Meals

The summer of 2010 was the first time I worked with children in a setting similar to these camps. My parish day care needed a pair of knees that didn't creak and crack upon standing. I needed a summer job. (Exactly why I needed a job I can't remember now, but I always seemed to have a lot more money back then. Probably because I had fewer standards concerning whereby to acquire it and less things demanding it.)

At the daycare, lunch time was by far the most demanding time. Fifteen children who could barely hold their own spoons all insisting they be fed immediately, before everybody else, and if they are not fed they will express their dissatisfaction with the service by chucking their Cheerios at the ceiling, or each other, or me. Lunch was also prime observation time--- a lot can be learned about a family by how and what they eat. Meals are a microcosm of greater human interaction. That being said, here goes my past week and a half... in meals.

Mon, 7/7. First day of camp in Błonie, described in the last post. After an exhausting and extremely sunny day (on which I felt it appropriate to dress in all black, like an idiot), my host carted me home. I peeled off my clothes, bathed, changed, and after Babscia (Polish for Grandma) came to watch the kidlets, my host took me to a lakeside restaurant to eat perch pike caught in said lake. There is nothing more satisfying than eating a fish at a picnic bench, perfectly aware that all but a stone's throw away it's cousins are unsuspectingly swimming in circles. We talked about the kidlets and the teaching system in Poland, the inner workings of my strange little school in the woods, and after a pot of tea, a gorgeous sunset, and a few dozen mosquito bites, I began to realize not only how much I love this country, but how much I care about this job. Went home after sundown and a quick amble around the lake. At home, my hosts offered me my first glass of wisniowka (vish-noov-ka) and a shot called Crazy Dog (wisniowka + juice + tobasco). They kept asking if I had ever tried Mad Dog; thought they meant MD 20/20. One crazy dog later, my concern was replaced with unbridled affection. These people know how to live.

Tues, 7/8. Ended the work day with a red neck and farmer's tan. We walked around Błonie (bwohn-yeh), made a stop at Tesco, picked up some ice cream, some fruit, and some sunscreen. Necessary. Ate zucchini and tomato au gratin. Discovered that tea with meals is actually a great idea.

Wed, 7/9. Walked around the garden at Żelazowa Wola (zhe-la-zova- vola), Chopin's childhood home, where according to legend his talent was discovered when early one morning the whole family awoke to beautiful piano music playing eerily in the morning light, only to discover its player was three-year-old Fritz Chopin. Next door is the restaurant formerly known as Polka; now it's called something about treasures from the garden or some such nonsense. We ordered chłodnik, cold beetroot soup (zupa!) that may be the greatest thing ever. A middle-aged man walked around the otherwise empty restaurant with a small boy. Per usual, I couldn't help but smile as the little boy pounded across the wooden floor, fascinated by the sound of his own feet. The man noticed. He sent over a birthday cake in the shape of an alligator and made the stuffy waiter who wore an unreasonably large, chunky watch (my host and I both agreed- compensation) bring us dessert plates and forks. We made the mistake of wishing his 'grandson' happy birthday; he then felt the need to explain that the boy is his son, who just turned three, and then introduce us to his oldest son, who is thirty-eight. Host and I giggled all the way home.

Thurs, 7/10. The camp kids have begun to wear me down; host firmly decides that after work we will go to a small town the name of which I have entirely forgotten where there is a cafe that serves the best raspberry meringue in Masovia. The slices are huge; the meringue is perfect. The fruit is perfect. The espresso is perfect. We discuss teaching, how Polish teachers are expected to work 2 hours a week for free and generally make $400 a month. We discuss parents who coddle their children and the way those children suffer, and the silly excuses parents make for their lack of discipline. My host encourages me to teach; she is not the first person to do this. She is the first person in whom I confide how much the idea of teaching scares me. My heart is a little wounded after one week; I can't imagine devoting the rest of my life to this. It starts to rain; we run to the car, and see a peacock strutting around the church. She asks about my studies and my thesis (in the works, about the Odyssey and two later reimaginings of it), and tells me about hers. (She studied American culture; her thesis was The American Attitude Toward Death. This woman is my hero.) When we arrive home she offers me coffee; her husband rolls his eyes at runs out to buy beer. We eat a proper dinner Spanish-style: several small courses, starting around 9-o-clock, with beer and wisniowka and coffee on top of that.

