Russian Tea Time

My parents emailed us with the announcement: They had planned a tour of their six children to celebrate their 45^th wedding anniversary. This trip would take them a few miles across town, hundreds of miles across the prairie, to Northern Indiana, the East Coast, and the Rocky Mountains within a week. They asked us to pick out a nice restaurant for each night of their weekly weddinganniversarypalooza.

I met them in Chicago and took them to a little place I had discovered a few years ago. It is a Russian restaurant, Russian Tea Time, with old world red velvet drapings, samovars, and nesting dolls. Lots of mirrors and attentive waiters. When I was sixteen, I convinced my parents to let me become a People to People Ambassador. I flew to Moscow and studied biology in Sochi along the Black Sea Coast. I viewed Stalin’s mummified body in great solemnity. I visited a tea plantation and ate fresh raspberries atop a mountain.

I was a sixteen-year-old Kansas girl serving as Ambassador of Peace. It was 1991 and political upheaval was the rule, little did I fully realize as I went about selecting the perfect black-lacquered box as a memento for my treasure chest back home.

So the selection of Russian restaurant to honor my parents’ 45^th anniversary was no accident. They gave me Russia, and I thought it would be nice to share a Russian meal with them.

We started with a flight of vodkas—bilberry, cranberry, and plain. These vodkas, served with dark rye bread chunks and pickles, go down like velvet. A fine way to start any long, long lunch.

We decided to share a sampler meal because we couldn’t decide between all the delicious options. Borscht (served hot, the traditional way), beet caviar, stuffed mushrooms. Followed by stuffed cabbage, Moldavian chicken meatballs, a breaded chicken delight, beef stroganoff, kashi and rice.

The finish must be handled with care. We managed it properly by drinking endless cups of deep amber Russian tea (available for sale on their website) and a selection of strudels, cookies, and cakes.

A hearty almost three-hour celebration.

The restaurant is located a few steps from the Art Institute, but the day was too mild to ruin by going indoors. So we headed to the Millennium Park to watch kids and adults splash in the Crown Fountain, a public art fountain. If you haven’t visited this park, go now. It is really one of my favorite parks in the world. Very well done. Especially worth it on a mild, sunny, and breezy day.

It was a brief world wind visit. I hope they do the same for their 46^th anniversary!

After Beef

I think my cow diversion has nearly runs its course.

The cows that decorate the world's major cities as part of the global public art movement, CowParade, are oddly fascinating. (See earlier blog: Car Parade: Budapest and Boston.)

I have spent too much time thinking about why people love these dressed up plaster bovines. But delight they do. Maybe it's the shared common form--your basic cow--transformed. You don't see a cow, you see how the cow was interpreted and that gives a jolt of pleasure as you impress yourself with your ability to understand the visual pun or message of the artist. People "get" this art. (In a way they don't get modern art?) This gives pleasure. Hence the cow parade goes on.

I can't help but think that in one hundred years, art historians will write books about early twenty-first century public art. Perhaps with the following title: "The Bovine Consciousness Emergent in Metropolitan Byways: A study." Or how about: "Heifers Rising: The Rise of Bovine Beauty in Early Twenty-first Century Urban Pastures."

But didn't I just say that my cow diversion was in its final throes of passion? Ready for the slaughter.

Let there be cows.

(Yet, it is so much more satisfying to write about parading cows than to attempt to write about the cow in the middle of my life, which is related to the elephant in the room, if you know what I mean.)

Vow to self: less caffeine, more tennis, less chatter, more keyboard clatter, and so forth.

Cow Parade: Budapest and Boston

And so I decided to instead write about cows.

That is correct, cows.

The CowParade is a phenomenal public art success by most measures. If you have not yet experienced the parade of cows in a major metropolis, it is a public art moo-vement (forgive me) intended to make art accessible for the masses. Cows are safe. Have you met a person who did not like cows? We all love ‘em, and most of us happily eat them. (Pause and consider what that says about human nature.)

And then someone got the bright idea to use cows as a blank canvas. Artists in each city transform the same basic cow model into fantastic flights of imagination (or sadly, mere advertisements for the companies who sponsor them). Peter Hanig, the even coordinator explains:

Art is about breaking down barriers. It gets people to feel, to think, to react. So when you come across life-sized cow sculptures that have been covered in mirrors or gumdrops, cows that have been painted with elaborate themes or transformed into something else entirely, you can’t help but stop and think about what it means. All your preconceived ideas go out the window. Suddenly people see that art can be fun and that art can be interesting to everyone, not just people who frequent museums.

Art can be fun. Indeed. I am not sure what artists have to say about that, but I can imagine that some agree and some are not amoosed (sorry, I can’t help it, really.)

Peruse the CowParade website. It is a hoot. People love these cows. And the cows raise a huge amount of money for charity. It looks like a win-win game: artists get public exposure, charities get cash, and the art is temporary (so no one has to actually LIVE with it for longer than a summer).

The cows do reflect a city’s culture. Boston’s cows were upright, dignified chaps. Budapest’s cows—yes, they are hosting the parade this summer—are not of the Boston Breed. Strangely, however, the official CowParade website does not list Budapest as a participant. Odd. Is Budapest a renegade cow stampede? Two striking examples of cows in Budapest:

Handicap Cow: his two back legs were amputated and replaced by old-fashioned wheelchair wheels. Not exactly whimsical. Especially when a beggar with a similar impediment worked the subway stairs within sight.

