day of reckoning

Two weeks left to go in Belgrade, and it was time for the much-anticipated pig slaughter. Milutin had been feeding the pigs a diet of acorns, barley, and rye, for the two months leading up to the fateful Sunday, and I had hatched out a plan to turn all of the meat into various cured meats, sausages, and the like. I have slaughtered my share of chickens (maybe I should write about that sometime), and killed a few fish in my life, but I have had no experience participating in or watching the slaughter of a large mammal. I sketched out a rough map, we toasted with some herb-infused rakija, and we lit cigars; the next few hours would be in the trained hands of the butcher and his assistants.

The lighting for the morning event was surreal and perhaps prescient: fog-thickened still air, rays of sun bursting through silhouetted oaks. The trees were long since stripped of their seeds-come-forage, but this morning was unseasonably warm, despite my numb fingertips. The nearby geese heard Milutin’s offer of one of their carcasses; they seemingly wanted nothing of it.

While I saw the butcher’s work on all three pigs, I witnessed the actual slaughter of only one. I will not make it out to be a beautiful thing to see. Put bluntly, it was rather difficult to watch. Instead of a relatively peaceful shot to the head in the pen, the butcher and his men wrestled with the pig to bring it out into the open for the kill. Stress, even just these few minutes, affects the flavor and texture of the meat and is to be avoided to the point of delaying a slaughter if a pig gets too spooked. It was all the sadder since this pig had heretofore lived a wonderful life on pasture and acorns.

When finally out in the yard, the pig was positioned, and a bullet fired into its skull. The death was instantaneous, though the convulsions lasted several minutes. As the heart continues to beat for several seconds, the carotid artery is quickly severed to drain the blood into a bowl. Next the carcass is scalded and rolled in hot water to facilitate removal of the outer layer of skin and hair. The men scrub until most of the hair is removed and then finish by burning off remaining hair and skin with a large propane torch. The pig is hoisted up from the branch of a tree, eviscerated, beheaded, and hacked in half lengthwise. Shoulders for coppa and sausage, loins for lonzino, jowls for guanciale, legs for prosciutto, belly for bacon, and remaining fatback for lardo. Hearts, lungs, and blood would make a blood sausage recipe I learned in France. Liver would combine with some extra belly to make a rich pâté.

As the last of the parts were carried into the outhouse to continue to cool (this would be difficult today, as the sun had broken through the fog and it was 8C and rising), we headed up the hill to the home of Milutin’s parents-in-law for some offal goulash. The variety meats for this stew came from the first pig slaughtered earlier that morning. It quickly became clear why this stew is a slaughter day tradition: we were chilled from the cool air and famished from a lack of breakfast since we had awoken six hours earlier. It was hearty, well-spiced, fatty, and even for me some of the textures were somewhat difficult to handle. Still, I scarfed down several helpings. The ubiquitous cabbage salad, tangy with apple cider vinegar and seasoned only with salt and sunflower oil, was a great counterpoint to the rich goulash. We loaded up over 150kg of pig parts into the car, the bulk of work still ahead of me.

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!

chickens and veal and pigs, oh my!

Contrary to what I (and probably many of my friends and family) would like to believe, I am actually working out here. No need to report me to the authorities for violating my work visa, please, it’s just that even I forget sometimes. Still, somehow I’ve managed to have a few stressful days, even with my often short shifts. Yes, somehow 10-12 hours has become, in my mind, a short shift. I digress. In a really cool, flattering way, I have complete freedom to create what I want with whole lambs and pigs. Some of my favorite preparations are old-school methods involving slow-roasting and braising. In fact, I’m often more interested in eating a melting braise than the more toothsome roast.

Four veal heads arrive today. I’ve cooked a veal head before and it came out quite nice, thank you, but have never had the opportunity/challenge of actually peeling the face from the bone. The one time I’ve encountered a veal head was in France, on my previous real out-of-country adventure, and the butcher magically took care of it within mere minutes. Today I get to learn on the fly. Best part about it: five hours into my day, Vlad and I leave for a football match; the lines of work and play ever blurred…

On Sunday I am told we’re driving out to the countryside early to witness the slaughtering of a banker/farmer’s pig (look for pictures next week!). Not any ordinary pig, this is a fatty indigenous black-haired, red-meat animal known as Mangalitsa. I’m to come up with how to use most all of the carcass. In many ways an awesome opportunity, I have my apprehensions. I also find it saddening that I will not be here to sample some of the products that will take months to mature: bacon, cured leg (jamon or prosciutto), cured lard. Another reason for a return vacation, I suppose.

