tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52841195626313421062024-03-05T06:35:11.939-08:00Postcards from IstanbulRMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.comBlogger119125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-47859881806275704982012-10-31T13:33:00.000-07:002012-10-31T13:33:58.532-07:00Even more stuff I made<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Little houses</div>
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I like to make series of objects with little to no practical use. These came from memories of the snow village my mom used to set up every Christmas. Of course, these look nothing like those simple rectangular houses with pitched roofs and red cellophane windows. They do have little arches carved in the back in case I get it together to set them up with a string of Christmas lights, a single bulb illuminating the windows. Tacky? Oh yes. There are three more waiting to be fired, and more to come until my last bag of terra cotta clay runs out. </div>
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Beads<br />
Like my little houses, these take obssessive hours to make. Each one is made of two pinched bowls stuck together and smacked with a popsicle stick. It's obssessive. I could seek help.<br />
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Goat head</div>
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Goat head<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQubdT22tU9hDsUBxfu3XEqKB6Gxzu1QXsyC3RsBV0vIY5d-wz5K0HmtUjChnBONf1O1KC8iIcp49Nfddye_tZUUxKPd1Vv6LKAxsTRzzPbhmbwIIytTFHGA_7R6DNhUJeYoS-rmpgMZs/s1600/CIMG8457.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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This is meant to hang over a door to prevent evil spirits from entering. Though I'm not sure if it would prevent any of them from exiting, In either case, it's a good thing I don't believe in the protective power of objects hanging over doors, though I like the idea. This is one object that won't turn into a series because I don't think I can make a similar thing.</div>
RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-33525982969607924472012-09-07T05:50:00.000-07:002012-09-07T05:50:55.008-07:00Icon Delivery<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I spent four days in Zestaponi, a horrfically boring industrial city. Mari, the assistant assigned to Zestaponi out of default (her family lives there) invited me to join her, several family members and friends to deliver an icon to a chapel in the mountains about 7km from the city. We all piled into a minivan, the windshield of which was cracked in a wide spider web. After leaving the paved road, we ventured onto a dirt and rock one, cresting short but steep hills ending in large puddles formed by small streams. I repeatedly stroked the back of the seat in front of me, chanting "Good little minivan." </div>
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Eventually, the road became a trail consisting of solid rock too dangerous for the minivan so our group, adolescents to Mari's 85 year old grandma, made the trek to a small chapel nestled in the mountains. Dedicated to the Holy Apostles, it is watched over by three monks.</div>
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Mari's grandmother, whose name I never heard nor would have retained, tackled ascents and descents. At times, I held her hand. Her skin reminded me of my own grandmother's, soft and papery.</div>
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The chapel from a distance. </div>
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Processing with the icon, a solemn event.</div>
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I have no idea what the name of this fruit is in English. In Turkish, it's called alt<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ın çilek (golden flower). They're like little sweet and sour tomatoes in a papery flower wrapper. No one would eat them but me.</span></span></div>
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The delivered icon of a saint who's name I can't remember. The chapel is very important to Mari's family, so her uncle had this made to dedicate to it. Such dedications are common in Georgia.</div>
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From the relatively new chapel (19th century), we went down then up again to a church whose foundations date to the 6th century. From there, you cross a rickety wooden bridge over a small stream, then descend this set of stairs made of uneven timbers to reach the baptismal pool below.</div>
