giving thanks

I was not planning on a cheesy Thanksgiving day post. Until it was cancelled earlier this week, I had planned to share the special occasion with some friends of Vladimir who spent years living (and raising their kids) in the US. I love Thanksgiving, even on those occasions that dysfunctional family relations come to a head (which for me have usually involved shouting-level arguments with my parents about Bush and their irrational support of the man and his policies), or on the rare occasion that I’m out cold before the party has really begun (though I really, terribly regret being unconscious for the spectacular party at my apartment in Queens, NY, three years ago). I enjoy the planning, sourcing, and cooking of the big feast. Most of all, I live for the point in the day when all the prep work is finished and I get to truly relax with friends and family. First with Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur, now Thanksgiving, and next, Hanukkah, I’m spending so many big holidays (in my book) away from home.

I don’t really understand all the fuss about Thanksgiving wines: I find that good wine tastes good with just about anything (maybe that’s just the latent alcoholic in me), and besides, there are usually so many side dishes that the Yellowtail Shiraz Georges Duboeuf Beaujolais is bound to pair well with something. Really, though, I take it as the perfect annual opportunity to open that special wine that has been waiting patiently for the right meal: something to look forward in itself.

I enjoy the somewhat awkward pre-meal recounting of thanks, though I never know quite what to say until I’ve actually said it. Given that I’ve come to let this blog live freer and less-edited, the same applies here. I’m thankful first and foremost for my parents who brought me into this world and have wasted no chance in showing me the true meanings of support and unconditional love. For my sister, cousins, aunts, and uncles, who have unwittingly helped shape me into the self-righteous monster I have become. For my good friends, who have earned their titles with years of dedication, understanding, and loyalty. For my loves: past for the opportunities to learn, screw up, and move on; but present most of all, for loving me despite my ever more opinionated demeanor, and for allowing me this opportunity to explore, bearing with my long absence so patiently. For those terribly special people around the world who have slowly and systematically taught me new and ever more beautiful interpretations of hospitality. For those of you still reading despite this embarrassingly awkward post!

This is, of course, just the tip of the iceberg: I have a lot I am thankful for. I hope all of you are enjoying yourselves tonight. Given that I will eat no turkey tonight, perhaps some of you will allow me to eat vicariously through your cameras? I can’t wait to hear about your latest Thanksgiving feast: bon appétit!

butchering buša

Though I have experience butchering small livestock, before last week I had never really done any in-depth butchery with beef or veal. Last month, knowing that we would have the opportunity to work with less common animals such as Mangalitsa pigs and Buša cows, I sought out advice on the best uses for their various parts. Mangalitsa pigs turned out to be well-documented thanks in large part to Heath’s efforts at Wooly Pigs’ in Washington state. Buša cows are another story entirely—searching several permutations of the name turned up next to nothing, besides some very basic technical information about the breed. At one point, though, I found an email address for a man named Zoran, listed as the Buša breeding contact in Serbia. I wasted no time getting in touch with him, and he was quick to respond to my inquiries. Not only did he give me further information about the Buša cows, but it turns out he raises Mangalitsa pigs as well.

It seems that Buša were traditionally raised by subsistence farmers in the mountains where the milk, rather than the meat, was the primary product. As such, the cows would typically be slaughtered at an age approaching 15 years—resulting in meat more suitable to braises and stews than anything else. In any case, Zoran promised to be in touch when the time approached to slaughter one of his animals.

Last week, as promised, he wrote me of a Friday slaughter of his Buša bull, 1.5 years old. I quickly replied, and we agreed that Vlad and I would drive out to their town of Vršac to see whatever we could. As the slaughter was early in the morning, we skipped it and instead drove straight to his house, where we were invited in to meet his beautiful family as well as his butcher of 50 years’ experience. This was indeed a family affair, attended by his wife and two engaging children, as well as his mother and father. The butcher, in a fashion I’ve never before experienced, had meat spread out across the wooden dining table, using a small cutting board to do the work.

I cannot say enough good things about the experience. It just struck me as the right way to approach the meat we eat. Here were two young kids, playing with the bones, watching the butcher at work, and helping to take the meat upstairs (where it would be laid out on the floor to rest overnight before being frozen or further processed/cooked the next day). Zoran gave us tastes of his friend’s acacia honey, his father’s two year old bacon, the last of the season local grapes, some grassy fresh goat cheese, and his own unfiltered apple cider. Zoran’s wife, a physician, told us of the healthy nature of the Buša’s omega-rich fats, pointing out bone marrow (love it) and fatty cuts, mentioning the liver as especially beneficial to the kids, with its concentration of iron and vitamins. The event seemed straight out of Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle (I recently finished reading it).

