag fluttering happily on the wind? Would she feel robbed of something–of her past, perhaps? Two years in prison, her illness, her hair falling out, her fear, persistence, determination–all for nothing, all in vain? So much suffering left to the vagaries of memory, reduced to a bus tour to the East–while it still exists–to the indifferent voice of a young guide. It is not that I mind the demolition of the Wall–I am delighted about that–but the way it was done, the obvious haste with which this tumor was removed not only from the face of the city, but from the memory of the people, too, acting as if it is really possible to unite instantly, to become one Berlin, one nation, as if the past, the division of that nation, doesn’t count at all anymore and should be instantly forgotten. As we were passing by an ugly, military-looking builiding, the guide said, ‘this used to be the Aircraft Ministry, and a vary famous person, Mr Hermann Goering, used to work here.’ This is it, I thought, the erasing of memory begins right here, right on this spot neat the Potsdamer Platz, right when Goering is reduced to a very famous person, and the Wall to tiny bits of painted concrete selling for 5 Deutschmarks, when the whole history of this nation is reduced to souvenirs and fame. What I feared is already there: incoherent bits and pieces of the past that don’t make sense anymore. That, in fact, are not important, But the sooner we forget it, the more we’ll have to fear.

….But Ulrike’s Museum is still there, perhaps the only decent authentic place that keeps alive the memory of the horror. And thank goodness, because this is something we badly need to remember, not to forget, if we are to preserve the past, however horrible it was…

…Here, at the old border between two worlds, is the only place in the world where the inventions of captive minds can be real, can have real meaning. The mini–submarine with the 28-inch hollow plastic body, a small motor, and a propeller (the note says that the young man who defected made a fortune by producing them later on); the first home-built escape aircraft, with a Trabant car motor; the hot-air balloon; the chair-lift and rope with which a whole family escaped one dark night in 1965 from the roof of the Haus der Ministerien; the tiny little wooden pushcart with which sand was lifted from a 500-foot-long tunnel….It is in the face of this genuine desire for freedom, and the fragility of the means to reach it, that I felt the Wall shouldn’t be wiped off the face of the earth. It should stay there–not whole, but big chunks of it, in all its absurdity, as a vivid, solid monument of the past–a monument of division, suffering, terror, injustice—in the name of people who were killed and of the generation that lived in its shadow for almost thirty years. The ‘very famous person, Mr Goering’ and this museum are two poles of German history, with people’s lives stretched in between.”

 

republished with permission.

 

 

 

Raleigh Historic Church Tour

Since being back in Raleigh, I’ve developed a casual interest in “researching” local history. Most of the work has already been done by people much more devoted than I, so it’s really just a matter of picking up interesting little tidbits that I can file away in the “useless facts” corner of my brain. Raleigh is surprisingly full of fascinating characters and strange mythology; for a town it’s size it really does have a pretty vibrant history.  I’m always excited by opportunities to gather a few new stories.  So, when I heard there was an annual “Historic Church Walk” one Saturday in October, I eagerly scribbled it into my planner and printed off my tour map.  Churches are kind of like a city’s time capsules…their history and artifacts very much reflect the evolution of the community around them. Charting the life of a church is a great way to get a picture of the city’s ups and downs, its prosperity, it’s diversity, and it’s values. Raleigh is lucky to have such a wealth of wonderful congregations that have stood the test of time, preserving for us the story of the past and provoking hope for today and in the future.

My first stop was Edenton Street Methodist Church, founded in 1811. This building has been burned to the ground and rebuilt twice in it’s 200 year history—not an uncommon fate for old buildings. The current sanctuary dates only to 1958…I love that they put so much effort into retaining it’s traditional style and grandeur–with the wooden beams, pipe organ and rose window.