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The water of another mountain stream has formed a small pool. I do not know if the faithful are currently baptised in it, and I would not trust the metal ladder to support me for long before immersion. The bottom doesn't look far, yet the clear water can be deceptive.</div>
RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-58566396954122748922012-06-22T03:39:00.000-07:002012-06-22T03:39:03.167-07:00And then there were three<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy3Si4tG8m_NZFIJmD5RmbSA9sXTOE__52-L-UwLaAmAi1SsOLyFPcZsyLYTaaC7wgVwH_icr47SJM7EFplOg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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No Water in the Dish</div>
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As I was walking to the service bus this morning, I spoke to more strangers in a ten minute time span than I had ever before. Normally, if fellow pedestrians look at you, it is brief and with disinterest. If you walk down the street with a transparent box with seven baby rabbits in it, well, that's a different story.</div>
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Today I brought the bunnies to the last day of our school year to deliver some to their new parents, and to introduce others to those who will take them home later. Needless to say, I have been a very popular person since this morning. So many have expressed interest in owning a rabbit (I take less than half seriously) that I might just have to make more in the fall. It's been an unusual and lovely experience, one which I wouldn't mind repeating. Luli, on the other hand, has had quite enough of the babies and deserves a good rest.</div>RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-21026181881950369022012-06-19T03:24:00.000-07:002012-06-19T03:24:39.482-07:00Feeding Frenzy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dycEdBwF_9sWHraHek0LNURa3vNyZ8ThzaKYioAg-rlaZKG2vU-NsvD_wtFo3kakPV-V1qX2NVepTJ822GI' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-45840795171194607832012-06-05T04:03:00.000-07:002012-06-05T04:16:46.251-07:00Nap Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Since their eyes opened last week, the little ones have become determined to get into a bit of trouble. Well, the most trouble they can get into at this point is to escape from the nest and go wandering. At this stage, there is no risk of them dying from lack of warmth as their fur has grown in quickly. I can already tell which are going to have the longest fur. </div>
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Even two-week old bunnies show full-grown rabbit behavior. Although they are still a bit shaky on their feet, they will spontaneously do a "binkie" (seriously, that's a word from respected rabbit sources.) A binkie, performed either from a standstill, a walk or run, consists of the rabbit coming off all fours and making a twist-hop in the air. Granted, these are small binkies for small bunnies and for that reason are quite funny. When self-grooming, kits will sometimes fall over, an act which is similarly amusing. Unfortunately, I didn't catch them at the right time while taking this film.</div>
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Do you blame me for neglecting the housework to watch a boxful of babies?</div>
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<br /></div>RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-8718195103680470682012-05-30T23:20:00.000-07:002012-06-06T03:33:25.265-07:00Changes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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10 day olds</div>
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The babies are growing and changing daily. From round-bellied wads of chewing gum, they have developed into furry little creatures. Slowly they are becoming steadier on their feet, but still wobbly, and their eyes look about to open soon. It takes everything in my power not to sit on the floor and play for hours. Touching them is like running your fingers over butter without the oily residue.</div>
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In comparison to cats and dogs, rabbit mothers seem to neglect their young. They feed them only twice a day, usually at night, and otherwise ignore them. This is actually for their protection from predators. Clearly, there are none in my apartment, but Luli doesn't know that. Yesterday morning, I witnessed a rare thing. I opened the door to leave Luli some mint, only to find her standing in the nest box, nursing, covering all but one who was on his back and scrambling to get better situated. To my relief, she didn't move. In her presence, the kits make excited peeps, like a chorus of excited little birds.</div>