While we came for ideas in using the veal we had at Zaplet, we left instead with a warm fuzzy optimistic feeling about family and life. And death: the butcher went on to show us how he kills the animals, with a purposefully-designed gun made by none other than F. Dick, better known for their utilitarian knives. We had to run back to Belgrade before the family had a chance to put me to use in the kitchen, but they have an open invitation at Zaplet. I look forward to our next encounter, and hope that I can provide as well for my future kids.

to facebook or not to be?

I jumped on the friendster bandwagon when I was in college. When myspace and later facebook entered the scene, I scoffed a younger generation for being so silly. I’ve simply never been one to want to live my life online (hence these fantastic and boredom-defying trips I take every so often). When Sarah set up a facebook account for me, I reluctantly agreed to maintain it, accepting friends, and every so often responding to messages. Still, I resisted: I would not update my profile. Though I occasionally replied to mail, I largely let it get lost in the shuffle. My pictures are out of date, and I’ve done nothing to search out long-lost roommates (though I’m happy some have found me).

So why this now-ubiquitous facebook commentary? I’ve decided to give in. I’ve come around to the reality show of the internet (though I hold fast to my snooty opinions on the television versions). I suppose I see the value now: people are easier to locate, and it’s easier to keep them apprised of my ever-changing life, as if many of them care. Hell, some of my friends don’t seem to reply or even receive my emails, though facebook seems to do the job. I still don’t think I’ll ever get to the point of commenting/tweeting on my warm (not hot) morning shower or the color of my new socks (that reminds me, I should think about buying some new ones), but perhaps I’ll mention life’s bigger events. I mean those facebook addicts among you no disrespect, of course: I comment only on my own values; people should be products of their own values, not mine.

Shall we cut to the pragmatic part of this monologue? Answer the reader’s “so what does this mean to me?” It means I’ll make a real effort to reply to facebook messages, and treat them like members of my email box. It means I might actually seek out a long lost friend or two of my own (hello again). I’ll try to post some pictures worth looking at, and I’ve already linked up my blog so that those of you who can’t comfortably navigate away from facebook will be able to read it within your zone of comfort (this is beginning to read like new year’s resolutions). I still value personal notes and phone calls, though I’ve nearly given up hope on snail mail making a comeback. But mostly, I love being amongst my friends and family, especially cozied up to a domestic dining table drinking good wine and eating simple food.

So, be in touch, as will I. Find me on facebook (I remember back when I was the only Jonathan Nagar I could google—now I’ve found there are others, including one in the political battleground town of Scranton, PA), and if I know you, we will both expand our self-importance by having large numbers of friends in our profile. Best of all, why not drop by sometime with a bottle of wine and enjoy some home-cooked food? Or, I’m sure we could have a virtual dining experience online… LOL!

cook=hit man?

We bring an inordinate amount of food to our catered affairs. This is a departure from the large-scale catering I came to know in New York, as well as from my own small-scale side business. A couple of extra portions, perhaps. And reasonable portions, at that.

Back in the day, Vlad explains, when the mafia ran rampant and killed people, they had a particular style about them. Not that mafia killings will ever really end, they’re just more underground (underwater?) now. After the victims were gunned down, he continued, cocking his finger as if pulling the trigger of a gun, they would get one final shot in the head—just to make sure they were dead—bang!

It turns out cooking in this country has some mafia ties, as Vladimir elaborated on the origin of his approach on cooking for clients. After the kebab and the beautifully-roasted lamb, we gave each in this particular group one pork rib. Who knew you could find such symbolism in catering? If the pork rib is the proverbial last bullet to the head, though, then what of the molten chocolate dessert complete with huge ball of ice cream?

silver

We recently catered a party for the national basketball team’s coach. Serbia recently won silver in the European championships, and for this young team that was a big deal. By American standards, the family lives really well: indoor pool, basketball court in the back yard, a full-on homing pigeon setup. Yes, pigeons! Not only did he take his team to second place, but he’s apparently known as quite the pigeon trainer.

The party was quite the spectacle: a famous Serbian band playing the music, all manner of middle-aged well to do folks dancing and singing and living it up. I was put to use as the raw fish guy. I prepared ceviche and sashimi of a large Mediterranean grouper (Emperor Fish?). Vladimir wanted to put on a show, so not

only was I mixing ceviche every half-hour, but I was also butchering and slicing as part of the show. When I worked at Craigie, it was hard enough to hear my own thoughts, what with the noise and radio and banter, yet I still managed to hear the sound of my knife interacting with the fish. Here, there was a band playing fifteen feet away. I was effectively deaf. The weirdest thing was cutting this fish and not being able to really feel or hear it. It’s a difficult sensation to explain.

Good times were had by all, and Vlad even snapped a photo of me with the coveted silver medal.

life is good when...