Just out front is this historical marker, which I drive by about once a week and I always mean to take a picture of (am I the only one who takes pictures of historical markers??).  Melville B. Cox was commissioned to go to Liberia, which was being founded as a colony for freed American slaves. Once there, he set the foundations for Methodism in that new country–beginning Sunday schools and creating strategies for missions and outreach. Unfortunately he suffered from  ill health even long before his departure, and died not long after his arrival in Africa. His legacy remains a testament to the fact that God can use you no matter your excuse or how much time you  have to give. Across the road is Sacred Heart Cathedral. Holding only 350 people, it is the smallest cathedral in the continental US….much too small, actually; the Catholics will soon be breaking ground on their new, much larger cathedral to fit their growing parish congregation of 6,000. After the new cathedral is finished, this building will be relegated to the status of a normal church, although it will still retain a special place in the hearts of North Carolina Catholics. This little church was completed in 1924 by the same Irish stonemasons who built the capitol building a few blocks away. The blue ceiling gives the sanctuary a light, airy, and open feeling…much brighter than some of the darker wood-paneled churches. There are also 1,999 gold-painted  stars—there were originally 2,000 but some mischievous congregant painted over one. The walls are outlined with beautiful stenciling.  Inset into the walls around the sanctuary are blue reliefs that tell the story of the Passion of Christ. Church of the Good Shepherd is an Episcopalian congregation. The marble cornerstone was quarried near Jerusalem in 1899, and the church itself was completed in 1914–although the stained glass windows took an additional 60 years to install. Amazingly, the original wood-framed church that stood on this site was not destroyed…simply moved to another location. It has been fully restored to it’s original 1800’s condition and is available for special events.  I’m a little bit of a stained glass nerd (going back to those college days, when I wrote a 20 page paper on church windows) so this church was probably one of my favorites. I think that the dim, color-filtered light shining through just gives an atmosphere of reverence that isn’t really replicated in modern churches.  From the ceiling beams to the marble columns, the display of artistry in this church is really fantastic. No details are spared. If you look closely, the  Italian marble altar has a beautiful depiction of the Last Supper.

First Baptist Church, Salisbury Street has an interesting story but a not-so-interesting building. This congregation began in 1812 with 9 free persons and 14 slaves, worshiping together.  The first service was held in this building in 1859. Soon after the civil war, the African American members requested dismissal from the church to start their own congregation. The split was amicable, and the black congregation moved back into the old Baptist church building a few blocks away on Wilmington Street, which dates to 1840. This solves the mystery of how Raleigh ended up with two First Baptist Churches. After the stunning decoration of some of the other churches, both of the baptist churches seem pretty underwhelming. I didn’t like that the balcony actually curves around and blocks the stained glass windows, and the organ–usually a dramatic centerpiece–is tucked away quietly in a corner. I did appreciate the cast iron grille, though…weird but interesting.

Christ Church is a church I’ve wanted to go in for years. I’ve snapped so many pictures of this quiet little courtyard, but always from the outside. One day I’m going to grab a book and jump that fence…it looks like a perfect place to hide away and read. This church was built in 1853, although the congregation has been organized since 1821, and was actually designed by Richard Upjohn, one of the most eminent church architects of the 19th century.If I learned anything on this tour, its that Episcopalians really know how to build a church.

This church also had some fantastic stained glass, and a really beautifully carved altarpiece. I’ve been really impressed by the wooden ceilings in most of these churches. They’re beautiful but not distractingly so—Christ Church in particular is a really well-balanced space. I’m so glad I went up in the balcony to get a better look at the windows.

Not pictured are the First Baptist Church Wilmington, First Presbyterian Church, and St Paul AME Church. The Presbyterian Church shares a lot of similar attributes to these other churches, from the wood paneling to the stained glass, but features heavy rounded arches through the sanctuary. It’s still a lovely building and worth a look. Highlight–they let me ring their bell.  I wish I went to St. Paul, but unfortunately that was the one church I missed on the tour. This congregation descends from the slave members of Edenton Street Methodist church, who eventually broke away to found the first independent black congregation and oldest black church in wake county. The building was build entirely by talented black craftsmen, who desired a building that was comparable to any white church in the area. Judging from the exterior, they clearly succeeded.

 

Anyway, having never been inside many of these churches before,  I was honestly quite surprised at the quality and craftsmanship displayed. It’s amazing to think that even in a little city like Raleigh, people managed to pull together enough to fund beautiful buildings that rival those in much bigger cities! I hope y’all enjoyed getting a little peek inside.

