Peasant Woman

We just bought a Honda Pilot -- a great car except for that it's so huge. (Kimo wanted a car that could "hauls things.") I've got to say that, so far, it's a great car (or SUV, if I'm being honest about it). But I've never had such a big car and I have to admit that I find it disturbing. I mean, why do I need a truck to drive around town with my baby? So I can run someone over, I guess.

And then of course it got me thinking about Europe, and my relatives -- the whole shebang. My relatives who'd have a heart attack just knowing that we owned such a car. In the Balkans, where my family comes from, only mafia members drive cars like that. Or U.N. workers.

Even when my relatives have a car, it's usually (by our Western standards) old and beaten up. And shared among many. It's a pretty similar situation with their homes (or apartments) as well -- hardly any of my relatives have their own room; everything's shared. But over here, we live in these huge houses where even our pets could have their own rooms, if they wanted.

Which makes me think of something my cousin said after she moved to Australia to be married: "It's like living in Technicolor. Beautiful, but sometimes it hurts my eyes."

The other day I read an article (in Newsweek or Time or one of those magazines) that talked about how many Gen-Xers are blogging about their kids these days. Specifically, the author seemed annoyed that so many of us are publishing details about each and every new thing our babies are doing. Intimate details -- things the kids themselves might not want known when they get older -- like stories about baths, explosive poops and every other embarrassing thing you can think of.

There's something to that, I think, in that these kids don't have a say in the stories that are being broadcast about them. (Like Mali Zub -- the poor guy might end up quite ticked when he finds out just how much Baby Tylenol we're giving him these days. Hopefully, he won't decide to sue if he ever needs a liver transplant.) And yet, I'm not so sure how this is any different than novelists or essayists, say, spilling the beans about their kids in print. Or poets, for that matter, especially the confessional kind.

Is it just a matter of audience? As in: the bloggers' kids stretch across the web, whereas the book kids reach a more limited audience?

What do you think?

I don't know about you, but I write about my kid because of the big bucks it's getting me.

Ca-ching.

Peasant Woman says, "You don't need to get your sweetheart flowers or chocolates or anything like that. Fuck that. All you need is some rakia--strong brandy. Then they'll be happy."

Speaking of ca-ching, where are you, sponsor-people?

Guess it's time to start including a lot of key words in this space. Something like the product placement alerts that The Onion (that great satirical) is always including in its movie reviews.

You know, like that bottle of Rolling Rock, half turned, as if to somewhat disguise its identity, that the cute, down-on-his-luck guy is always drinking at the local bar after his world has turned upside down and his girlfriend has dumped him. Or those cold, sweating cans of Coke that our young stud uses to wipe off his sweaty (ack! I mean "dewy") forehead after a muscle-rippling workout. Or that Marlboro that our cowboy of the day (a Brad Pitt or Clint Eastwood type) lights up as he looks out across the plains, weighing his tried-and-true family ways v. the impinging modern world....

Any takers?

Dear Peasant Woman,

I'm always hungry. Do you think I could have a tapeworm?
Itching in Idaho

Dear Itching,

Yah, sure. Your guzica needs the food.
S'neba pa u rebra -- From the sky to the ribs.
PW

*guzica = ass (pronounced goo-zeet-sa)

1 large can tomato sauce (PW prefers Hunts)
1 medium onion, finely chopped
paprika (1 vague tsp)
salt (1 similarly proportioned tsp)
flour (let's say 3 tbsp, for kicks)
sugar (1 tbsp)
oil (PW always uses Mazola for cooking)

Saute finely-chopped onion in oil. When mid-way done (on their way to being brown), add 3 big spoons of flour (and more oil), then saute till lightly brown. Add approximately 1 teaspoon paprika. Brown slightly (20 seconds, let's say), then add tomato sauce and 1/2 can of water (swirling to get all the goodies from the container, very Peasant Woman!).