And my personal favorite: The Ice-Cream Cow. The cow is located just near the traditional café for distinguished ladies and gents, the Gerbaund. (Update: I recently learned that this is its new location. It was moved here after much controversy. Read this article from Budapest's English weekly newspaper, Budapest Sun.) It is blue cow ice cream melting into the hot summer pavement. If you imagined a cow as ice-cream, where would you have to insert the wooden stick? Exactly. On the stick it says: Don’t Lick.

I love Budapest and its cows. Whimsical without the sentiment.

Another Update: I found the official Hungarian site for the CowParade. Check it out and dust off your Hungarian language skills! http://www.cowparade.hu/index2.html

(Photo credits go to my Dad and his first digital camera.)

Back in Budapest

My parents arrived in Transylvania on Friday morning and I have hardly had time to check my email never mind think about blogging.

It is a long, long trip from Kansas to the land of pine trees, mineral water, and kurtos kalach. They have been troopers, however. This morning we arrived back in Budapest via overnight train. In the couchette to our right was a film crew from England (including Jeremy Daniels--whose passport was confused with one of ours at the border), who had just finished shooting a film in Romania. On our right, a group of folk singers/story tellers from Hungary. My family took up an entire couchette.

Saturday and Sunday were spent on the pot-holed roads between villages and bigger cities in Transylvania. We visited a region famous for its salt mines, partially because my hometown in Kansas also has salt mines. We thought it would make for an interesting parallel view of the two cultures. We took a bus down into the mines for a few hours tour.

The mines we visited were huge caverns used here for health and recreation. It is considered therapeutic for those with respiratory problems to spend hours down inside the mines breathing the air which is certainly pollen free. None of us noticed an air ventilation system. No fire escapes. After the 1.5 kilometer bus ride down into the mine, we descended about 200 wooden steps. The experience was eerie. The mine is now equipped with picnic tables, swings, ping pong tables, and room for badminton. There is a church and a museum. And, of course, a coffee bar. (Other parts of the mine are still in working condition.)

After leaving the mines we spent the afternoon in nearby Szovata, a resort town with a salty-water lake. The lake is filled with bobbing heads due to the buoyancy of the water. We didn't float ourselves; instead we enjoyed a long, long lunch on a patio near the lake.

We fed my parents all the local foods we love: cheeses, cakes, fresh fruits and vegetables, mushrooms taken down from the mountains, micc (a kind of grilled meat), kurtos kalach, etc.

We took them up into the mountains around Csik to look at land we might want to buy. We drank Csiki beer on the main street and people watched. (We kept the gypsies at arm's length.)

We played with grandma's new puppy, Bodza.

On Monday we visited the church at Csiksomlyo, famous for its miraculous Virgin Mary statue.

We ate Grandma’s lunch at 1 pm everyday—roka mushrooms paprikas or chicken paprikas, puliszka, or potatoes, or perhaps sheep’s milk cheese and always enough perfectly ripe watermelon to feed an army.

Thanks be to God, the heat wave broke before we arrived in Budapest today. We are all happily ensconced in our castle district residences, most of us sleeping off lunch and rich servings of cake.

Things observed during this trip to Transylvania:

1. Roads in Transylvania are not just for cars--expect hay-loaded horse carts, motorcycles, bikes, old ladies walking, hitchhikers, train crossings operated by hand, hand-picked berries or mushrooms for sale, trucks, and the occasional grazing cow.

2. Kansas and Transylvania have more in common than you might expect.

3. Poverty does not equal danger or violence.

4. Language barriers can be overcome by walking a puppy on the street.

5. Poverty does not equal lack of education.

6. "Decarbonated" does not mean no carbonation when looking for water with no gas.

7. If you are willing to give your last piece of pizza to a beggar woman, do not feel shocked or offended when she walks two steps away and shares it with her son right before your eyes.

8. Transylvania and Budapest--not handicap accessible.

9. Puppies are worth it.

Updates from Csikszereda

We played mad tennis this morning. We made a ferocious team versus an eleven-year-old and our spritely seventy-something-year-old couch. We manage to win a few games here and there.

I finally finished my biography of Marcel Duchamp, for which I am to be one day rewarded with a trip to Philadelphia where his major works are on display. His life and work, his life as his art work, his anti-art as art, etc. fascinate me. I once turned up my nose in the Picasso museum in Paris. Now I salivate at the thought of making a special trip to Philadelphia to see Duchamp's Glass. Life is like that.

Duchamp's demise (as all biography's must end) opened a floodgate for me. Within 24 hours I had read Julia Glass's first novel, Three Junes (highly recommended, especially if you need good literary fiction as a post-Duchampian salve). I am in the middle of The Road to Coorain, a work of autobiography. Next I plan to read Uglies, a young adult novel. Fast. Furious. And strangely ecclectic.

Tomorrow at 6 am my parents arrive on the Korona train from Budapest. They have traveled from Kansas to Transylvania in one long shot. I expect them to drop dead from exhaustion when they arrive. I am sure while they are here they will absorb sights and the local flavors, and offer little commentary on their impressions. Yet I look forward to their reactions to life here in the Carpathian valley.