Next week we’re off for a vacation in Maine, so next time I check back in here, look forward to some great photos of the northeast coastline!

Samoon, and Making Friends.

Tags

bread, Friendship, immigrants, Iraq, Samoon

I am lucky enough to live in a community that has become home to a large and diverse immigrant community–one that, in my opinion, is vibrant enough to rival even some of the biggest cities I’ve been too. There’s clearly something for everyone here, and it’s a beautiful thing because it offers support and stability for the newcomers, and gives even those of us who are born and bred North Carolinians an opportunity to experience other cultures without so much as stepping on a plane.

A couple months ago I was invited to a Karen New Year Celebration, hosted by refugees from Myanmar and Thailand, and complete with food, drink, music and dancing.

Maybe I notice all the ethnic shops because I actively  seek them out, but once you start looking,  these little gems are not hard to find. There’s one strip mall I particularly like because it contains nothing but shops and restaurants run by immigrants. It’s the kind of place you’d never look twice at if you were just driving by, but when you pull into the parking lot you find a Japanese grocery and gift shop, an African grocery, a Halal bucher, a Mexican carniceria and  grocery, a Himalayan-Nepali  shop and restaurant, an Indian fast-food and snack bar, some clothing shops, and more. Wandering in and out of shops, getting little snacks and bites along the way, is always an interesting way to spend the afternoon….kind of like visiting Epcot without the $150 Disney ticket.

Today I was over there, ducking in and out of shops and picking up my usual collection of favorite snacks, when I spotted one I’ve not visited before. It said it was a bakery, and lured by the prospect of fresh pastries, I ducked in. Immediately upon entering something seemed wrong. There were no cases of cakes. No baskets of fresh rolls. Not even so much as a cookie anywhere. Instead, there were a few shelves of middle-eastern staples and not much else. Disappointed but not wanting to admit defeat, I busied myself examining the sparse offerings.

Behind the cash register a small man is chatting in Arabic to a couple of other shoppers, and after their departure, I wander shyly out from behind the shelves with a tub of sumac. “Did you want bread?” the man asks me in his rapid, broken English. Bread? I immediately perk up and look around. Still not seeing anything that looks like bread, I give the man a confused look. He leads me by the arm over to the corner of the shop, and for the first time I notice a clay oven in the back of the store. “Bread.” He tells me. “Ready in a few minutes.”

I decide to wait and see.

A few seconds later a much younger man comes out of a back room and approaches some shallow wooden boxes stacked along the wall. He grabs them and tosses them onto a table, and unwraps them to reveal in each one a row of 8 freshly risen, peculiarly shaped loaves of bread. “This is Mohammed!” The older man gestures toward the younger man. “I am Hussein.”  Giving scarcely enough time for me to offer my own introduction, he launches into a passionate explanation of his craft. “nothing but flour, yeast, salt and water,” Hussein tells me. “Called Samoon. S-A-M-O-O-N. We are the only bakery in the state to make it!” The younger man, Mohoammed, has by this time carefully lifted each loaf out of its rising box, dusted it with flour and sesame seeds, and is shuffling them in and out of the oven. “250 Degrees!” says Hussein.

As the hot loaves begins to hit the bread baskets, I pick one up and slide it into a paper bag. “How many did you get?” Hussein asks me. When I tell him I only got one, he tears my bag away from me and tosses in another loaf, “for tasting.” I move toward the register, but Hussein isn’t ready to let me go yet. Gesturing at a photo on the wall, he points to a woman and tells me she is his sister. “She has women’s shop down the street!” He tells me he will introduce us. He then takes off out the door, giving me little choice but to trot along after him. As it turns out, his sister sells formal dresses a few doors down. As we walk toward her store, he tells me a little about his family. I clearly remind him of his daughter, a girl about my age who is a doctor in Baghdad. We look at pictures of her on his iphone. She, along with Hussein’s wife and other children, are trapped there, unable to come to America and unable to even leave their homes because of the threat of danger on the streets. They cannot work, they cannot go to school, and many of the doors that allow refugees to come to this country have closed for them.

^^Every one of those trays has bread in it, by the way.