Slowly bring to a boil. (Keep mixing so the flour doesn't stick to the bottom and become chunky--very un-Peasant Woman. In fact, you would probably be permanently barred from Peasant Woman's kitchen were this to occur.) Add more water as needed (if it becomes too thick), such as another 1/2 can of water, then go from there.

Add 1 teaspoon salt and 1 tablespoon sugar.

Cook for 30 minutes.

Add to over-cooked spaghetti. Enjoy!

Nutritional Information:
Not very, but little kids love it.

* Kuma = godmother

Finally! Sunshine and melting sneg in the land formerly-known-as-the-land-of-snow! Quite a change after week upon week of snowstorms, and quite something for us Peasant People, who've been going out of our minds all locked up inside all winter. This weekend all we had to worry about were the winds -- clocked at 101 mph in our town, and higher (something like 120 mph) up in the mountains.

Oh and did I mention the avalanches? Peasant Brother and his family were driving up to Steamboat for the weekend --such clear roads! how lucky we are!-- when they realized the road ahead was closed due to an avalanche.

See, it's very exciting here, in our Peasant Lives. Maybe we should start hosting field trips for you out-of-towners who'd like to experience some true weather-and-Turkish-coffee-fueled craziness. As long as you'd be willing to sign some waivers first, of course.

*sneg = snow

Mali Zub = little tooth (pronounced Mah-lee Zoob)
kuma = godmother
rakia = homemade brandy that will knock your socks off
zito = wheat
guzica = ass
sneg = snow
S'neba pa u rebra = From the sky to the ribs....

Will Mali Zub's first tooth ever arrive?!

Poor little guy -- he's already been good and Baby Tylenol-ed and he's still howling like a madman. And our poor babysitter -- she's doing the best she can, but....

It's probably not helping that I'm up in my office, trying to work (trying being the operative word). You'd think that with all the drugs we have on the market, they'd have created something good and strong for our little man. Like Baby Prozac for teeth, or something. Something to give us all some rest!

I think we're going to have to give in and try the old-fashioned whiskey-on-the-gums way. It's what Peasant Woman would have wanted, I'm pretty sure, if she could have been here with us in our misery today.

In the meantime, I might just have to try a good old prayer/chant/mantra/whatever you want to call it. (It worked for Elizabeth Gilbert in Eat, Pray, Love, the book I'm reading right now. Only she used it to get her husband to finally give in and sign the divorce papers....)

So here goes:

Teeth, teeth, we need some teeth!
We need them now, we need them how
Please, dear whiskey-loving God --
Give us some teeth!

I really have to apologize for Peasant Woman being so shy lately -- I don't even think I've heard her voice in my ear, swearing up and down the street, for days. I mean, really, that is not good Peasant Woman behavior.

The Peasant Woman I know wouldn't have been caught dead with such silence. She'd be talking a mile a minute to anyone who would listen -- good Eastern European grandmotherly behavior. Most of it advice, too. With a few choice swears thrown in, of course. Things like this one (our favorite, and maybe one day, yours, too -- a classic in the homeland):

Jebem ti pas matir!

(Fuck your dead dog's mother)

We've begun calling Mali Zub Master. As in, "Yes, Master; No, Master; What would you like now, Master?"

Master decided that he didn't want to sleep this weekend. Which meant Kimo and I, underlings that we are, also weren't allowed to sleep this weekend. Master decided that he'd rather kick and scream all night. And that, when we put him to sleep, he would toy with us a bit, sleep just a few minutes--10 or 20, say-- to let us think he was actually going to sleep. And then, just as we were actually drifting off to sleep, Master would start bellowing.

"Oh, what a fun game this is!" Master said.

He is as funny as he is benevolent, our Master.

Master also decided that, royalty that he is, that he would rather not sleep in his crib anymore. "I would prefer a chaise," he seemed to say, "or a royal carrier made of purples and golds! I shall also like to be carried everywhere I go," Master said. "And to sleep in the willows, by the shade of the river Euphrates, as I am fanned from above...."