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Last night, I had a bit of a panic. When I peeked in the nest, I counted only six babies. I looked through all the hay in the nest, under the cupboard, behind a basket and the litter box, in Luli's cage, in short, everywhere. No bunny. As a last resort, I stuck my hand behind the sink stand and withdrew a sleeping bunny, curled up and getting a bit cold. The nest itself is in a large cupboard with one door closed. This adventurous little guy must have managed to crawl over his siblings or the hay, fall out of the box, crawl across the cupboard to fall onto the floor (it's about a 4 inch drop) waddle his way around the basket and cage to find a dark hiding space. The walls of their new nest are much higher.</div>
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<br /></div>RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-82730591347981976512012-05-25T00:59:00.001-07:002012-05-25T00:59:41.430-07:00a baby<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Baby in hand</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx0LXY8T-DOTo1koHsFS6epydUPzJ8EoTMU_7sPO_7qxCtmhm5Ca-p9DmPdErUMhiStRSE48v9rQrCyOiVnTg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<br />Moving baby</div>
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<br /> </div>RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-54315662174960232732012-05-22T05:49:00.000-07:002012-05-22T05:49:13.675-07:00The Crazy Rabbit Lady<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
There are those, many of you and myself amongst them, who question my sanity. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1DpCDoakiunQPnsBtTibNJQfdP6J9NUexk8jctM5aYEsneo7f2oUcHzC0ooYmHNTVD-bSpLOyjX4RVGaGgIxOpbRajUGxbO2tf76aiOuf_imJM49yyM8RAWzcZ8qLXqMZZFrcRAK5dp0/s1600/clothilde.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1DpCDoakiunQPnsBtTibNJQfdP6J9NUexk8jctM5aYEsneo7f2oUcHzC0ooYmHNTVD-bSpLOyjX4RVGaGgIxOpbRajUGxbO2tf76aiOuf_imJM49yyM8RAWzcZ8qLXqMZZFrcRAK5dp0/s320/clothilde.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Clothilde</div>
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As I was wandering around the Spice Bazaar about a month ago, I fell for the furball pictured above. I have broken with my tradition of naming pets after ancient kings. Clothilde, however, does sound like a very noble medieval woman. Viewed from certain angles, it is impossible to see her eyes. She has grown into a curious and friendly young rabbit who runs to greet me, licks my feet, makes funny little grunting noises. Her temperament will of course change during adolescence, but will then even out. </div>
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Three rabbits you say, well, that's a bit eccentric perhaps, but not completely crazy. But it gets better. Three days before buying Clothilde, I let Luli and Enkidu meet. They did their deed. Luli grew and grew. Very early Sunday morning, she gave birth to seven. At first I counted nine, but realized my mistake. </div>
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Rabbit kits are born blind, bald and deaf. They look like chewed gum, all pink and fragile, and can fit in the palm of my hand. (Oddly, unless she is overly stressed, a rabbit mother will not reject her kits if they have human scent on them .) Some of them have grey skin where their fur will be darker. Yesterday, they developed a fine, peach fuzz all over. All of them will clearly have floppy ears, and their tails are disproportionately long because they're bald. For such challenged creatures, they are quite active. They blindly squirm their way into the middle of the ball formed by their own bodies to reach the warmest spot. The blanket of Luli's floor covering them moves as if by itself. Possibly the best part is their tiny squeek toy voices.</div>
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You may ask, what will I do with seven more rabbits? A few might already be claimed. otherwise, I have six weeks until they're weaned to figure it out. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNGOiHVxqWbnXxwh9Bsrll7_JWyhaSkg1vZ01KRjybQ73UdMCBp8g2yogQz6Ic3TXN-Z7NYLqohX0bnLhruQtayu1d_kUxwq3DSR6DfmJF1jHHU_rQWRX2LKsEAuzdgkufKefT72qoJno/s1600/nest.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNGOiHVxqWbnXxwh9Bsrll7_JWyhaSkg1vZ01KRjybQ73UdMCBp8g2yogQz6Ic3TXN-Z7NYLqohX0bnLhruQtayu1d_kUxwq3DSR6DfmJF1jHHU_rQWRX2LKsEAuzdgkufKefT72qoJno/s320/nest.