Finally reaching the little dress shop, I meet Hussein’s only relative in the US, a matter-of-fact woman who has lived in North Carolina for 40 years. He introduces us in Arabic, and she gives me a quizzical look. “He says you are his daughter,” she tells me. I’m unsure what to make of this, but am thankfully spared from having to respond as Hussein launches into a heavy discussion in Arabic, which goes on a few minutes before he turns to me and informs me that he will be leaving me now and returning to his own shop, but I should stay with his sister (I assume he expects me to buy a dress). He bolts out the door and I am left standing in the dress shop, not wanting to offend but also not wanting to purchase a wedding gown quite yet.

After a brief moment, I turn to the lady behind the desk, scouring my brain for something to use as friendly smalltalk and which will also provide me with an easy exit from the dress shop. I decide to ask some clarifying questions about the little bakery down the street. “He says he has only been in business a few months?” I ask. “Oh yes. Two months and three weeks.” She answers. “He is having some problems finding another baker though, that is what he was just talking about.” “Tell him I’ll come bake for him anytime!” I offer jokingly. Unfortunately, this is taken as a serious offer. “You bake?” She gives me that quizzical look again. “Well, lets go see what they think about that.” She hurries out from around her desk and out the door, leaving me once again unsurely trotting along behind, this time back toward the bakery.

Once back in the bakery, the lady is explaining in Arabic my offer to the two men. Mohammad gives me a look of utter disbelief, and wants to know if I can handle standing next to the heat of the oven. I tell him I work as a cook, I am used to high heat. He still seems unsure, so he tosses me a fresh loaf of bread straight out of the oven. “Can you touch it?” he asks. I pick it up…it is pretty hot. Hoping I’ve held on to it long enough to prove my toughness, I toss it back in the basket. He looks slightly impressed but not convinced. After a few more minutes of dubious questioning from them, I’m pretty sure that I have no chance of making it as an Iraqi baker; neither of the two men are ever going to believe that a little english-speaking white girl is going to be able to stand next to a hot fire and not melt. Hussein shuffles into the back room and I finally muster up the courage to ask if i could please, finally, buy my items. His sister comes over to the register and checks me out. Before leaving, I tell Mohammed I’ll be back and maybe next time he can let me try. He tells me I need to practice first. But he smiles as he says it, so maybe he’ll let me try my hand at making Samoon afterall.

It’s a funny thing, in this world of large chain superstores, we complain about going into shops and them being so big we can’t find what we need, we have to walk all around the store, or things moving to different aisle. What we should really be mourning is that we no longer find people. We can walk around a 200,000 square foot store and not talk to a single other person. No wonder half of America is depressed. There’s no community, no sense of belonging. When you don’t even need a cashier to check you out at the grocery store anymore, it’s every man for himself. Maybe what we need is for everyone to begin buying their groceries from stores with shopkeepers who gladly go out of their way to get to know you, to share their bread with you, and call you their daughter without even needing to know your name. In a world with that sort of caring, it’s hard to think that anyone would ever feel forgotten.

A little Garden Update…

Tags

cucamelon, Fish, Garden, gardening, pond, squash, tomatoes, vegetables, video

….but with a slight change in the usual format 😉

 

 

 

Well, that was quick, easy, and fun, wasn’t it 😛 I’d like to do more videos (although in the future I think I’ll do them sitting down, I’m not so good at holding the camera steady), what do you think?

 

A Bug’s Life

Tags

insects, moss, nature, roly poly

There’s a video making the rounds on facebook (ironically), reminding people to LOOK UP from their phones and be present with the world. It’s a good reminder, but I’ve had a proper “smart phone” for just over two weeks now, and I’ve yet to understand exactly what it is people are looking at all the time. Don’t get me wrong–I spend plenty of time on my computer with not much to show for it, but when it comes to phones and their tiny screens and their difficult “keyboards”, I’m not really finding the appeal.