Csiki Tales

We arrived to Csikszereda, Transylvania a few days ago with a puppy hidden in our luggage. (Technically he is too young to be exported from Hungary to Romania.) He is a six-weeks-old very adorable King Charles Spaniel recently dubbed Bodza (which is a kind of tree with a flower used to make our favorite summer soft drink). I was in charge of him throughout the overnight train ride from Budapest. He only piddled once on my sheets. Since we were tucked up in the third tier couchette bed, I had to make a fence with my body to prevent him from jumping to his death. Needless to say, I didn't sleep much as all my latent maternal instincts surged in good will toward his warm little body.

Per usual, grandma fed us all our favorites the first day and my stomach couldn't handle the gastronomical love. I have recovered and re-learned the importance of pacing. We have a few more weeks in her kitchen's care and plenty of time to indulge.

I must have mentioned it before, but in Hungarian the word for tomato can also mean heaven. Need I say more? Heaven on my plate in plump red flesh. Cheese brought down daily from the moutains. Stuffed peppers. Thick white bed fresh from the corner bakery. Grandma's cakes. Bodza to drink. And rivers of dense black coffee--the kind that penetrates deep into my DNA and calls forth endorphins.

We started our summer tennis lessons this morning. Our teacher is an over-sixty years old sprite of a man with dashing good looks and bountiful energy. It is shameful to be outplayed by a man three times my age. But the more tennis I play here, the more yummy food I need to eat. See the logic? Logic with a serious caloric impact.

I am still reading the O. Henry short stories and in awe with a few of them, but I am also reading the biography of Duchamp. I started to memorize some Hungarian poetry. We all took a stanza from a famous poem and will "perform" dada style--all shouting our stanzas at the same time while wearing important black turtlenecks--for grandma. At least that's my plan. Grandma may not be amused.

Yes, I am deeply in love with Bodza, the puppy. I admit it.

In a few weeks my parents will make their first trip to Transylvania--it is a long, long trip from Kansas. We plan to show them as much as possible of life here in the short time they will visit.

Reading, eating, deep-mountain-air sleeping, walking in the city, etc. are the stuff of summer. This summer I will add to my agenda: work on my novel. I wrote an epilogue, which means, I guess, that I have finished a first draft. I can hardly believe that given that fact that I know how much work needs to be done. I printed off the second half and brought it here so that I can revise with my cruel red pen.

Summer in Csikzereda is good, very good.

En Route

Today begins my summer travels to Hungary and Transylvania. My 6 am alarm buzzed me into a frenzy of last-minute packing and by the time I arrive in Budapest my internal clock will have done several cartwheels and backflips. As soon as I board my O'Hare flight, I will refrain from all temptations to monitor a clock. I submit to the jet lag gauntlet.

These past two weeks in South Bend, IN were spent unpacking from the move and then packing for the trip. Somehow the house is still filled with boxes despite all opened boxes left out for the recycling truck. Boxes will wait.

A highlight of the week was Book Club, which I hosted at my house. We discussed Pat Conroy's The Prince of Tides. It is an epic tale with elements of magical realism, as pointed out by one reader. It is long. And filled with lyrical passages laced with metaphor. I must go to the Carolinas. I plan to return to the book after our summer trip to glean some of its colorful vocabulary and memorable phrases.

For the plane ride read: the current New Yorker, the 2006 O'Henry Prize Collection (short stories), The Road from Coorain, and the current Harper's.

In my suitcase: approx. 10 pounds of books, including the biography of Duchamp (his second round trip to Transylvania) and my Hungarian language textbooks; our tennis rackets; and a Gwen Stefani CD requested as a gift from a young fan in Csikszereda. Did you know that Shakira will tour Romania this summer? It is a smallish world made smaller by pop stars doing their thing.

Day Trip to Concord: Thoreau and Walden Pond

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan- like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion."
from Thoreau's Walden


I learned this, at least, by my experiment;
that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams,
and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined,
he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.
from the "Conclusion" to Walden

It was difficult to tear myself away from the city for the journey to Walden Pond. Today was a perfect first day of summer—76 degrees with clouds enough to make the sky picture perfect. I worked in the morning at the Trident café and then stopped by the Sonsie to say hello to L. who lunched there for business. Back at the apartment I chatted with the gardener and then decided I had to mail a batch of letters this afternoon. Then I was hungry for lunch.

Finally at three o’clock I got myself on the road toward Concord, MA and Walden Pond. Traffic through Cambridge was brutal and slow enough for me to notice that it is exactly two miles from Hereford (our street) to Harvard Square. I would have sworn it was at least five miles.

I found Concord with ease and started my visit at the Concord Museum. I watched a brief video and toured the rooms—some of which where set up to be authentic period rooms from early American history. My favorite things: a temporary exhibit about woman’s handbags spanning many eras and the Thoreau t-shirts in the gift shop. Key new fact: I have been mispronouncing Thoreau. I used to say tho-REAU and now I have learned that the accent is on the first syllable: THO-reau. This makes sense as most two syllable names are accented on the first syllable: KEL-ley, RO-bert, MAT-thew, etc. (A quick check at Merriam-Webster.com gives several acceptable pronunciations. When in Concord, do as the Concordians….)

