I have in the last couple of weeks eaten my first grilled, followed by my first fire-roasted, kielbasy, boiled kasza, and my first lody na patyku, (“ice cream on a stick”), which comprised such a large part of my diet on my first trip to Poland in 2002. Kasza particularly has a future with me, a kind of Slavic grits or risotto. Only duck, Kraków style, and galonka have yet to be devoured and reviewed in this column before I pass my second judgment on the Polish menu. I have also smoked my first small bowls of Polishly branded tobacco, Poniatowski, in my bent little number of a Polish pipe. Pipe-smoking is not culturally compulsory here, but when your language skills remain undeveloped, you adopt some affectations to screen the gap, in spite of the health risks, including impotencja, according to my package warning. But I have to say that a solitary midsummer night’s smoke (it was in the high 70s this week) on the Planty has its charms, redolence, and a curious little buzz. How come I was never told about the latter? In these days I have also written my first Polish poem, haiku, in praise of szarlotka, and invented my first Polish word in the process, jabłkowść, (“appleness”). I have seen, heard, and positively identified the rook and the magpie (Eurasian), sroka, which are not native to Minnesota or the U.S. And just yesterday I popped a Polish tag at the thrift store, sklep odzieżowy, for inexpensive, new and used clothing, tanie, nowe, używane. The selection for men, męskie, is not wide, faux American-athletic and Euro-nerd, but the prices are reasonable. I found a pair of shorts, the pattern a little busy, but I had neglected to pack much summer apparel. I’d include a picture, but prefer being seen in these only anonymously. My Polishness increases by the hour, but in the tiniest increments.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Mmm, Kasza
It is
required that I think about returning home—to the U.S., not just from Lubień to
Kraków, or to my mieszkanie from
Sunday Mass and long walks along the Wisła. Work and travel arrangements oblige
my paying attention to homecoming. Given new media, I haven’t missed the place,
America, “home,” or any of the places in it, after such a brief remove, and I’m
absolutely sure that my country has not missed me, aside from a loved one or
two who claims to, and they probably wouldn’t lie. So, it would seem, no
significant love has been lost in the interim, no damage done. A new boat
promises to pick me up in Antwerp and haul me back to the States, via
Liverpool, come mid-June. Except for the apparent fickleness of freighters and
the possibility of unwanted adventure, I otherwise don’t think too much about
the prospect of having to go home. I’ll be back—back and forth, actually.
I have in the last couple of weeks eaten my first grilled, followed by my first fire-roasted, kielbasy, boiled kasza, and my first lody na patyku, (“ice cream on a stick”), which comprised such a large part of my diet on my first trip to Poland in 2002. Kasza particularly has a future with me, a kind of Slavic grits or risotto. Only duck, Kraków style, and galonka have yet to be devoured and reviewed in this column before I pass my second judgment on the Polish menu. I have also smoked my first small bowls of Polishly branded tobacco, Poniatowski, in my bent little number of a Polish pipe. Pipe-smoking is not culturally compulsory here, but when your language skills remain undeveloped, you adopt some affectations to screen the gap, in spite of the health risks, including impotencja, according to my package warning. But I have to say that a solitary midsummer night’s smoke (it was in the high 70s this week) on the Planty has its charms, redolence, and a curious little buzz. How come I was never told about the latter? In these days I have also written my first Polish poem, haiku, in praise of szarlotka, and invented my first Polish word in the process, jabłkowść, (“appleness”). I have seen, heard, and positively identified the rook and the magpie (Eurasian), sroka, which are not native to Minnesota or the U.S. And just yesterday I popped a Polish tag at the thrift store, sklep odzieżowy, for inexpensive, new and used clothing, tanie, nowe, używane. The selection for men, męskie, is not wide, faux American-athletic and Euro-nerd, but the prices are reasonable. I found a pair of shorts, the pattern a little busy, but I had neglected to pack much summer apparel. I’d include a picture, but prefer being seen in these only anonymously. My Polishness increases by the hour, but in the tiniest increments.
I have in the last couple of weeks eaten my first grilled, followed by my first fire-roasted, kielbasy, boiled kasza, and my first lody na patyku, (“ice cream on a stick”), which comprised such a large part of my diet on my first trip to Poland in 2002. Kasza particularly has a future with me, a kind of Slavic grits or risotto. Only duck, Kraków style, and galonka have yet to be devoured and reviewed in this column before I pass my second judgment on the Polish menu. I have also smoked my first small bowls of Polishly branded tobacco, Poniatowski, in my bent little number of a Polish pipe. Pipe-smoking is not culturally compulsory here, but when your language skills remain undeveloped, you adopt some affectations to screen the gap, in spite of the health risks, including impotencja, according to my package warning. But I have to say that a solitary midsummer night’s smoke (it was in the high 70s this week) on the Planty has its charms, redolence, and a curious little buzz. How come I was never told about the latter? In these days I have also written my first Polish poem, haiku, in praise of szarlotka, and invented my first Polish word in the process, jabłkowść, (“appleness”). I have seen, heard, and positively identified the rook and the magpie (Eurasian), sroka, which are not native to Minnesota or the U.S. And just yesterday I popped a Polish tag at the thrift store, sklep odzieżowy, for inexpensive, new and used clothing, tanie, nowe, używane. The selection for men, męskie, is not wide, faux American-athletic and Euro-nerd, but the prices are reasonable. I found a pair of shorts, the pattern a little busy, but I had neglected to pack much summer apparel. I’d include a picture, but prefer being seen in these only anonymously. My Polishness increases by the hour, but in the tiniest increments.