However, there is one phone feature that I have been making good use of, and that is my new phone’s camera. It’s nice to have something always handy, that isn’t bulky and doesn’t take up any extra room in my pocketbook. As a result I’ve been going around snapping wildy at everything for the past two weeks. In fact, the camera was pretty much the only reason I upgraded at all, I knew my trusty little point-and-shoot, which captured nearly 10 years of  my life on film memory card, was nearing the end of it’s life span and I didn’t see the point in investing in a new point-and-shoot when phones these days seem to take good enough pictures for my purposes (aka, Just For Fun)…and do about a million other things too. So, I caved and got one.

Anyway, 95% of these pictures I’ve been taking with my new phone are of flowers I think are nice, but lately the photo roll has been dominated by small animals that I find to play with annoy. These mostly include toads, lizards, squirrels, and various insects I dig up around the backyard and force to pose. Some of you may have seen this grumpy toad buddy  I found and  posted on facebook last week:

I was pretty impressed with the photo quality (for a phone!!) so I set out to find more disgruntled pets to practice my photo-taking skills on.

I didn’t really take these pictures with the intention of sharing, but after I stalked a pair of roly-polys today I thought the pictures were kinda fun so here they are. Plus, they totally prove the point that every picture is improved just by having a little bit of life in it…even a life as small as a bug.

Now, If anyone has suggestions of better things I could be doing with my phone, please let me know because so far, pictures of roly-polys has just about been my favorite thing to look look at.

On Easter…from a Polish Perspective

Tags

babka, Easter, Emaus, Holiday, King Krakus, Krakow, krakow Mound, Oscypki, Poland, Renaissance Fair, Renkawka, Smigus Dyngus, tradition

If you’ve been reading my blogs for a while, some of the thoughts and images in this post may seem rather familiar. In truth, many of them I am copying them from a blog post I wrote in 2009, while I was studying in Krakow. It’s strange to think it’s been 5 years since I was there, and yet, my time in Poland remains the best adventure I’ve ever been on, and I’m pretty surprised I haven’t been back. If I could drop everything and move anywhere right now, I’d move back to Poland in a heartbeat. But anyway, that spring in 2009 I found myself in the midst of a Polish Easter, and while I expected the holiday to be a bit lonely with all my friends gone and my family far away–perhaps it was–with no hustle and bustle and preparations to get caught up in, it was the kind of aloneness that just gives way to quiet reflection and simple appreciation. In fact, that holiday spent abroad became one of the most special experiences I’ve ever had. I loved it.

I did buy myself flowers at the market to keep me company.

Poland is still a very religious (Catholic) country, and the various days of the liturgical calendar that I tend to overlook are very much remember there. Beginning on this Thursday, Maundy Thursday,  all businesses and schools are officially closed. I wasn’t expecting it because I didn’t grow up learning anything about Maundy Thursday, and I was lucky that someone warned me ahead of time to stock up on groceries, because the stores and most of the restaurants were beginning to close early and would remain so through the weekend (if you’re traveling over Easter, no worries, there’s always McDonalds, which shuts for no one). The one big exception was the bustling Easter Market located in the Rynek Glowny, or main square, in the center of Krakow. This square was historically used by merchants who brought their wares there to sell and trade; today it is host to many community events and festivities, such as this Easter market.

The carts are filled with Easter baskets, flowers, eggs, gifts, candy, and other seasonal treats that delight just about everyone who passes by. There were carts of oscypki (smoked cheeses brought up from the Tatras) men roasting sausages on large outdoor grills, and smearing lard from heavy pots onto thick slices of bread, zapiekanki (toasted french bread loaded with sauteed mushrooms, cheese, and ketchup) and polish piwo and mulled wine.

The churches were busy all week and into the weekend. Throughout my time in Poland, I regularly liked to sneak in and observe from a back pew, and over the holidays, the lines of parishers were out the door as everyone came for the Easter blessings, prayers, and confessions. There is no normal schedule of mass during these days, instead the chancel is stripped bare and altar covered with black cloth. Of course, Poland has chocolate bunnies, Easter greeting cards, and even a man in a bunny suit roaming the mall, but the secular celebration really seemed to take a backseat to the church’s holiday. It was refreshing to remember that this is, in fact, a week set apart to remember the death and resurrection of Christ, not the coming of the Easter Bunny, and I was envious of the Poles’ seemingly unadulterated worship compared to the distracted traditions I grew up with.