After having my pronunciation corrected, I headed off to find Walden Pond. I expected a sanctuary where I could walk and ponder my deepest nature in the light of nature and be moved to a life of deliberate simplicity and slow burning fires to warm me after bracing swims across the pond. What I found: lots of people in beach wear, squealing kids, preening teenagers, and even a half-clad adult male who gave me the jeebies when he followed me in the narrowly fenced trail.

I was trying to commune with the trees and gently lapping lake waters. Instead I fingered my car keys and told myself I could use them as a weapon. I also learned at that time that I had a signal at Walden Pond on my cell phone. I slowed down; so did he. Eventually he passed me and I slowed way down to created a safe zone between us.

As I circled the lake, I realized that the area was mostly safe. At least there was no shortage of people enjoying the water and the perfect weather. It was gorgeous and I regretted being fully clothed and without a swimsuit or at least appropriately bathing-suite-ish underwear. Shoot. Note to self: next time you come to Walden, bring the bikini.

About halfway round I found a spot to let my feet drink in the waters. I rolled up my pants and waded into pristine lake waters warm on my skin. I wanted to dive in, but restrained myself. I wanted to call someone to share the moment (I had a signal). I settled for scratching a mosquito bite and contemplating that I may have just gotten bitten by a descendant of a bug that had bitten Thoreau. Sweet. But itchy.

I then hiked around to find the house site where Thoreau’s cabin once stood. After he lived there two years, the cabin was dismantled (the roof was used for pig sty) and the location forgotten. Years later an archeologist dug for three months before he finally located the chimney stones. Now there is a memorial and next to it a large mound of rocks. A placard noted that visitors add a stone to the pile to honor Thoreau. I tossed a pebble and watched it settle deep in a crack.

The lake was beautiful--the color of the water changed from blue to green to crystal clear as I turned each bend. I wound love to return to take a long swim in its depths.

I walked the lake’s perimeter and into woods for about an hour and a half before heading back to my car. I made a stop by the Old North Bridge, site of “the shot heard round the world” where the Americans first defended themselves against the British in 1775. Just nearby was the Old Manse, the house built by William Emerson and where Ralph Waldo Emerson and Nathanial Hawthorne penned their works.

The landscapes around Concord are serene. The town quaint. And the cappuccino in this café has a respectable froth. This is a place to return. It was painful to leave the city, but while I walked around Walden’s Pond, I thought to myself: the city is overrated; I could make a life in the woods with a stack of books, a gaggle of kiddoes, and regular trips to modern healthcare facilities. Resolution: a minimum one month per year in the wilds of extra-urban life.

Luckily, Walden Pond and the surrounding woods look a lot like Transylvania, where we are headed next month.

More about Henry David Thoreau

On The Move

This past weekend I spent Saturday night in Chicago for a friend's wedding--the most lavish wedding I have ever helped to celebrate. Best of all, the bride and groom had love-silly grins plastered across their faces the entire time. The bride did the limbo; the groom (and all 15 groomsmen) changed into black and white Chuck Taylor All Stars to better groove to the live band. Did I mention the twelve bagpipers piping in a parade into the grand ballroom to lead the 450 guests to dinner? Outstanding.

This week is all about packing. And all about reading instead of packing. We leave Boston to return to our Indiana abode on Monday of this coming week. By this time next week, I may already be "home." I am in exquisite denial. The truth is that I can be happy here or there, which is a good thing. Any transition, however, can be fraught. Change is good--in theory.

Speaking of change, welcome to my newest niece! She is tiny, but tough with lots of black hair.

In the meantime, I am typing away again on my novel. Today I passed the 50,000 word mark. (Author pats herself on the back and grins to the chagrin of her fellow cafe hunt-and-peckers on Newbury street.) Actually, my original plan for the piece was 50,000 words. It is quite clear, however, that I will need at least another 20,000 to round out the story.

For the record: since my last blog we dined at an amazing restaurant, Sorellina. The setting was ultra-cool and the food was divine. This was an eating experience made all the more transcendent by our company--a Roman and an Athenian! Go for the truffled fries--seriously the best french fries I have ever eaten (and I am, sadly, an expert.)

Ugh. Time to pack up my laptop and head home to face the boxes. Packing is lame.

Saturday in New York

L., D, and I drove into New York City Saturday morning. First thing: a new york bagel and coffee. Thus sustained we headed into the American Museum of Natural History to see the Darwin exihibit. The exhibit tells the story of Darwin's life and scientific discoveries. There is a nice balance of "live" exhibits and artifacts (such as letters) to keep all ages engaged. We hit the dinosaur halls next. I wanted to see the butterfly exhibit, but we were running out of time and calories.

We left the museum and headed down to see a friend of L.'s for lunch. We ate in a cozy-funky place called Bar 6 in the West Village. Then L's friend took us to see Slava's Snowshow. The entire show is a set of sketches performed by one main clown "Yellow" and a troupe of four "Green" clowns. The Russian clown who started the show has created a piece that transcends political boundaries as well as age differences. There is something for everyone here. Here is one description: If a stray spore of Cirque du Soleil had taken root in one of Dostoevsky's Russian winters, this deeply imaginative act of theatre might have been the result. Slava, a Russian clown of the old school - the really old pre-vaudeville school, surrounds himself with dreamlike scenery and fantastic situations in a show that has won critical approval worldwide. (http://www.entertainment-link.com)

I will refrain from a larger discussion of the existential clowning, but if you wish to know more I would be happy to discuss. Here is one review "Clowns on the Edge of a Nervous Breakdown" that might be helpful. After the show, our friend took us backstage. The cast was relaxing and eating pizza between shows. We learned more about the history of the show and got to see inside the lives that bring the show to life for the audience. We even got to eat pizza with them.

