Peasant Woman

I found myself thinking about my godfather yesterday, a thin, slight bitter-looking man who scared me when I was a kid. He always seemed to be mad about something: the noise we kids were making, the steaks he famously charred to a crisp every time we ate at their house, whatever else had contributed to the anarchy of our visits.

He and my godmother had three kids, and with Peasant Brother and I visiting, that made five of us--five unruly kids who really needed to go outside, but instead were stuck inside a cold, dark, damp basement whose only redeeming feature was an entire wall lit up with a fake, cascading waterfall--a very 70s accoutrement to the Chicago burb where they lived.

Godfather--or Kum (pronounced Koom) in Peasant Talk--was always herding us with one of his two favorite commands, both of which were accompanied with the same gesture: forefinger raised to the sky in anger. The first was "Tisina!," a loud cry of distress that translated into "Silence!" Tisina (pronounced Tishina) was first and foremost a battle cry, and for a moment, we kids stood in shock while the word wrapped itself and reverberated the very air around us:

Ti-shi-na!

When, five minutes later, Godfather realized that his summon to silence hadn't worked, he followed it up with his second favorite command: "Shutz!"

Or:

Shuuuuuuuuuuuuuutzzzzzzzzzzzz!

This, as far as we could tell, meant nothing. Or, rather, it meant so much that it couldn't be translated into words. Shutz was one man's angst, one man's rally against the hordes, the masses, the brethren that had taken over his home. It was his plea for freedom--a final prayer to the gods above.

And it never, ever worked.

It worked! The tooth prayer/song/mantra we tried a few entries ago worked and Mali Zub is getting his two bottom teeth. Yeee-ha!

Do you know what this means? Our prayers have been answered! Mother of God has come through! We can become believing Christians again! All is right with the world!

Who would've thought two little baby teeth could have caused such consternation, so much grief, and for so many months?

Time to celebrate, Peasant Friends!

Hold out your cup and we'll fill it with your favorite Peasant liquor, whether it's made from grain, plum, pears or the salt of your hard-working tears....

Kimo, Mali Zub and I were on our way home from dinner tonight when we discovered the most amazing thing: The Growler!

Yes, that's right, my friend: Beer to go! The quintessential accessory for new parents, a virtual must-have for the previously-jet-setting-but-now-under-house-arrest parental unit. Who would've known?! Who would've thought?! The absolute must-have for
* you new friend
* that lovely shut-in neighbor
* that local, about-to-go-ballistic character.

All for approximately USD10, at your local brewpub. What a deal! That's right -- save your sanity, save your mind, save a friend -- and all for only 10 bucks. Wow!

Those of us here PeasantWoman.com would like to recommend Angry Monk, a yummy unfiltered amber Belgian Ale brewed with cloves that comes from the Redfish, a fine local establishment (unlike Black Cat) that we'd like to support in every way. (Product Placement alert:) Thank you, Steve Shenk and the Redish!

Kimo and I went out for dinner last night, which, as you might imagine, is very un-Peasant-like behavior. (After all, we should be at home slaughtering sheep in our kitchen and roasting peppers in our backyard.) Or maybe our dinner out was more of a Peasants-set-loose kind of a deal, since Kimo, Mali Zub and I have all been sick for the past three weeks. (Poor Mali Zub's still trying to get over a sinus infection. If you've ever seen a baby with a sinus infection, it's a sad sad thing.)

Anyway, we decided to try Radda, a new restaurant that replaced our beloved Masa Grill, whose yummy Mexican breakfasts carried me through my pregnancy. Zut alors, what a change! From funky down-home to upscale chi-chi (which probably ain't much of a surprise, considering we're in Boulder). A funny mix of families with kids (earlier in the night) to all the dolled-up beautiful people scoping out the latest establishment. Or should I say scoping out the scene.

But the food was good, from a fantastic bruschetta to my spaghetti pomodoro and the tiramisu we shared for dessert. Lots of fresh and colorful and tasty veggies, which we Peasant People (who are now living in the city, removed from our farming days) go crazy over. And I loved that the place was loud (even loud enough to cover a potential Mali Zub-meltdown if we bring him with us next time), unlike Mateo, the other restaurant by this owner (and also unlike that snooty Black Cat where we ate a couple of months back, ugh).

Plus--and this is huge, really--I think I've finally found a restaurant Peasant Woman will like! That's right--we're taking her back to see if Radda passes the Peasant Test.

Which is a tough test, let me tell you. Because our beloved Peasant Woman can be pi-i-cky. And who can blame her? After growing up on the Dalmatian coast of the Adriatic, she's got some good food ju-ju, which means that she can spot a mean proscuitto with the best of them. And you do not want to be on the receiving end of Peasant Woman's scorn (which is so legendary in itself that it probably deserves another entry.) Listen up, Radda, you might be making the local scene, but will it mean much if you don't get the Peasant Woman stamp of approval?

We were sitting out in the sun yesterday when my Peasant Sister-in-Law pointed out that Peasant Woman was getting pretty dark, and probably needed to start wearing some sunscreen.

"Pffa!" Peasant Woman scoffed, nose turned up.

I tried to explain. "A true Peasant Woman never wears sunscreen," I said. "That's for the bourgeoise. Look at it this way: what if she was still living out in the country somewhere in the Balkans, spending most of her time out in the fields. Would she be wearing sunscreen then? Nope."

To which Peasant Sister-in-Law exhaled in exasperation, like she always does when what she's saying makes sense, even though no one else will admit it.

See, here's the thing: there's a whole long list of not-so-obvious rules that go into being a Peasant Person, and unless you're born into a Peasant Family, it takes a long time to learn which ones are steadfast and which are negotiable.