So what’s stressful about this situation? Why am I whining (well, actually, I didn’t think I was whining!), you might be asking? I lack the team and support structure I had back in the US (thank you all). I have learned a lot from my experiences, and have great ideas, but it’s difficult to execute them when the restaurant’s butcher himself uses dull knives and does not speak a lick of English. There’s something I have yet to put my finger on, some sort of hands-off approach to teamwork, where I can be in the weeds, but the guys beside me banter and pour themselves tall glasses of Coca Cola. All day long I hear Serbian, with only the occasional translation. I’d love to learn some, and plan to, but am having trouble with the software I’ve downloaded. Still, I love this sort of challenge. I thrive under this sort of stress and pressure. And, frankly, I love that when I finish my list, or at least my task at hand, that I can go sit on one of the sidewalk chairs by our back door, and take a breather. I suppose that in itself is what makes this all seem like vacation. What an awesome gig: I get to play with my food and eat it too.

sidebar: levels of Moroccan hospitality

More ways to laugh and cringe at hospitality:

Level 1 Hospitality (code green): The most common form, found in Berber rug shops and given by complete strangers. This usually involves tea and/or pastries. It includes the phenomenon of food and drink sharing on public transportation. This is the most basic form of hospitality known to Moroccans, as basic and reflexive as a midwestern American's habit of smiling to and greeting strangers.

Level 2 Hospitality (code blue): Like marijuana, the "gateway drug," this pecking behavior can wear down a receiver's defenses and open the door to higher, more extreme levels of hospitality. It specifically involves the paying for of things such as meals, drinks, and taxi rides. It is difficult to control without a firm grasp of  Arabic, and with the male-dominated society, a woman is helplessly overruled by a man's insistence on paying. The best method for countering this level of hospitality is to slyly beat the host to the check, most easily on a supposed trip to the bathroom.

Level 3 Hospitality (code yellow): Exhibited between even cursory acquaintances, this usually involves lunch at a family's house. This includes the full mint tea ceremony upon completion of the meal. Helping the hostess with the cleanup is difficult to impossible.

Level 4 Hospitality (code orange): Dinner or lunch followed by dinner. It usually goes on late into the night, includes traditional music on the television, and is often accompanied by a polite offer to sleep over (usually turned down).

Level 5 Hospitality (code red): A true hostage-taking experience, this is hospitality gone cancerous. The host (notice an intimate relationship between "host" and "hostage") usually means well, desiring to drown immerse the recipient in his/her hospitality. Sadly, the affection is poorly placed, and the recipient is put on the defensive, overdosing on the hospitality. Meals don't taste as good because of the emotional charge, and ease and comfort is replaced by great anxiety. The only way out is a firm, almost rude insistence on an end to the proceedings.

parting days

I'm having second thoughts about this. As you may have figured out, I am nearly two weeks behind in posting. In Morocco, that was not usually such a big deal. Now, however, I am in Germany, writing  about my last days in Morocco, and it's not going so well. Maybe it’s because I’m in a lush Central Park-like setting, sitting in a biergarten by a lake, sipping a hefeweizen. Either way, I have been trying to write this post for days now, and I just haven’t been able to focus on it, so I'm over it (as we used to say back in college, at apartment M2).

My last week in Fes was a highly accelerated one. Writing this post from Europe certainly can’t do it justice. Beginning before our trip to Taza, with Will leaving, it seemed like a chain reaction had formed: EB’s mom left three days later, I finally settled on a ticket to France, and Whitney was talking about leaving in two weeks. Reality had at least begun to make itself known, though even now I flagrantly continue to blow it off. Still, the plan was set: visit Zoe in Geneva for a couple of days after a night in Lyon, then off to Munich to visit Andy, and then to Israel for a bit to tool around with, among others, my cousin Shai.

EB and Whit were planning an excursion to Sefrou, a town I had visited while being hijacked by my wannabe father, Youssef_b. Given that I didn’t really see much the first time around, I opted to join in on the fun. A bit of wrangling was required, but it wasn’t too much trouble for Mo to find us a taxi. We had an entirely enjoyable day, visiting the waterfall again, laughing intensely to inside jokes, and singing Lionel Richie and Disney tunes (I’ve been warned not to publicly admit to or talk about having watched the specific movie(s)).

