The Best New Year’s party.
In the
afternoon on 31 December, the boys and I were walking down the street—crowded with
happy people, and a few beggars. At each
step, if you took a 360° sweep of the area 9 times out of 10,
you would see someone carrying a full-grown turkey by its feet. The neck would look like a snorkeler’s pipe
and it twisted itself to see what’s ahead, probably unwary of the butcher’s
knife waiting around the corner. Yes, I
had my favorite Christmas present—a camera—but I didn’t think to snap this
interesting site of fowl. When you are
in the moment, and seeing many curious things, a live turkey held upside down
by its feet doesn’t seem so noteworthy. I
haven’t been exposed to an Albania New Year celebration, but I imagine there is
someone in every family who knows how to prepare a turkey for dinner.
As we were
walking, who should walk toward us but Zelda, Maaike, Tanya and her son,
Luca.
We couldn’t have planned it
better!
“Where are
you headed?” asked Maaike.
“To the
amusements—to the bumper cars, the balloon slide, etc.”
“How
wonderful!
Zelda has been begging to go
there.
You go ahead, Tanya wants to buy
some souvenirs and we’ll call.”
I loved
the attitude and immediate change of plans with no confirmation of agreement—it
was simply understood that Zelda would forego the search for souvenirs and come
with us.
So I took off with three kids
walking across town.
I prepared them to be
disappointed because I was afraid there would be a huge crowd of people there,
what with the holiday and all.
Usually,
the Albanian kids don’t play nicely with others.
They push and shove as a normal course of
behavior, and when they see that the boys are foreigners, they gawk or are nosey.
Today, though, we were pleasantly surprised
by the
lack of people at the
games.
We have been to the balloon slide
so many times in the past week, the young ticket taker knows us and if no one
else is around, he lets us play as long as we want.
The balloon slide is perfect.
Kids can jump off the top, about 15 feet in
the air, free-fall straight down and gently
swoosh
to a stop—no worries.
Later, when
we arrived to Maaike’s apartment, it was one cool episode after another.
To begin, I had brought over the makings for a
pie crust and a banana cream pie mix.
I
was talking with a Canadian guy who is married to an Albanian lady about holiday
traditions.
He said they need to make
their own.
On whim, at Hy-Vee about a
month ago, I bought the pie mix with the intention of bringing over here.
I wasn’t sure
when I would use it, but now I’ve decided that this will be my
tradition.
I had never made pie crust
and I was quite unsure about the whole business.
Maaike was reassuring when she said, “When I
cook with a recipe, I think of it as a rough guide.
I try to do what it says, but if it doesn’t
look right, then I guess and push on.”
The first
thing I needed to do was to thaw out the butter.
Even though I had had it outside the fridge
all day, the temp in the house is so cold—50
°—it was
still hard as a rock.
We found a kids’
dish and set it on the ubiquitous space heater for a few minutes before adding
it to the flour that I had brought over.
Luckily, I had measured the amount already because the only measuring
cup in the house started at 100 ml (.43 cups), one-half inch from the bottom of
a 5-inch diameter plastic cup that held as much as a liter (
≈
quart).
So 1/3 cup was not possible with
such a utensil.
I remembered the
approximate amount from when I had smashed it in a 1/3 cup measure the day
before at home.
During that attempt I
had turned the butter into liquid when I microwaved it too much.
Someone told me that it would not be possible
to use liquid butter and that I would have to start over.
Because I was unsure about the process, the
fact that I was forced to guess at the amount of butter didn’t make me very
happy.
I decided to ‘push on’.
I needed
tin foil to keep the crust from burning (I think).
A different guy who is also married to an Albanian
woman warned me that later today all shops would be closed until Tuesday.
By the time I remembered that I had forgotten
the tin foil, one shop in the whole neighborhood was open—I took a chance.
The place was about the size of a kid’s
bedroom, and just as messy.
My eyes were
treated to a cacophony of stuff—everything you might find in a dollar store
plus every possible kind of alcohol, bread, and fresh fruit.
I looked around the place and the owners
looked at me quizzically with their upturned palms in an attitude of “What do
you want?”
How could I explain ‘tin
foil’ when I didn’t even know how to say ‘you’re welcome’?
I don’t even know how to say ‘tin foil’ in Russian,
my only language besides English.
Then I
saw them…a half dozen narrow boxes that looked like they might contain tubes
sitting on the floor.
I could only point
because there was a glass case of beer, candy eggs, tuna, pickled mushrooms,
and yogurt in front of me.
One of the
guys working weaved his way around the other stuff on the floor and made his
way to the corner.
I pointed down.
He went to the bottom shelf.
Down further, I energetically gesticulated.
He went to the bottom of a stack of
sponges.
Down, Down.
I telepathically was saying, “Below the RAID
and the motor oil, on the floor beside the tubs of butter.