Our final stop in the city was Veniero's Italian cake shop. We had a taste test. We ordered three kinds of cheesecake. Our first pick: Sicilian. Second: New York Style. Third: Italian cheesecake. All three were wonderful, but the Sicilian was over the top.

Cuernavaca, Mexico

L. and I visited Chile last year over the winter holiday. The summer sun was intoxicating. We vowed to head South during the winter months whenever possible. So when L. got an invitation to give a lecture in Cuernavaca, Mexico, we booked our flights. We even used frequent flyer miles.

We left Boston last Wednesday and returned Sunday night, flying in just after the huge blizzard that had shut down the airport for most of the day. Good timing.

While Chile is gorgeous, I found Mexico to be even more interesting. The food, the food, the food. Did I mention how good the food was? We ate well. And the tequila was almost too good to be tequila. Our favorite meal was at a roadside restaurant where we ate handmade tortillas cooked right before our eyes, grilled meats, family-style beans, cheese and salsa. We asked our driver to take us there after we visited the Xochicalco ruins.

Cuernavaca may not have a beach, but our hotel was paradise. The city is filled with beautiful gardens, a stunning cathedral, and there are several worthwhile side trips. Our trip to the ruins was outstanding. We even got a tour deep beneath the ruins inside an ancient observatory. Luckily we had a Spaniard with us who could provide translation.

After just a few days, we headed to Mexico City where we spent Saturday afternoon through Sunday morning. We dropped our bags at the charming La Casona hotel and taxied down to the historic center. There we toured the cathedral and then saw the Diego Rivera murals in the National Palace. We ran into a Hungarian tour group viewing the murals and got to listen in to the descriptions. Small world. As it was Saturday and market day, we also got to stroll through the chaotic and teeming outdoor markets near the main square.

After a nap that evening, we again headed toward the historic center. This time we wanted to eat and then find some dancing. Even though the salsa club we had heard about "did not exist" we pushed on through the eerily empty streets toward the Plaza Garibaldi.

It was near 11pm when we arrived and the square was packed with fully decked out mariachi bands. Food stands surrounded the square and smelled divine. People were singing, dancing, eating and having a really good time. We stopped in a club (one of the many surrounding the square) and even did our own special brand of salsa dancing until 2am.

Sunday morning we strolled through the Zona Rosa, near our hotel. It is packed out with a more "refined" crowd and tons of very elegant stores and places to eat. It must have been lively there too Saturday night, but we are glad that we ended up hanging with the mariachi instead.

A few days in Mexico is not enough and I hope to return some day. Preferably during January or February!

Holidaze

We have just returned to Boston after spending a week in Kansas for Christmas. I took my nieces and nephews out on two trips to local bookstores for what has become my holiday tradition: we spend an afternoon browsing and talking about books, often over a hot cup of cocoa or tea. Together we whittle down their selections to one (or sometimes two!). Then I take the books home, wrap them up and pass them out on Christmas Eve when we exchange family presents. I like being the Book Aunt!

I try to follow the 90/10 rule when giving advice about their selections: 90% based on their reading pleasure and 10% of my deeply passionate beliefs about what they should be reading. It is sometimes tempting to impose my reading habits, but I know such selfishness could actually cause them to dislike my choices AND reading. So I give in a bit or a whole lot.

I arrived in KS on the Sunday before Christmas and spent the week book shopping and hanging out with family. L. arrived on Wednesday night and my parents took us out to Montana Grill, owned by Ted Turner and famous for selling the bison meat raised on a ranch miles from the restaurant. Bison is good--tasty and the product of my home state (see my food philosophy).

Friday we rose with the sun and headed off with my parents and M. for a day trip across the plains of western KS. The sun rising over the wild prairie grasses, especially in the Sand Hills, never fails to be awesome. It was a four-hour drive to Damar, KS, where my mother grew up. We stopped to see the Garden of Eden in Lucas, KS and for pie and coffee in their diner (where smoking is still allowed--not that we smoke, but it seems important to convey the essence of the place).

Damar is an unassuming place with a gorgeous church. We made a waffle brunch with eggs cooked in bacon fat before we headed out for a walking tour of the town. We even had time for cousin Brenda to cut L.’s hair. Did you know that there are feral hogs in KS? I had just read about them in the New Yorker. Turns out our cousin’s husband had killed a 350 pound one last year. The trophy dear heads mounted on their living room wall confirmed his prowess.

After another round of coffee, we headed back to the car for a return trip with a view of the setting sun. Why the long drive? I wanted L. to see my mother’s town.

Christmas Eve all the siblings—except the youngest who is wandering around Brazil—met at the church for the 4 o’clock children’s service. Our family took up about 4 or 5 rows and made a fair amount of extra-liturgical noise and activity. After mass we all returned to my parent’s house. Christmas Eve dinner for 25 is a bit much and we have some finicky eaters to account for. In years past we have all eaten at McDonald’s (the shame!) or ordered pizza. After much menu discussion I was put in charge of making chili and baked potatoes with various other toppings. It was a hit. Kids ate. Adults ate. Happily too.