Friday, 7/11. The week is over. I am exhausted in ever way. We pile into the car wordlessly; my host turns to me and explains, in the voice a doctor might use to offer experimental treatment to a terminal patient, we will order pizza with mushrooms and finish our beer and ice cream. Her husband is out seeing Metallica.

Saturday, 7/12. The husband is home by breakfast. Super concert, he says, making extra strong coffee. We watch Scooby Doo with our large Polish breakfast. Polish breakfast is not like American breakfast: we eat cold herring with cream, bread with butter and a spread made of large, apples, and carmelized onion, topped with green onions. There's a spread of cold cuts and cheeses; the only hot dish is a big pot of beans that look like supersized edemame and taste something similar. As always, there are tomato slices, cucumber slices, and raddishes. We drive out to Niepokolanow, Arkadia, and a palace not far away. We take long walks through the mud and the Romantic ruins constructed entirely to be ruins. The irony builds an appetite; we stop at three restaurants, but they are all booked for summer weddings. Shame; it's been raining the entire day. Finally we find a road side restaurant that served the best food I've had since the Milk Bar in Krakow: fried pierogi, wild mushroom soup, potato pancakes with pork goulash. The waitress brings the two kids their own dishes of crepes with chocolate and whipped cream and fruit. I don't know why we clapped, but we were very enthusiastic about the while thing.  I didn't realize until I was full this would be my last meal with these hosts. I cried as I packed my things.

My new hosts offers me Twix and wisniowka. Perhaps I will manage.

Sunday, 7/13. Perhaps I should explain the Polish sandwich. It goes like this: one slice of bread, generously buttered. One slice of cheese, one slice of ham, a slice tomato and a wedge of bell pepper. I've also had a sandwich of butter, soft cheese, and honey, likewise open-faced. There will be many sandwiches this week. Next door my host's sister is celebrating her birthday with a barbecue; the sister and I are the only ones drinking. We polish (haha) off a bottle of wisniowka (this is my life blood), a couple shots of raspberry vodka, and a bottle of Chardonnay from California with a twist off cap. Then we practice tongue twisters in English and Polish. I go to bed feeling ready for Monday.

Monday, 7/14. I am to nervous about the coming week to eat much breakfast; instead I drink three cups of tea (tea with sugar, even; never have I drunk tea with sugar, and yet, it's become a habit) and a sandwich. The meal is silent. The drive is silent. I am silent as the kids begin to trickle in. By lunch time, I am in love. These kids are entirely different from the last crop: the only thing about the camp they don't enjoy is the meal. I bribe them with marbles to finish their soup. Thus begins the practice of Zupa Champione.

Tuesday, 7/15. The week is going so well I'm afraid that I may jinx it, so I fall asleep at seven-thirty without eating dinner.

Wednesday, 7/16. I offered to make my host spaghetti carbonara; later I find the left overs in the trashcan. Her husband (who happens to be the saintly handy-man mentioned in the previous post) decides to say his first word to me: in the evening, when I wander downstairs for the first time that isn't a meal to prepare the next day's craft. (I have the top floor of the house, a balcony, bathroom, and bedroom, to myself. However, there is not a pair of scissors to be found.) It is hot in the kitchen, I am sweating like a pig leaning over the table, tracing a plate for the circle's we'll need. He smiles, makes eye contact for the first time, and says, Beer?

I doubt we'll need to ever speak again. He is up for canonization in my book.

Tonight my current host and previous host are taking  me out for good bye drinks; tomorrow after lunch, I leave for a new camp.

Zdrówko. (Zdroovko.) Cheers.