The Grbavica Dream

For this recipe you will need: a 54 square meter apartment in Sarajevo’s neighborhood of Grbavica, two kids, a mortgage, and a husband in BH Telecom. It’s a classical Sarajevo success story, one we poked fun at back when we were young and stupid, and when we thought characters from videos by Lana Del Rey were real people. Now show me a girl who wouldn’t exchange a dream of a skinny bearded painter living in the attic for a bright and steady BH Telecom guy (who, okay, does some writing on the side.)

Things have changed since I bought an apartment in Grbavica, easily the greatest accomplishment of my life, including that time the reviewer said the paper was really well written. Life is good here, and as a newly-fledged member of Grbavica gentry, I enjoy doing Grbavica things, like on a good sunny day after work walking to the local produce market and fish store, where I walk in and buy one fish — not a statement to my eccentricity and uniqueness, but to my monthly mortgage payment.

The fun stops when you meet the Avocado man. Like any true monopolist (he is the only one selling avocados in the market and he sells them for pure gold), he never smiles, nor does he indulge in the small talk, and he disregards the complaints that avocados are too ripe or not ripe enough, seeing through your pathetic attempt to lower the price. He is cold and unkind and hates his picture taken, but he has what you need. For the salad to be juicy, you will need salt, black pepper, olive oil, lemon juice, and a bitter taste of Grbavica market power games.

 

Helena Del Rey

Ancient Apple

Bananasitter was confounded. Someone else dared add apple where it does not belong. And that’s when he knew. She was back and she was here to enrage the gods.

While in the background, all the shredded and diced truth was coming out of those little potato bastards, cinnamon was singing its old song. Our blind old friend pickle mistook hash browns for sauerkraut. Let’s leave him to his illusion.

This photo is from 1898, the year our friend was first joined in sacred unity with some dill and pepper. Also, the year when Brooklyn merged with NY to become present city of NY.

It’s That Time of Year Again. (Guest Writer From Portland!)

That time when my wretched empty soul feels the slightest pangs of meaning. For 11 months, my heart beats just because it has to, just because it doesn’t know any other way. In October, it beats for haunted houses and costumes and dancing skeletons. And, most of all, it beats for pumpkins. All year, I work to cultivate a lifestyle and social circle that will support my obsession. A couple months ago I secured an apartment that is walking distance from the Trader Joe’s on Glisan and 21st. Success.

On Saturday, I walked to TJ’s. I bought pumpkin bread mix. I bought pumpkin soup base. I added chocolate chips to the former and hefty amounts of vegetables, rosemary, and a freshly ground black pepper to the latter.

In between those two recipes, I was a spectator at the World Beard and Moustache Championship. After those two recipes, approximately 25 people jammed their way into my 1 BR and carved pumpkins with reckless abandon. It grew unbearably hot and, just when we thought we couldn’t stand it anymore, we lit a very many tiny fires ablaze inside the jack-o-lanterns, raising the temperature but also making us immune to any worldly discomforts. Add a warm bowl of soup and a hot little muffin, watch the pumpkins glitter and glow, and the rest of the world seems to melt away.

Recommended: whipped cream atop the muffins and crunchy croutons atop the soup. an unwavering passion for things unusual. friends with similar interests. friends with dissimilar interests that will support your special day regardless. friends with blogs who ask you to write a guest post.

The Dangers of Saying Why Not

On some days you miss America.  On other days you miss the Filling Station at Chelsea Market and their infused olive oils and vinegars.

 

The jar makes it look like it’s something being pickled. It’s not; Portland will be featured in one of the future episodes of the cities we miss. The books in the background are all on pickling.

Orange skin (not the one from my thighs), Iranian barberries, and a piece of beet for the color. Some really slutty olive oil.

Rosemary, mint, basil. Is this going to be disgusting or what.

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I Lay Dying

Now as I am about to be breaded with a shrewd mix of regular and corn flour, drenched in a hot oil to burn on one and then on the other side, having been sitting salted all day, and as salt is uncomfortably itching my various parts, I want to say that I have no regrets. I lived my life, well okay, maybe not to the fullest, maybe I wasn’t the biggest fish in the pond, and maybe I wasn’t all that crazy you know, living every day like it’s my last. BTW, who can live every day like it’s their last? Whose imagination has that kind of span? Mine sure doesn’t but that’s maybe cause I’m a fish. Today is the only day when I feel like it is the last day of my life, this truly being my last day.
I grew up on the coast of Neum on Adriatic sea, and some people may say it’s not Adriatic enough. I won’t lie, I often wanted to venture to more adventurous seas, but somehow other stuff always got in the way. Like errands and stuff. Upholstering the couch. Going to the post office to pay the water bill. Attending proms. I really can’t say anything significant really ever happened to me. One of my friends who left I heard got served in a Zagat-rated Thai restaurant. He first got marinated in a sweet-and-spicy Thai sauce before frying. Please forgive my provincial mind speaking out of me, but sometimes I get to thinking how we all get fried in the end no matter what. Unless you end up in a Brazilian fish stew, but you gotta be a tilapia for that, and who wants to be tilapia.
Also, I personally prefer being marinated in salt and lemon zest. I know, it must be my cultural conditioning, but what can I do now? Served next to a potato salad. All I want now is to hear the lady say I’m tasty one last time.

The perfect is the worst enemy of the good

Today I wore my best house dress. Took an especially strong shot of coffee. Put my arms on my hips, and gave myself a moment to look absently through the window, the way grandmothers have been doing for centuries. All the suppressed ambition and unfulfilled dreams will go into this baklava. Then I checked Facebook one last time. The virtual world of feminism, cute babies and condemnation of Israel was still drawing me in. But it was time to go.
My old friend, the walnut man, came to the door with a little crumpled bag. After him, the hazelnut man, and after him, the pistachio and cashew nut gentlemen came together (who are by the way spending waaay too much time together to just be friends.) Then the avocado man showed up in a terrible green suit, and I was like Ugh.
Algorithmically speaking, the most challenging aspect of making baklava is simultaneously maintaining two integer counters in your head while a family member is trying to tell you a story that has numbers in it. So baklava can be made using only two for loops (pedants claim you really need only one), which makes it algorithmically trivial.
Which is why we made two today. The Mother baklava, classy, only walnuts, expertly cut. And The Daughter baklava, with a variety of nuts, mischievous but cute. Also with cardamom, just to raise some eyebrows.

Robespierre’s Jam / Accidental Samovar

You will need a thousand bananas

Chandelier Tarhana