1989

Exams begone! I am a happy girl again.

And when I am happy, I post pictures.

These were taken at Michael's new-old apartment in Warsaw. New because he just moved in, old because it was built for the good people living at Służew during communist rule.

I was completely fascinated with the flat; it was like I was reading Siberian Dream all over again. You can't verbally describe something to be 'so communist', but you sure can feel it. Maybe it's in the uniformed layouts, the pale walls washed down in cheap paint, the Russian refrigerators, or the faux parquet sheets laid over concrete. I don't know; it just is.












And no, Michael didn't think me nutters for snapping pictures of everything in the line of my vision. I think he was just about as fascinated as I was; afterall he was only 4 when the Russians left Poland and took their food queues with them.

Faded with age; always remembered.

Przepraszam

Economics is not my forte. Never has been, and it never will be. Perfect markets and perfect information do not exist in any world, and I have never managed to excel in anything I have no ability to believe in or comprehend.

D'oh.

I'd rather be in a place not so far away from where I am now, sitting on a swivel chair watching episodes of Dilbert while munching on Princessa bars.

Even more so, I wouldn't mind long walks through parks sectioned in fields of green alongside grey tiles, most possibly procured even before the communist era.

Polska, you certainly have left yourself in my heart.

Dobry dobry dobry

I LOVE large, circley, chockfull-of-bread pretzel things,

as I do mother-of-Maciek's home-cranked apple crumble ,




and you all know I could choke a dog to death with my incessant hugs (yes I do love things that I cannot eat too),





and there is little not to love about fields of green and gold where if you tip-toe, you can see Ukraine.

So this probably means I love everything I got to see and do in Poland.



But what I reeeeeeally love about Poland, I think, is a boy who wears bow-ties and lets his mommy dress him.
The kind of boy who always looks too eager for school. Schmanzy smarty pants!

And the same kind of smarty pants who washes all your clothes for you while you're sleeping the morning away, and who quietly puts them on hangers all over the room to dry before tip-toeing out to school.

Must admit; always had a soft spot for the kind of things Poland still does offer.

Alloyed stomach

No I don't have an iron stomach; I have an alloyed stomach. Which is much stronger and which contains more room and depth than its iron counterpart.

Ok ok, this alloyed stomach does not do innards or anything that comes from under the meaty body of any animal.

No lard and cracklings either.

And nothing spicy.

And preferably, nothing with whipped cream either.

That said, there still exists a whole WORLD of food that doth not fall into these unfortunate categories. And alloyed stomach takes them all!

I conquered PIEROGI. But yes, I cheated. I had the vegetarian version with cabbage and mushrooms because I really didn't want to have barmy mystery meat (or innards! Burrrrr) swimming in my mouth.

And cabbage rolls stuffed with gruel and potato. Ukrainian food is a newfound friend that I intend to keep very close to my heart/tummy.

And oh, this one is a definite sinker for any set of sculptured abs. Placki, or very deep-fried discs of julienned potatoes, onions and what tasted like a lot of starch. Good shite, but please, go easy on this, lest you end up stumbling back half-groaning and holding your aching belly like we did.

With claims that it really is a Georgian restaurant, what the Chimera should actually do is put up a bigass signboard that shouts FREAKING CHEAP FOOD: A'LA CARTE QUALITY PAIRED WITH BUFFET QUANTITY AT STREET PRICES!
My dibs, clockwise from top left: broccoli tart, wild mushroom salad, potato and cream cheese mash in filo pastry, grilled eggplant with stewed tomato puree, sour boiled egg salad, spinach fritata. Burp.

And seeing so many pictures of various creamy concoctions that I merrily saw fit to partake in is now making my belly swell in horror. Oh mercy, woe is me for I have sinned.

Pancakes with Polish jam. Which really is syrup preserve with the thickness of industrial strength white-glue. Belch.

Tagliatale with tenderloin (which wasn't tender) in a (veryveryvery) creamy champignon sauce. Double belch.

Panga fillet in a creamy sauce of shrimps and mushrooms. Triple belch, plus it was as unappetizing as the picture looks.

But this little Ukrainian baby saved the cream-filled family from going down permanently into my book of death. White borsch with hard-boiled eggs. Sheer genius. Thick with just the right amount of tiny bumps to let you know the food processor didn't kill every single bit of fresh produce these good Ukrainian grannies put into their borsch. Tart, without being cloying. And smashed against the firmness of boiled egg-white is a soup that only a loving granny can conjure.

It's official, I'm obsessed. Oh white borsch, would you marry me?