That’s right, inside the plastic bag with the
socks.”
His hand moved sideways to three
tubes of toothpaste.
Down, Down! I said silently.
I could
hear him thinking, “What does this silly foreigner want in this pile of junk?”
I brightened unnaturally when his had lit on
the treasure.
At different
stages of the crust-making (I performed in stages because of my apprehension), Zelda
performed a rendition of the musical Tarzan in the living room.
She jumped around searching for tigers and other
dangers, while other party goers where enlisted to play the parts of gorilla parents,
Jane, the leopard and I’m not sure who else.
One attractive feature were the wonderful cartwheels and hand stands
from the Iowa boys as they showed off the skills learned at tumbling class in
the summer.
The crust
was placed in the oven as I looked another time at the recipe.
Suddenly (and thankfully), I read for the 100
th
time, but for the first time with 100% comprehension, that I needed to place a
double layer of tin foil on top of the pastry
at that moment, not later.
Shout, turn, grab the pan…cover with tin foil and back in the oven.
More
Tarzan.
The kitchen
had no real mixing bowls, no measuring spoons, no tin foil, no oven mitts, but
she DID have a mixer.
I found this out
after I had asked my new Lithuanian friend to mix the topping with a fork.
After she had done an excellent job of this
for a minute, she asked how long she would need to do so.
I said, “Well, it says that we need an electric
mixer on high for 3 minutes.
I guess you
will need to work hard…unless…Maaike, do you have a mixer?”
“Yes, I
do.”
As if she had been waiting for that
request all night, she immediately pulls out a hand-held machine, perfectly
suited for the job.
I had told
Maaike earlier in the day that I would need some empty tin pop cans for a
science experiment.
Without missing a
beat, she said, “Then we buy some Coke and have a burping contest.”
While the pie was in the oven, I limbered up
my throat muscles.
Without drinking a
drop I shocked the audience, and gained praise from my progeny.
The four children were seated and ready to
drink. The burping commenced.
This was a
fantastic event for us, but the boys are just at the age when, with looks of
great admiration and wonder on their faces, they say things like, “You know Alvian?
His brother knows someone who can burp the
whole alphabet!”
Possibly, it was not a
fair fight because I have had more than 40 years of swallowing air grossing out
my sister, trying to get the excess gas from my stomach.
I won.
Then Tanya
used her Italian cooking skills, acquired during 6 years in Italy, to prepare
outstanding white sauce and red sauce to go with the excellent pasta.
As the evening
wore on, the sounds of bombing, sparkling, and whizzing outside were growing
more and more persistent and noticeable.
After the
pasta, we went downstairs to the concrete courtyard, and lit several triangular
items of intense light and whooshing sound.
Nothing great to those of us who bring more sophisticated experience to
the table, but the youngsters—particularly the big O—were duly impressed.
We also had tiny, substandard sparklers.
The final
event before the big moment—air pressure demo.
I have guided students to crush
cans with air pressure many times since learning the ‘trick’ while employed at
the Maryland Science Center. This
December, however, I am using the book, Potentially Catastrophic Science Experiments
to direct some of our activities. In the
book, as a demonstration of the power of air and steam, the authors direct the
reader to heat cans containing a small amount of water on a frying pan. When the water inside is boiling, we are to
put the cans upside down into a pot of cold water—thereby producing the desired
smashing. After several minutes of
waiting for the cans to heat up, the effect was far from dramatic. About this time, I noticed on Maaike’s countertop,
an electric teapot—a staple in European homes.
“This teapot
is part of an ideal method for this demonstration of seemingly super-natural,
natural power.” We took a lid from a container
of oatmeal, heated the water, poured it into the can though a funnel, dumped it
out, placed the lid and presto! Crushing
begins! I’ve seen people take the can
and plunge it into water and the can is smashed instantly and impressively. In my opinion, however, MY way, with the lid
and hot water is a much more effective display.
With the plastic lid, the crushing does not take place all at once, so
the gradual impact of the air pressure is clear and present. In this case, just as I said, “Many times
I’ve seen it when it is dented a few times to the point where it falls
over.” At that exact instant, a dent ensued
and the can fell over.
At
midnight, we took out the banana cream pie that had been in the ‘fridge for a
couple hours and feasted mightily. Next
time, it will be banana cream from scratch—this time, it was powder with added
milk—tasty, but terribly artificial.
On the
whole the evening was my greatest New Year’s Eve because the kids were the
focus. From bumper cars, to Tarzan, to
burping contests and banana cream pie, we all greeted the New Year with gusto.
Day 2, the stem is longer.
Day 3, I think it is a root I saw; not a stem. The root has grown.
Day 4. Wow, look at that! The roots are wild and the stem AND leaf are shooting out.
Day 2, the stem is longer.
Day 3, I think it is a root I saw; not a stem. The root has grown.