Thursday and Friday are days of remembering Jesus’ last moments and his suffering, but they are also a time to prepare for the coming celebrations. These are the days that the family gathers together to decorate eggs, to carve lambs out of butter, and to bake the traditional Babka, or Easter bread–a rich loaf studded with raisins and orange zest. On Saturday, the bakba, butter, eggs, kielbasa, salt, and other traditional accoutrements of the Easter table are packed into baskets and carried to the church to be blessed by the priests.

A family exiting the church with their Easter baskets—I really hate taking pictures of people without permission, but in this case I couldn’t resist.

Many congregations also create a “tomb” somewhere in their church, so that people can visit the grave of Jesus and, i guess, pay their respects. There is often an honor guard composed of boy scouts or even the military who stand alongside. Saturday evening is marked by a special church service in Poland, which begins in darkness to demonstrate the emptiness of the world without God. A bonfire is lit in the back of the church to symbolize hope in darkness. As the candles are lit and the lights turned back on, we are reminded of the brilliance of the resurrection. As the service progresses, hymns of thanksgiving and praise are sung. I did not actually go to this service because I thought the language barrier might make my attendance futile, but I do wish I had tried. It sounds like a beautiful, passionate service.

Easter Sunday itself was pretty uneventful for me, as most of the Poles were at home with their families, enjoying the day and eating their Easter meals. I met up with a friend and we hunted for somewhere to eat, without a whole lot of luck, but we did eventually find a restaurant open, catering mostly to tourists and the few odd stragglers such as ourselves. Other than that, it was a quiet day of rest and contemplation.

Easter Monday is also public holiday. According to Wikipedia, it was a holiday in North Carolina as well up until 1988, but that had more to do with an annual baseball game between NC State and Wake Forest University than any religious significance. In Krakow there were a couple festivals going on—in the Zwierzyniec District, a nice walk down the river from where I lived, was the Emaus Festival. The modern-day festival stems from a centuries-old fair that commemorated All Soul’s Day,  and although All Souls was later moved to a different date, the celebration continued. I decided to go,  and sadly it turned out to be not that exciting. There were a lot of vendors selling cheap kids toys and candy, and some dumpy looking fair rides for babies to get some excitement out of…but not a lot for older people. I did buy a REALLY good ear of corn there,though, and of course some candy.

More famously, the Monday after Easter marks another popular celebration, called Smigus Dyngus. It is, in the words of my roommate, “a very primitive holiday,” and all that happened was that guys walked around with squirt guns and buckets of water and tried to get the girls as wet as they could manage. Apparently, getting water dumped on you means you’ll have good luck in the coming year, but–luck or not– I was still happy I managed to avoid it.  My roommate had an entire trashbag of water dumped on her from a window on the street, and another friend got egged by some drunks in a passing car. Traditionally, girls would have their turn to get back at the boys on Easter Tuesday, but unfortunately I didn’t see a lot of that going on. Too bad, those boys deserve it.

Tuesday isn’t technically a holiday, so on this day the Easter Market began to get dismantled and shops started opening again.  I still had a day off of school, so I traveled to Podgorze, which is sadly best known as the location of the Jewish ghetto on the opposite side of the river from Krakow. There I found an interesting festival taking place at the base of the Mound of King Krakus, the city’s founder. What the Mound is  no one knows, and if you didn’t know better you’d think it was just a rather strange looking hill on the outskirts of the city. It doesn’t seem like much in pictures, but when you see it up close you find it it’s quite monumental and impressive for being an ancient, man-made structure. You can read more HERE if you want.

The festival was to commemorate another centuries-old Krakowian fair, Renkawka, which has been reinvented in modern times as a Renaissance Festival. According to one source, “The fiesta probably has roots in pagan rites in honor of the dead celebrated here in the Dark Ages. Its feature used to be scattering coins and sweets that boys fought over. There were also bonfires and various contests, from fencing to pole climbing.”