Then the good stuff: We all gathered in our living room (you have to imagine lots of squirming little bodies) to listen as Grandpa read the Christmas Story. This year Anna cuddled up next to him and “helped” him read. There was a stillness as he read the story. Perhaps it was the quiet before the storm of gift giving. After the story, we all shared how we spent our $100 in remembrance of our Grandma Kelley, my dad’s mother. Then we gathered our gifts to be donated in a large Santa sack. Finally, it was time to exchange family gifts. The wrapping paper was deep very soon.

This year Matt made us all caramels, Kathleen made us candied popcorn, Sarah crocheted white delicate ornaments and angels, Margaret made us rich (with lottery tickets!), and I gave the others a set of tea mugs. Presents galore!

Sunday morning we awoke to Santa’s gifts and then started to work on the Christmas Lunch. (I mostly "worked" on lunch by staying out of the kitchen.) At one o’clock we all gathered again (this time minus a few cousins) for turkey, goat (a new tradition as of last year, locally grown by the Amish), mashed potatoes, dumplings, stuffing, meat dressing, squash, and cranberry sauce. Then. . . Matt’s pies: apple (so light, crisp and fragrant), pecan, and pumpkin.

Christmas weather was a balmy 60 degrees. After that big meal it was divine to walk around the neighborhood and see the colors of the setting sun change the prairie grass from gold to pink and back again.

Just a few highlights from our holiday in KS!

And I didn’t even mention the NuWay!

Cookie Dough Ice Cream, Children's Motrin and Stuff on my Reading Shelf

After much debate about whether not it was worth the drive, we did hit the road and make our way up to Stowe, Vermont for the weekend. L. had to give a talk at a conference held there and Dani and I were happy to accompany him.

The weather was perfect and the Fall colors were just beginning to show. Our resort had more stuff than we could have needed: a spa with “Hungarian” mineral bath; a workout facility better than my club here in Boston; pools and a cafe, not to mention two upscale eateries. Dani and I did take advantage of the chess board in the lobby. He beat me. He is ten.

The only damper on events was Dani’s Trojan Horse virus. He looked so sweet and innocent, but carried a hacking cough that erupted at three o’clock in the am our first night there. So far we have not succumbed to his bug, but time will tell. Poor kid sounded worse than he felt, but still we took things easy and didn’t rent bicycles or canoes as we had planned. We did manage to squeeze in a tour at Ben & Jerry’s factory and sample two flavors fresh off the line. We ate amazing pizza at Pie in the Sky and the BEST calzone I have ever had. I could describe it in scrumptious detail, but I am not that cruel.

On Saturday I took Dani to have his first ever fondue—it was a hit. We took two turns zooming down the Alpine slide. We visited the Trapp (as in owned by the family that inspired the movie) resort in search of Austrian cakes. Sadly we arrived at 2pm and the bakery had closed an hour earlier. We took less than an hour and much teamwork to extricate ourselves from the amaizing corn maze. We drank fresh mulled apple cider with our freshly fried apple-cake doughnuts at the Cold Hollow Cider mill. I also put a pin into Hutchinson, Kansas on the map as the first from that town to visit. We stayed up too late to watch Notre Dame beat Purdue on ESPN, which was actually a factor that put us on the road. Our resort had cable, we don’t.

Sunday morning: Dutch pancakes. They were twelve inches around. Only I managed to entirely polish off mine, which was slathered in lemon-compound butter and sprinkled with powdered sugar. The rich dark coffee, two mugs worth, made it all go down smoothly AND kept me awake despite the sheer quantity of blood redirected from my brain to my stomach for digestion. Despite our bellies, we happily stumbled down the recreation path to visit an outdoor sculpture garden near the river (which had these delightful, spontaneous sculptures on the rocky beach) and a farmer's market on our way pack to our resort before we hit the road back to Boston.

Today: back to the gym, I swear.

Reading Record

I recently read these in the search for novels to use with or assign for young adult readers:
Nectar in a Sieveby Kamala Markandaya
Whale Talkby Chris Crutcher
Spider's Voiceby Gloria Skurzynski

The following I read to satisfy my craving for short fiction:
"The Stone Boy" by Gina Berriault (A short story that I would love to teach!)
"The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson (a classic short story; you can find this story in her her collection of short fiction in The Lottery)
"The Teacher of Literature" a short story by Chekhov

I am reading from this collection for my fiction writing class: O Henry Prize Stories 2005 (a collection of short stories)

What I am reading now and you should expect to hear more about this: The Shame of the Nationby Kozol

Also reading: The Adventures of Augie Marchby Saul Bellow

And I need to find a copy to start reading for October book club: Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstressby Dai Sijie

Happenings Around Town

I am officially stimulated. I stroll the streets in the Back Bay and feel a real fear to enter the endless boutiques and eateries, not to mention the high-end organic food stores and condomworld. There is too much here. The sidewalks are flooded with college types--pudgy around the middle with bosooms to the wind. Strange, yet sad. Oddly comforting.