...you wake up to birds chirping and cows mooing

...lunch has traveled less than 50 yards to make it into your stomach

...a hot day warrants an evening dip in the salt- (not chlorine-) treated pool

...drinking an ’83 Bordeaux during lunch is nothing out of the ordinary

...(surrogate or otherwise) Grandma doesn’t quit trying to force dessert upon you

Perhaps I’m showing off a bit, and I’m surely presenting the idealistically wonderful side of working on a farm, but none of the above is embellished. How about chiming in on a few of your favorite things?

self-conscious evolutionary introspection

I’ve written about fifty posts thus far. Enough tedious verbose prose to fill a small book. I’m psyched to have so many thoughts and ramblings on record—artifacts I’ll revisit someday, to laugh and blush. The past months are far from over and have been nothing short of amazing, even on my (mostly) shoestring budget. They've changed my life, even though I haven’t outwardly changed much.

I’m still shy about meeting new people (well, women, really), and that’s helped me keep this journey calmingly introspective, though isolated at times. In addition to the lucky few that I’ve added as valued people in my life, I’ve had time to think about those I’ve increasingly missed. And then there are those that I’ve lamentably alienated and neglected, usually without even knowing it. I wouldn’t trade or imply regret about a day of it.

This time-consuming project started with wanting to keep friends and family in the loop about my hopefully debauched exploits. Pondering aloud (it’s my blog, and I’ll ruminate if I want to), it’s both succeeded and failed. The successes can be found in those of you who continue to read and stay in touch. I’m so happy about the few I haven’t heard from in ages, with whom I now correspond. I get to keep everyone (well, anyone who cares enough to read) updated. The failure, however, is rather obvious to those of you who haven't kept up from the start: information overload. There's just too much to read in fewer than twenty sittings. Who knows, maybe there'll be a book deal?

when bad things happen to bad people

I, probably unlike most others, check my spam mailbox every now and then. Besides the occasional message from someone I know, I usually delete them all. These spammers get email addresses from websites where one might have inadvertently left one's address for the world to see. Or from those pesky chain letters that float around every so often (if you’re going to forward those to people, have the decency to bcc them so their address isn’t ripe for the picking).

So, I wonder, if I post Tracy’s latest message to me: “Hi, i am here sitting in the internet caffe. Found your email and decided to write. I am 25 y.o.girl. I have a picture if you want. No need to reply here as this is not may email. Write me at atracey2@springmessage.info,” will Tracy start getting spam too?

on flying

Lucid dreaming has been a recurring topic for me in years past. For those in need of a definition, imagine suddenly snapping to and realizing you are in the middle of a dream—not waking up, just becoming cognizant of the dream state. Worlds of possibilities arise. Safely rehearse pickup lines on imaginary bar goers, fearless of real rejection. The Porsche you’ve been coveting is in your garage, and it’s time for its afternoon drive. With the mere thought, pick up and fly, superman-style. There are websites dedicated to helping people dream lucidly. In years past, I’ve tried to go down that road. First step is to train yourself to wake up post dream state and take notes. I got that far, but have not yet followed through—google the topic to learn more for yourself.

See, a lot of what attracted me to dreaming lucidly was the notion of being able to fly, fearlessly, naked if that’s on my agenda. The website teaches a few techniques, among them flapping your arms like a chicken or taking a deep breath and simply lifting off the ground. Irrespective of dreaming, I’ve been flying recently. Well, sort of. Done properly (which the past week of awesome classes and practice has allowed me), scuba diving is flying, underwater. And so  here I am, in this underwater world, floating higher on inhalation (not that kind of high, and not that kind of inhalation, though the nitrogen in your air will get you high if you dive deep enough), descending a bit on empty lungs. I still hope to start flying in my dreams.

obnoxious europeans?

Okay, another preachy rant.

I’ll be the first to bitch and moan about annoying locals while traveling. Sure, while travelling one is sure to run into scam artists and sleazebags, but the overarching generalizations I hear while travelling continue to amaze, dumbfound, and annoy me. I tell people I was in Germany, and they respond with whatever generalization they’ve decided applies to all its people. Some seem to assume I’ve had an awful time based on where I was. My experiences have been nothing short of amazing, though. In France, the supposed French snobs were nothing short of friendly. In Switzerland, the supposed stiff-necked Swiss at times almost smothered me with help and literally took me into their homes. In Germany, the supposed loud-mouthed fascists afforded me an absolutely amazing week of adventure and good times.

These generalizations should stay in the press and in off-color jokes. They shouldn’t make or break a vacation, and I just want to go on record to preach say that I certainly won’t let them dictate my travels.

i'm in morocco

Deep Thoughts...
Every once in a while, living in this foreign, almost medieval country, I think to myself in near disbelief: wow...I'm in Morocco.

i like baby animals

Deep thoughts...

So, as we're taking the train back from Marrakech, I wonder to myself, can/will goats mate with sheep? We think not, since their likely offspring would probably be named shoats, but as I found out last year, shoats are actually adolescent pigs. And geep just doesn't sound right...