There were reenactments, artisans selling crafts, and lots of tasty “medieval-inspired” snacks. It was really worth going, and seeing an Krakowian landmark I would have otherwise probably not ventured out to see…not to mention the fantastic view of Krakow from the top:

And with that, I finish up my little summary of a Polish Easter. I know it’s a long post but I hope it has been interesting and informative, and I hope I got all my facts right! While it’s always a little bit difficult to imagine not being at home with your own family and traditions over a holiday, I think it’s always worth taking an opportunity to discover some other traditions that are out there. That said, however it is you celebrate this season, I hope you all have a joyous and blessed day.

Happy Easter!!

Love Jenny

 

 

Springtime.

Tags

flowers, Garden, gardening, Spring, Springtime

Well, spring has sprung, so I guess I can return from my hibernation. Not that a change in the weather necessarily improves blog content, but it does provide a few nice pictures. We had a burst of warm this weekend, followed by a few days’ return to chilly, dreary, rainy weather…but it turns out that those April showers were just what the plants needed to burst out in blooms.

I guess no matter what wind and rain may come our way, it’s difficult to be unhappy when the air is clean and there are flowers in the garden.

 

I’ll be back for another update soon.

 

Six Photos of Manhattan

Tags

beauty, Greenwich Village, grit, Manhattan, New York City, travel, Upper East Side

A writer I follow recently wrote a wonderful essay on Philadelphia, in which she described the city as having a sort of “gritty sincerity.” I love that. It’s a description I would also tie to New York—-sometimes worn, sometimes battered, sometimes mean, sometimes dirty—but always real. You see, we only pretend to live in a world of manicured lawns and neatly whitewashed fences and cleanliness and convenience. We expect trash to be turned out neatly in cans on the curb, waiting for a truck to come by to pick it up. We expect our sewers to work properly and we expect our neighbors to respect our right to a good night’s sleep by keeping the noise down and the lights off. We don’t expect to smell urine on the street corner, or see bags and bags of waste piled up at the base of a stop sign. We don’t believe that paint should be chipped, or curtains faded, or sidewalks riddled with cracks. We don’t want to have to come face to face with the dirtiness of human life and the passage of time. We turn our heads away from scents, sights, and sounds we disapprove of, cast a blind eye toward the waste we create, and overall just pretend that the reality of life doesn’t exist.

Many times, we find cities like New York repulsive. It is dirty. It’s bright lights and sparkly billboards are downright gaudy. There is trash littered everywhere. Unpleasant smells often linger in the air. But it’s real. In New York, you can’t hide from waste and dirt and weeds, you can’t ignore the reality of this world. Sometimes it’s rough, sometimes it’s polished, sometimes it’s green, sometimes it’s concrete. Chipping paint reveal colors that once were, rusty staples in the telephone pole give testament to the many flyers and notices that have been hung there, the sidewalks are embellished with scratches made by children trying to write their names with sticks. In New York City, we don’t have the luxury of ignoring the mess we create; instead, it confronts us.  Maybe it is gritty, but it’s got the mark of life. Underneath it, there’s a beauty–the type of beauty that adds texture to the otherwise flat portrait of our world. In New York, tribute is paid to generations of people who passed through the world before us…each one, it seems, has left his mark on this place, even just by adding a bit of grit.

And there is something beautiful about it, isn’t there?

The Daily Photo

It was suggested (jokingly, I hope) that every day I post a picture of what I make at my new job. That is never going to happen because a) I have never in my life been that consistent with anything and b) I forgot to take a picture of the first day so the plan was ruined before it even began.

For the record, it was jerk chicken. I’m not a big fan of jerk chicken, but it was sold out before 12:30, so I was happy enough. More importantly, all the people I needed to impress were happy, and all is well with the world.

I did, however, get my coworker to take a picture for day two and email it to me. It’s a pork loin with an apple-ginger chutney, sweet potato wedges and roasted cauliflower. It was a pretty fall-ish menu, fitting for the chilly weather we had today. I never quite feel that the plate is balanced without something green on it, but it still looks pretty good to me.

I guess if someone wanted green today, they had to go to the salad bar.I was holding a plate in this picture because I was starving and ready for lunch. I actually didn’t get to eat what I made other than a few snacks in the kitchen and some of the end pieces I set aside while slicing the meat, because I was a little worried we’d run out. Maybe next time…..