So first things first, the house. I spent yesterday on the phone with plumbers, architects, real estate agents, Dani, and my sister as along the way we determined that our kitchen sink drains into the bedroom of the tenant below. Charming. I also learned that last year there was a "rat problem" that has been "temporarily solved." Luckily I do not fear rats. Of course I have never lived with them. I discovered that the garden behind the house is lovely, however. It was even on the Back Bay garden tour this year. Come and have tea with me before the weather turns too bitter and the rats come home to sit by the fire!

Events: of course, now I get the whole Red Sox thing. We can hear Fenway park when it is in a tizzy. So we shall get tickets, eat peanuts and drink beer while I struggle in vain to explain why the batter gets a free base if the pitcher hits him. Baseball appears simple, but this is true only if you have grown up in a country that has it in its blood. We rob it of its metaphors for goodness sake. Do the Brits have cricket metaphors? I promise to buy us Boston Sox garb for the event. Here are my burning questions: Why Red? Why S-o-x and not socks?

Other events: we are headed to Newtonville for an author reading. Book Club get jealous: Anita Diamant of The Red Tent will be there to read and sign her new book, The Last Days of Dog Town: A Novel. I picked up the new novel last night and have already tucked into the first several chapters. A world away from The Red Tent, but I'll reserve comments until I have more to say about it!

Other fun stuff: We are trying to get tickets to the White Stripes concert in a few weeks. They will play in the Boston Opera House, of all places.

And before either Anita or the Whites there is Garrison Keillor, the American Jewel, at the Kansas State Fair.

Yes, it does feel like the Fall of Rome.

Bostonland

It is a foreign land, I know it. When I enter the walk-in closet, complete with toilet and sink, my sinuses contract and air escapes only in robust sneezes that clear all rational thought from my brain. I was forced to locate the local drugstore and buy allergy medications. Give thanks to the pharmaceutical gods! After dining on clam chowda for lunch and fresh fruits and vegetables from the Haymarket for dinner, I was devastated to find my bowels in utter spasms. I ventured out once again to the drugstore for Pepto-Bismol. Praise be to the gods of the pink tablets now in cherry flavor! The odd thing about this foreign country, called Boston, is that so many people speak English. I am surprised to hear my native tongue spill out of so many mouths. And they sound and look so Americanish. It is a strange land—the future is here.

Seriously our new digs are too good to be true. We are a block from Newbury Street and the sheer number of restaurants, salons, and boutiques gives me the shivers. The people on the street range from average Joe to diva fashionista. Even on Labor Day weekend there are people on the streets at all hours and music thumps from bars with brawny door guards who are ready to wave you in or toss you out.

Yet our spacious, high-ceilinged apartment is deadly silent. Few cars use our little thoroughfare. The cicadas and the frogs and the birds of Indiana are missed at night. Luckily the sunshine still greets us at dawn.

Packing and New Reading Selections

It is done. I have boxed 1997 - 2001. I have labeled by batches and created a 6 page Word document with a timeline of major life events. The next step: select and print our prime photos from our 2002 - 2005 digital files and paste them into the albums I have started. From this point forward we only print those photos that make us more beautiful than life or, at least, less hideous than at that moment. Conclusions:

1) I have distinct cute and noncute phases that last months at a time (turquoise-blue hair was cute, while white-blond was more shocking less cute);
2) the cute phases do in fact correspond to phases in which I exercise;
3) we are definitely getting cuter as we mature; and
4) caffeine and stress cause one's skin to bloat (as I sit here and sip my morning cup).

The next major project as we prepare to move: the piles of important papers. Find a nook; it is already stuffed with dusty documents that need to be kept. There is no logic to which these disparate piles will succumb. It is good that I did the pictures first because the process humbled me and took the edge off my perfectionist itch.

The Final Countdown has begun. It is less than a week until we get in the car and head East. I am in a kind of tharn state. A deer frozen in headlights. I do not deal well with down time. I need the deadline to be within 72 hours before I can actually place a perfectly folded pair of slacks into a box. Blogging is a good salve. So are dinner parties.

Reading, of course, is the ultimate band aid. Alas, I am too pressured to pack and party to really relax between the pages of a hefty novel. I have started The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova, which is our book club selection for September. I know, I know. I will be in Boston as they gather over this tome. But I do plan to read their selections and participate in spirit and blog when possible. As I sunk my dollars into a new copy of The Historian (I think the public library here would appreciate the late fee I would accrue, but it would be cheaper to buy the darn thing), I also bought a copy of 1776 by David McCullough. I have heard rave reviews about this book. Since I am heading to Boston, I thought I best brush up on all things Americana. The Historian and 1776 together weigh about 3 pounds and will serve as nice door stops in our new abode.

In lighter reading, I read The Queen of the South by Arturo Perez-Reverte on the plane/bus ride back from Europe. It is all about a powerful woman and the drug trade on two continents. Shortly after we returned to the Bend, there was a huge news scandal about a marijuana field near by that was raided. It brought the intrigue of the novel to real life.

Back in the Bend

Details have sucked me deeply into a black hole. The trip home from Budapest was relatively uneventful, though I did run into a very good friend on the last leg of the trip. Do you ever find yourself in the middle of an Indian forest spotting monkeys and yet have the feeling that someone you know will show up around the next tree? Well, this actually happened when I saw M. sitting patiently on the bus from Chicago to South Bend. We simply could not have planned such an encounter.

