Peasant Woman

Mali Zub's teething continues unabated. Man, this poor kid! Two new teeth last week and now he's got two more coming in -- no wonder he doesn't want to sleep.

Although for the record, the chiropractor seems to be helping, even if we're no longer getting those stellar 8-hour stretches of sleep that we did at the beginning. Maybe next week? Or: Please, Dear God, maybe we can start sleeping again next week?

I guess this is where we start a new hoodoo chant/seriously strategic prayer. The last time I did this, though, it was pretty hokey. Any other sleep-deprived parents out there who'd like to take a shot at it?

You know you're pretty far-removed from your Peasant Lineage when you're thinking about taking your kid to a farm as a field trip. That's right. I'm almost embarrassed to say it, but we're taking Mali Zub, The Third Generation, to a strawberry-picking festival this weekend at a local farm that we, gasp, have absolutely no connection to.

Well, that's not exactly right. It's a farm that we joined for the summer in order to get fresh fruits and vegetables. Community supported agriculture, for youse citified folks out there who are looking to do something similar.

Pretty crazy, when you consider that a generation ago, my poor parents were out in similar fields, good days or bad, tending and harvesting the fields so they'd have something to eat. And here we are, white-collar workers who're too busy to even plant vegetable gardens in our backyards. (Well, we used to, but a rather large family of garter snakes seems to have taken over back there....)

Makes you feel kind of guilty, doesn't it? And I'm not even a Catholic, I swear. Although I must have been one in a past life.

On March 16, I wrote about a new Italian restaurant called Raddha, and how much Kimo and I really liked it. I ended that post/restaurant review with the following words:

"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 [The Original 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?"

Three months later, our moment has finally arrived. Mali Zub and I took The Original Peasant Woman to Radda for lunch the other day, and what do you think happened?

She liked it. I'm not quite sure how to stress the gravity of those three words, especially for those of you who've not yet met My Mother The Original Peasant Woman. Let me just say that this is a good-cook/everything-made-from-scratch kind of woman who prefers her own cooking to most restaurants. Always looking for fresh flavors and the simple yet hardy fare that comprises the Peasant Reality--something that all those fusion restaurants just don't quite get. The shocking news is that The Original Peasant Woman loved Radda. Couldn't get enough. Wants to go back again and again so she can sample the latest, greatest dishes. So put that in your pipe and smoke it next time you're in the area, looking for a good place to stop and rest up over some prosciutto and Slovene wine.

I don't know how our Peasant Ancestors did it without air conditioning. It's 97 today, and even the dog (who's got a pretty swank life, to be sure) is refusing to go outside. OK, so he's a long-hair golden/something mix, but really. Too hot for a dog?

And what about the little kiddies? After trying to eat lunch out on the patio of a local restaurant yesterday, you should have seen poor Mali Zubs, all miserable and magenta-cheeked until we finally gave up and moved to a table inside. By that time, he was already good and heat-rashed, the poor little bugger.

Which made me wonder about all those little Peasant Children from yesteryear, and how they did it. I mean, it's not like their parents were able to pack them in ice or anything to lessen their pain. (Not like a lot of my relatives have ice boxes, or anything. Then again, they don't really have many teeth, either.)

At any rate, I can't help but think of the Wicked Witch of the West on a day like today, especially that great scene from The Wizard of Oz where she melts before our very eyes.

"I'm melting...."

One of my favorite things about Peasant Life are all the contradictions that accompany it. Like the reaction I got from my Old World Peasant Relatives when I made the mistake of showing up in shorts for a visit. The looks (and comments I got from aunties kind enough to pull me aside) were enough to make your toes curl up in disdain. Apparently visits from young-to-middle-aged women in their childbearing years should be done properly, with said women all wrapped up in skirts and heels and other citified accoutrements.

Like hair dye. Preferably, in our Balkan corner of the world, a deep, dark red (left over from Communism, I guess). And here's where I made my second and even more serious mistake: in addition to not dyeing my increasingly gray hair, I'd forgotten to wear makeup. (I know! You wouldn't thought I was back home, in one of the college towns where I always seem to be living. Ack.) And it was a major mistake at that -- a personal affront to the Gods that be -- in this case, the Grand Peasant Lineage that Makes Up My Family (hereafter known as The Peasants That Be).

So I'm working on making it up to them. Painting and anti-graying and picturing the looks on their Anti-Peasant faces when I make my next Balkan appearance, all spiffed up and gentrified. Well, maybe. It's kind of hard to look glamorous when you've got baby food stuck in your hair. Although I hear avocados are wonderfully detoxifying....