Oh, you can see a little of the eating area and the big windows/panoramic view of Raleigh (mostly trees, apparently) behind me (and it’s not dark like it was in the last picture). It’s not really a cafeteria per-say, just a little cafe area, and then some tables and couches for people to work or relax, along with the pool tables and ping pong tables and whatever else they’ve got scattered around the room for people to entertain themselves with.

But who really cares about that, lets look at the food again: We do try to make it look pretty.

On a semi-related note, someone asked me recently whether it was hard to go from a place like the Farm, where nearly everything was from scratch and locally-raised and where I got to see pieces of the entire food puzzle–from the livestock in the fields and the plants in the garden, to the homemade sausages in the butcher shop and the cheese aging in the cheese rooms and so on and so forth—to a place like this, where most things come on a truck from big suppliers like Sysco. The answer is no, it wasn’t hard. The reasons are a little big complicated, but I don’t feel like I’m having to compromise my values and what I think food should be just because I’m not on a farm anymore. Granted, to get ourselves started we’ve bought a few prepackaged things just to provide a safety net until we can get a good routine down, but ultimately, I look forward to it being a completely from-scratch kitchen. And to be fair, everything you see above was 100% homemade. Just because the food isn’t grown right outside the window doesn’t mean I can’t still be responsible with the products I choose and put out fresh, healthful, interesting, and delicious food. And just because the sausage isn’t made next door and I don’t have time to roll my own pasta every day and I don’t have a team of people to go forage some little-known plant to garnish my plate doesn’t limit me to a life without homemade sausage or fresh pasta or interesting greenery. It just means that I have to be a bit more proactive and dedicated if it’s going to be part of my life.

After all, in the real world, these things don’t just fall on your doorstep. The Farm is an extreme anomaly even in the world of fine dining, and it was a privilege to be a part of that for any amount of time. But it’s also a responsibility to take all those things I learned about and introduce them to people who have never been to a place like that, and I guess that’s what I’m doing now. It’s not particularly easy to rethink food I know and enjoy so that it fits this environment (as well as the challenges and limitations that come when you have to prepare a bulk amount of food in advance), but it’s still inspiring and exciting to try.

Plus, I enjoy the people I work with, the hours I get to work, and the freedom to be creative. I like my work, but I don’t like working odd hours and holidays and not being able to see my family or friends or commit to any other activities I wanted to do. I already feel like I’ve been given 100 extra hours in a week just because now I get to clock out of work at 2pm instead of clocking in to work at 2pm, and I feel much happier and well-balanced as a result.

The only reason I’m sorry I quit is because I realize that I’ve given up the rare opportunity to learn from the best of the best, and frankly, I’m not done learning yet. I’ve cut my education short, more-or-less. There’s a lot of interesting things that many top restaurants are doing that, frankly, I will never find an opportunity (or the  budget) to try somewhere like this. And yes, there are some ingredients and products that I simply cannot get now, at least not without buying it with my own money or jumping through hoops to find it. I guess I’ve just had to accept that I made a choice here, and that I believe a balanced life that reflects my values is more important than having an enviable career, even if it means giving up a job at one of the coolest restaurants in the region.

Anyway, I guess that’s all I really have to say today about that.

Love Jenny

Raleigh at 7am

I love the landscape of the mountains, but the great thing about living in a flat  city is you can usually get a really good view of the sunrise. No mountains gettin’ in my way anymore.

I took these two from our 9th Floor Cafe a little after 7am, just as the sun began to peek out over the horizon. Yes, there’s a pool table. and ping pong tables, and air hockey. Those Red Hat employees have no room for complaints.

 

This is a picture of my new kitchen so far. We passed our health inspection today and got in our first big order of food, so we’ll be ready to start cooking tomorrow! In other words, we’ll be learning how to use our giant, super fancy combi ovens (which totally make that little range in the corner look like an antiquated dwarf appliance…in fact, don’t even look at it, it’s about to be replaced with a flattop) before opening for real next week. I guess some of us food-service employees really can’t complain, either.