At any rate, I am tres busy trying to organize the house, my health insurance, clean the basement, purge useless pairs of sweatpants, see the dentist and systemitize eight years + of photos. Luckily we switched to digital at that point. I am decidedly inept at scrapbooks, so these treasures are being diligently sorted by date and filed in boxes with labels. It is the best I can do and it is driving me crazy. I am also trying to apply for jobs in Boston and enroll in a writing class. Anyone out there who needs an English Teacher or knows of a good writing community. . . I am open to suggestions.

The Bend is good. Those of you who who are SMCers/Domers will be suprised when you return for this Fall's football games. There have been major construction and road changes.

Budapest Nights

Gastronomical Review

Yesterday's entry was a bit premature. We had looked forward to a quiet and relaxing day, but events followed a different course. Our only official plans for the day included a late lunch/early dinner at 4pm.

We arrived at around 8 o'clock am Budapest time by train. We came directly to our residence and had coffee and juice while we relaxed and showered. Around 11 we headed up the stairs to the Ruszwurm cafe for "breakfast." L. has been in the habit of eating their kremes cake, a thick layer of vanila creme between pastry shells, for a morning snack. I gave in and had a tepertos pogi, a bacon enhanced biscuit. We then strolled down to the city and shopped and I entered my first blog of that day, which was mostly a recap of previous events. We eventually crossed the Danube into Pest and there we continued shopping, but my caffeine and bacon high was crashing and so we headed for our second snack: gelato for me and chestnut creme for him. Just for the record, this was our second dessert of the day and it was about 3:30.

We then found our way to Bagolyvar, an upscalish place connected to the famous Gundel, which neither of us had even visited before. The restaurant is located next to the city park and zoo and the sidewalks were crowded with loads of people out for a Sunday stroll. We met a few friends, new and not so new, for lunch. The food was traditional magyar fare. I ordered turkey cooked on a scewer with prunes wrapped in bacon, which is not something nagymama would make but still quite meaty. Prunes wrapped in bacon, then grilled. Genius. The conversation raced at top speed and I must be fully primed because I understand 99% of it! We then ordered dessert. I ordered noodles with poppyseed. So simple, so beautiful.

After our friends left for the opera (that is why we met so early), we quickly made our way to the lanchid (the chain bridge) to meet a Greek friend who is a prof at MIT. He was passing through Budapest on his way home to eat fresh figs for the rest of the summer. Luckily he was a camera fiend and hopefully we will have some nice shots to upload of our journey by foot around the castle district. He hadn't had any cake while in Budapest, so of course we had to take him to the Café Gerbaund, which though touristy is still a fine place. We ordered five or six cakes and shared. It was a meal to be remembered. Count it up: dessert four times in twelve hours. I have truly never felt so svelte.

Back in Budapest

This trip was been shadowed by the passport gods. L. made two trips to Bucarest to arrange his identity card in order to renew his Romanian passport. He got ALL the correct papers, signed here and there, paid the fees and . . . no passport. It turns out that some office in Bucarest was supposed to send a number of some sort and they did not. As I sit here in this sultry internet cafe, L. sits in the overcrowded, frenetic Romanian police headquarters on the off chance that the number will arrive before closing time. He did arrange for the Hungarian embassy to give him a paper that allows him to enter Hungary. So, it looks like we will leave for Hungary on Saturday night, arriving Sunday morning. That gives L. exactly one day to arrange for a Hungarian passport before we fly out on Tuesday. Ugh.

Somewhat appropriately I have been reading Chekov's short stories this week. Someone told me at some point that all you ever needed to know about the short story as a genre was found in Chekov. Frankly I was afraid of him. I thought I had to be in a classroom with brilliant minds to understand his work. Alas. I actually have about three different things I am reading, which I am not in the habit of doing. I suddenly realized that I have a huge stack of readables and a dwindling about of time.

Can you believe that 20 minutes before the police office closed, they gave L. his Romanian passport? It looks as if we will return all together after all! His mother theorized that they had it all along but were hoping that L. would bribe them or make a little offering before they passed it over. That is the way it works here, not all of the time, but often.

We are now in Budapest and L. and I are in a bookstore/internet cafe. We are recovering from our long, long train ride. We all grimaced when two little boys entered our couchette, but it turns out that they were very sweet and quite entertaining on the ride here. Their mother even recoginzed L. because they grew up in the same town, though she was quite a bit younger. Our last few days in Csik were quiet. We tried to go to a movie, but the 8 pm showing was cancelled due to lack of guests. It turns out that at least 5 tickets must be sold. We had heard that they would run the movie if one person buys all five tickets. We got there three minutes late, however, and the ticket guy had already made the executive decision to return home for a few hours before the ten pm show. The last afternoon we drove out to a valley with a little river to cook out. We went mushroom hunting, but we did not find too many. It was my first time at such sport.

Not too much else to report on, although I can think of so many things I did not write about cocerning life in Transilvania. Perhaps later. Today and tomorrow will be busy as we do last minute errands and shopping here in Budapest. Luckily we are staying in a quiet residence on the castle away from the hustle and bustle. D. is staying with his aunt and cousin outside the city. A bit of quiet before the long flight home and our reintroduction to life in the midwest.