Like olive oil. Peasant Woman hates olive oil. But unless you were her Peasant Children, you might not know that olive oil was one of the only things they had to eat during WWII. Olive oil and cornbread -- no way you're ever going to get Peasant Woman close to either of those, my friend. Not if you want to stay on her good side.

Which is one of the reasons Peasant Woman gets so annoyed with the culinary trends that have sprouted up in the past few years. Like good coffee ("When I first came here, you should have seen the dishwater that passed for coffee!") or the chicory coffee I once brought back from New Orleans ("Blech. That was our breakfast when we were children. Chicory 'coffee' with warm milk. Never mind it never actually subsisted of any actual coffee.").

And then there's cornbread, that old perpetrator. "Where I'm from, only poor people eat cornbread. And now you're trying to tell me it's become some kind of delicacy?"

Peasant Sister-in-Law rolled her eyes. "Each day," she said "brings a new a lesson to learn in our adopted Peasant Life." I laughed, while my four-year-old Peasant Niece punched her mother in the leg, then clamored up into her peasant-by-marriage lap.

For Immediate Release

When Jeep MacNichol stopped by tonight to drop off his latest CD, "Mr. Anonymous," for Kimo, our killer pup Loki saw to it that he didn't make it very far. No sooner had the man stepped across our threshold than our hound of hell was jumping at his feet, determined to be recognized as MacNichol's ultimate fan.

"Out, out, damn dog!" Jeep cried, while Kimo did his best to wrangle the brazen beast away from Jeep's alluringly sharp gray pants.

Hands busy with Mali Zub, I jumped into the fray, knocking down building blocks and teething rings as I struggled to get my hands on that behemoth better known as the trickster dog Loki.

"ZAM!"
"POW!"
"Ker-plunk!"

The struggle continued for what felt like hours, me, covered in baby food, an 8-month-old in one hand, fur from the killer beast in the other; Kimo careening around the living room, diapers flying left and right as he leapt to Jeep's aid; Jeep, cool as could be, jumping over baby bolsters and brightly colored pillows in a bid for escape.

Alas, it wasn't to be. Loki was determined--attack Jeep he would, and attack Jeep he did. And yet, in the minutes before the police arrived, a spider saved the day, landing on Loki's back in a back-flipping catapult that he must have saved for only the most precarious of occasions. Somehow, it worked, and once we'd finally wrestled Loki to the floor, I was able to learn a little bit more about this man Jeep, who'd been the Samples' original drummer and was now promoting a pretty sweet-sounding CD he'd recently recorded in Jamaica, with some amazing musicians from the English Beat and Black Uhuru, to name just a few.

Check it out: http://www.mranonymous.net

Or send Jeep a get-well card at http://www.jeepmusic.com

Kimo, Mali Zub and I were over at Uncle (I mean Goombah) Jim's tonight for dinner. As always, Goombah Jim had quite the feast for our burgeoning taste buds, complete with a few bottles of very nice Italian wine (why is it always a good red that does us in?). A very fine pasta maker he is (yup, homemade), and he makes a pretty mean (world-famous, I hear) chicken marsala, not to mention biscotti from scratch (what's that? A manly man who makes biscotti? Yup. And no, he's not gay. Really.).

His food is SO good, in fact, we're thinking about having a Goombah Jim benefit...as in: we've got a live one for you, ladies. That's right: you can borrow him, but you've got to give him back (because otherwise, what would we poor peasants eat? Luckily, Goombah Jim takes pity on our Peasant Family and bestows his culinary graces upon us on a regular basis. Otherwise, we'd wither away from store-bought ravioli....) And they're some pretty tasty culinary treats, let me tell you. As in: you'll cry, you'll weep, you'll tell your friends (and maybe even your mother).

So whaddya say? Interested in Goombah (I mean Uncle) Jim? Our smart, educated, nice, smart-mouthed Italian-American friend? Interested? Our live auction starts...

now.

The thing about being a second generation peasant is that you're always just a step away from your roots. You might think you're beyond it, but it always comes back to haunt you, that stubborn peasant gene living beneath the surface, always ready to show its face.

You can see it in something as simple as your choice of drink, whether it's a nightcap, a cocktail with dinner, or the flat-out bender of old. See, I'm guessing that most of you cultured folk probably like a nice glass of wine, right? A good little house red, say. Or one of the bigger reds from France or Napa Valley. (A wise Protestant choice.) And then there's the whole repressed Catholic cocktail thing, whether it's a nice healthy martini, a cosmopolitan or the peach schnapps that the high school girls swill out of their purses before a night out on the town.

But for peasant folk like me, it's beer. I know! So uncouth, you might say, so blue collar, so Midwest. And it's true. You see, I had the unfortunate experience of living in Wisconsin, the heart of the beer-swilling Midwest, for most of my twenties, and I'm here to admit that, truly, I've never recovered.

Which is really something to be ashamed of, considering that Kimo's from California, land of the liquid lost and the eternal red. And he's always coming home with some new wine to try, spouting off the year and the region and the, gasp, number of Robert Parker points. Meanwhile, there I am, cowering in the corner with my little microbrew, wondering how and when wine became such a sport. Because, in California, it truly is. A language unto itself. As in: these people can talk about this shit for hours.

Meanwhile, I'm still mourning the loss of the amazing micro breweries from Wisconsin, the best I've yet to find. Even better than--I admit it--the old country. That's right.

"Sacrilege!" you say.

But true.

You see, there's something to be said about coming in from the fields after a long day of work and dusting yourself off with a nice cool tasty beer. And this is where, I'm pretty sure, the beer-preference is programmed into my genes. Like my father and his father before, I prefer--beer. That's right, I've finally admitted it. It's out in the open. Dear reader, don't desert me now, in my weakest moment....