"kruška, jabuka, šljiva,
[pear, apple, plum]
Chubby Checker, _Psycho_,
Belgians in the Congo."
of course, those last two lines aren't exactly how the catchy song goes—but considering that, until recently (by which i mean: still, as below), i did not know the real words, because the rhythm of my inserted one so *precisely* fits, and mostly because i immediately jumped to this substitution, i cannot now return to a state of innocent ahistoricity. i prefer to intone the glory of the fruit with dubious conclusions about violent and passed-off-as-revolutionary events.
the accepted version, with its glaring lies and general mealy-mouthedness, does make me want to start some fires:
"to je voće sladko,
je obe ga svako.
[this is sweet fruit
and it is for everyone]"
but maybe that last line is really:
"je obilo svako"
[it (the fruit) forced open/broke into/committed burglary upon everyone]"
in that case, i think drastic measures have been avoided (provided we all lock our doors and arm our bears).
these past two weeks at NB we've been working on fruits and veg, and not only in disrespectful verse and coloured pencils. it really makes my enfruited heart sing when i see these kids consume an enormous bag of apples as fast as we can slice them up and hurl them on the table before the eager masses. i should note that they are not this enthusiastic about every kind of edible—but when there's fruit involved, they go all clamoury. i don't mean to provoke this tendency by the fact that i'm often spotted eating some sort of fruit or other around NB, or complicate it still further by the compensatory strategy worked out, mostly by Tetka Jelka, in which she [throws at me, plunks down on the table before me, or other violently given act of love in the form of food] one fruit for each component of the lunch that i don't eat because it is meatful. as i hunch in the tiny chair, with knees pulled even further up to my chest, the eyes all around the table fill with longing.
so overjoyed was i at recognising the "šljiva" on a labeled jar of preserves. this somewhat weak (let us speak honestly, now, when the time for such sentiments has since passed) delight was completely forgotten, eclipsed by the discovery that, in purchasing an even larger one, i could save 56 dinar. i failed to remember, however, that when you *do* just about anything with plums, they become, well—not plums. now i have an astounding lot of prunes on my hands. this will go down, forever alongside the chocolate-filled "hamburger" rolls of 1986 and the gnocchi mess from the [lesser-publicised] Potato Blight of 2003, as a quandary for which none but my little Dutch spoon is qualified.
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> this will go down, forever alongside the
> chocolate-filled "hamburger" rolls of 1986
> and the gnocchi mess from the
> [lesser-publicised] Potato Blight of 2003,
> as a quandary for which none but my little
> Dutch spoon is qualified.
Your reading public demands an story to explain said rolls and Blight.
1986. we'd just moved to japan. jet-lagged (the special *family* variety), if not dark and stormy, night. someone (maybe it was 2-year-old erica and 5-year-old me, although i doubt this latter bit of revisionism) was trying to make sure we had a normal meal, albeit at an abnormal time. like hamburgers. wow, doesn't that date our family! as does the fact that—at yamazaki (grocery), couldn't read enough to realise that what looked like plain old plain old were, yes, en-ﾁｮｺﾗ—ﾀﾞ-ed.
2003. more of a rice girl, really (since 1986). but when i buy them, you can be sure it's because my weight in potatoes costs about 15 cents at the kroger. then i glow with the success of the bartered exchange and, moreover, that i've schlepped them home on my bike in a Michigan winter. and glow. and eat rice. and glow. until, one day, i hear the lumpy sack tramping down the hallway, threatening to take over, by force of simultaneous moldering and sprouting, if necessary. at which point, i can't settle for hastily cooking up enough of the mashed variety to fill all my available freezer space and empty sock drawer. no, sir: it has to be something that i've never made before and, preferably, don't even know how to pronounce. then the failure, in vast quantities, will be all the more triumphant. by which i mean: baked, in desperation, in my only (9'' by 9'') pan, in batches and batches, into improvised bread worthy of being carried while fleeing Egypt, but for the gooey middle. ate every last bit, though. and then, a month later, bought more potatoes.
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