We had one last calm shindig at our place with a bunch of students from the American school. The goal was to drink the last of the alcohol left from St. Patty’s day. The results were lame rather meager—at the end of the night there were still plenty of beers left, and close to a liter of hard alcohol. Still, it was probably all for the best to have a tame get-together—there was plenty of packing to do.

On my last full day, I was charged with preparing dinner, which would have been fine, save for all the last-minute errands remaining for the day. I made a last purchase of honey and packed up the home-made orange flower water Mo had acquired for me. I packed a box and shipped what I could to the States, and am still hoping the honey and water will not end up in some customs officer’s pantry. Were I offered a special Moroccan price I would have easily shipped more, especially since I wound up with even more heavy items to lug back with me (Argan oil, Mehia, honey).

Meanwhile, back at home, there was dinner to make. The Bolognese-like sauce had been cooking for the better part of the day, but I still needed to break in the pasta machine I had purchased, not wanting to think of it as a completely pointless purchase. And so dinner was a success, my bags were packed, I had the train schedule, and most of the tears had dried.

hijacked, Passover

Youssef­_b was getting insistent on my visiting him. He kept asking about my fiancée (Shiri, my sister, I kept reminding him) and my mom who, as I had told him several times, were already out of town. He is a sweet man and refers to me as a son, though, so I definitely had to take him up on some hospitality.

I recruited Gabe for the effort—planning (erroneously) to make a quick two-hour visit with Youssef­_b before dinner with EB and her family, who were all in town now. First we waited for him, and then we were dragged to the Synagogue for evening prayers, which were over by the time we arrived. He took us to Elie’s house around the corner, where we enjoyed shots of mehia (a Jewish spirit made of fig alcohol and anise—very much like pastis) while the two old men performed the Passover ritual of searching for leavened bread through the house.

It was time for dinner, and I was trying to get us to the restaurant (Gabe and I had previously discussed his poor fit for the job of planning an escape) on time. Youssef­_b was adamant that we come to his house, first. I said no about ten times, playing the subtle Moroccan game of polite yet firm refusal, but my subtlety was lost on Youssef­_b. Okay, so we’ll see your place, but then we’re turning right around and going to meet my friend for dinner! He offered beer and snacks, I declined, but Gabe (he was in on it with Youssef­_b, I’m sure) accepted, and before we knew it, Youssef­_b had left to let in a friend. We waited, finishing our beers, and got up to leave, but Youssef­_b had locked the door from the outside. My laughter at the situation turned to anger—it was all I could do to remain cool, knowing that EB and her family (some of whom I haven’t seen in years) were halfway through dinner. Youssef­_b finally let us out, but not before we had guzzled another beer. On the way back home, Gabe (a true brother from another mother—I love him) did his Gabe thing and was caught by our favorite Rasta café owner. Did I want to grab a coffee, to which I snapped at him (sorry) no! I’ll see you back at home.

Gabe, Mo, and I went to the hammam that night with EB’s brother and father, David and Warren, and friend Will. Mo arranged for the boys to get “massages,” chiropractic nightmares of getting bent in ways the body does not bend. It’s something that’s probably just as enjoyable to watch as it is to experience: ouch.

Ben, Gabe, and I were invited to the Passover Seder the next night at Elie’s house along with Youssef­_b. I was late getting back from my outing to Volubulis and Meknes with EB and family, so we missed services and went straight to meeting the men outside the synagogue. Youssef­_b was bordering on angry thanks to our missing services—he had mentioned them as an afterthought the night before, and besides, I have never been that religiously inclined. Still, I felt bad. Next thing I knew, we were around the table and Youssef­_b had disappeared in a hail of harsh words from Elie—he ditched us to join another friend for dinner. I was in awe when, a week later, I received a call from Youssef­_b, reminding me that I hadn’t paid him anything for his services as tour guide with my family. What a bad taste to leave in a person’s mouth.

The Seder was hardly traditional—four different languages spoken around the table of six, and without Youssef­_b’s eyes, Elie was at a loss for leading the Seder. Ben was in charge of leading us, but ten minutes into the proceedings, Elie grew frustrated and called for dinner to be served. Dinner was good, but not the highlight of the evening. We joked into the night, sipping Elie’s homemade mehia, talking about the women in Elie’s photos of the past (now she was a good kisser!), and matchmaking me with the sweet (and apparently rich, I was told) elderly woman to my side (I am remiss for not remembering her name past the initial introductions). We had an excellent time despite Youssef_b’s misstep. It was a Passover I’ll be able to tell my grandchildren about.

...leads to freak-out

(continued from Casablanca...)

The six of us shared a first-class compartment back to Fez on the 10pm train. We chatted a bit, fell asleep, and were woken at 230am by people trying to get into their (our) cabin in Fez. Dazed, it took us a moment to get off the train. We groggily made our way to the waiting taxis. It was chaos. There were more people than the taxis could possibly handle, and we needed two of them. True to taxi drivers the world round, the first available driver refused to drive to the villa (dorm) because of the distance/fare (too short/too small). His tune changed when more cabs arrived and the crowd diminished, but by then principle wouldn’t allow us to pay him any notice. Gabe, Caitlyn (sp?), and I got into one taxi, and we dropped off Caitlyn on the way to the medina.

[The following will read like an IQ test. Bear with it, as its (and the ride’s) relevancy will become apparent] She handed me a 10Dh coin for her part of the fare (I was too foggy to just shove her money back at her). Gabe and I arrived at the medina, the meter displaying 21Dh. I handed the driver Caitlyn’s coin plus a note worth 20 (30 total). He fished for and produced 4Dh. I questioned him: I expected nine. He pulled out a larger-than-normal 5Dh coin and politely informed me I had given him 25, not 30. I was tired. I was back in Fez, where I could trust the cabbies. I shrugged my shoulders, spun on my heel and left. [You still with me?] Five minutes later, my grogginess quickly being displaced by the knife-wielding vigilance demanded for a late-night stroll through the labyrinth I now call home, I answered my own idiot test. How do I know that I was ripped off? I didn’t have a 10Dh coin anywhere on me: we’d been duped, in Fez, on our home turf. Lesson learned: never, ever, trust the cab drivers, not even on your home turf. Again, nothing to dwell on, I shrugged and carried on.

[Warning: emotional content ahead]

EB asleep in her bedroom, Whitney and Jane in what used to be my bedroom, Gabe and I arrived to a house rife with the resonance of sleep. We hit the sofas and played dead. Except that as hard as I tried to slow down and sleep, my mind was picking up steam. Cab rides with crooked drivers were just the tip of the iceberg. Soon enough, my breath still with concentration, my head was at a flat out sprint: reality had found me. I slept a few winks that night, but only after unease had taken firm grip of my sanity. The following morning, when EB told me her family would be here before the end of March (sooner than I had anticipated), unease ignited and took on new shapes of dread. I was in a predictably pensive and aloof state for most of the day.

[I’m treading new territory here. Heretofore I have written about my experiences, my thoughts, the food, and the people. I’ve neglected to talk about what I’m really going through. In a large part, I’ve completely ignored why I’m here and what I’m feeling (uh-oh: the f-word). I’m not going to back-pedal here and try to fill in gaps: those of you who have been in touch know the gist of my mission (even I know scarcely more than the gist). Those who have not will gather through the context of prior and future posts (keep visiting). My goal is to let you all in a little more than I have, as much as I comfortably can in a public setting.]

Drum roll’s over: I’ve finally begun to freak out a bit, in the simplest and most familiar of terms. My time in Fez is near its end. Not only do I have the relatively abstract dates, but also I now have real, palpable, foreign suitcases exploding on what was just my bedroom floor. I’ve been relegated to the sofa. I will soon have to vacate the premises, what with EB’s family arriving. I don’t have a plan from here on out. My roommates in New York are talking about moving out, so I’m being pulled to deal with my belongings in a soon-to-be-vacant apartment in New York, a town I love to love, yet one in which my time may quite possibly be over. I’d like to spend a few weeks in Israel while I still can, as I fear that once I gain some momentum on a farm or in the kitchen, this blissfully ambiguous life I’ve found myself leading will become terrifyingly apparent (hardly possible, it remains a fear). I want to spend some time on some farms in Europe to see if I’ll love that life as much as I think I will. I want to, I need to, put some money back into the bank...

The list goes on. Perhaps you have or have had such a list of your own, and so are able to put yourself in my shoes. Even better, maybe yours has just started to creep up on you. Regardless, here I am, feeling more alone and out of place than I have felt lately. I'm carefully inspecting paths for silly fear of choosing the wrong one, unable to accept my conviction that they're all equally wonderful.