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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It's nearly impossible to get a clear picture of the nest. This is the best I could do. </div>RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-67231195196771022832012-04-18T23:32:00.002-07:002012-04-18T23:34:58.152-07:00Baby UpdateThere were no baby rabbits. Either she was never pregnant (I couldn't feel any little ones in her belly) or she had dead ones and got rid of the evidence. Rabbits only do that if the babies are stillborn. A disappointment? Yes. However, it's also a relief. I can wait until the fall when I will have more time to deal with kits. Additionally, I'll at least know who the father is.RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-33620328854056570952012-03-30T00:41:00.002-07:002012-03-30T01:11:09.858-07:00A Proud Mother<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj29p4VFiMZ4UXoUx05GwTG9yuc7DzP-CR1jOa4hc-3Abe9B3fP02MzWnMHrfrt4HFyJZpq_tH6tp79hdOulLxvjfdjcE_tyXiULIH3zl5MGwTQPUMWUyui9UlSLbQdc-fhg9jOwqELBY0/s1600/luli+blog.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725592609889364850" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj29p4VFiMZ4UXoUx05GwTG9yuc7DzP-CR1jOa4hc-3Abe9B3fP02MzWnMHrfrt4HFyJZpq_tH6tp79hdOulLxvjfdjcE_tyXiULIH3zl5MGwTQPUMWUyui9UlSLbQdc-fhg9jOwqELBY0/s400/luli+blog.JPG" /></a><br /><div align="center">Luli in her cage</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> Meet the newest member of my little family, Shuppiluliuma the Younger, or Luli. Prone to licking feet, she has a docile personality, possibly due to her pregnancy. Since she was with kits when I bought her, I do not know when she will kindle (rabbit for give birth), nor do I know who the father is. When the kits are 10 weeks old, I will give them to a reputable pet store in Gokturk. If one for some reason has blue eyes, I might have to keep it.</div><div align="left"> <br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7JUdh4oVctZB3o57vvsKrmu7aPvl7R-edPCw9nI7Li60EZVfGiL_Y_MZDeipPSQYjPRRwJc-b6ZUwIEcJQA_2Dk3tVvcweevQd9qGvj3LmHgwe_z3Xxr0YuAgUrAUJ4FfZJsrdOaXPqw/s1600/luli+blog+2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725592603706292450" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7JUdh4oVctZB3o57vvsKrmu7aPvl7R-edPCw9nI7Li60EZVfGiL_Y_MZDeipPSQYjPRRwJc-b6ZUwIEcJQA_2Dk3tVvcweevQd9qGvj3LmHgwe_z3Xxr0YuAgUrAUJ4FfZJsrdOaXPqw/s400/luli+blog+2.JPG" /></a>Luli from above</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="left"> As you can see, Luli has quite a lot of fur. I groom her almost daily and save the fur in a jar on the fridge. Someday, I might felt something out of it.<br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvMgFS01Isl3KG9BPnMb4gt_vbQ0d7vRk9SmLD7N03X6PMOggKMrZP8hnC_4UK6ShfvBx8PN2GTty_Fio9Bwg8AB2eaJFBn3_15RpzUCV9JODzjG7hN7rVo5H8FbDNVZ3pweEULg3hj1w/s1600/enkidu+blog+2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 300px; height: 400px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725592597701731074" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvMgFS01Isl3KG9BPnMb4gt_vbQ0d7vRk9SmLD7N03X6PMOggKMrZP8hnC_4UK6ShfvBx8PN2GTty_Fio9Bwg8AB2eaJFBn3_15RpzUCV9JODzjG7hN7rVo5H8FbDNVZ3pweEULg3hj1w/s400/enkidu+blog+2.JPG" /></a>Enkidu "prairie dogging"</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> Meet the boy of the family, named after Gilgamesh's friend and travel companion. A spoiled bunny, he lives in a custom-built 2x1x1m cage. Capable of great vertical leaps, he has on occasion escaped from his cage. In the evenings, I release him and we hang out on the floor. As I read, he runs circles around me, grunting.<br /></div><div align="center"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725592259230717202" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ49Q7oHla0w3mc3cmBxTboYh6lcoip4tden8G-jd8UmCN8mL48LPhYh15mres78bg5JBUfar8hfZc_qg9Y09Gotm4ahIRjRxtnrXNNWLBZkOo1LB2BiIRI0BG3I0CVtpgR4C0hFFiDak/s400/enkudi+blog.JPG" /></div><div align="center"> Enkidu has unusual hazel eyes. <br /></div><div align="left"> You might wonder what happened to the other bunnies. Last year, the original Shuppiluliuma was put to sleep. She had a tumor that prevented her from eating. Ashurbanipal is still with us, yet she is the meanest rabbit I have ever met. When I put my hand in her cage to feed her, she comes after it with her jaws wide open. And she draws blood. She will soon be released in a park with other rabbits. I'm waiting for the weather to warm up a bit.</div><div align="left"></div>RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-37582852960947411212011-08-18T02:16:00.001-07:002011-08-18T02:31:50.933-07:00The Definition of Wrong<p><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">Where</span> I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">grew</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">up</span> in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">the</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">middle</span> of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">nowhere</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">Wisconsin</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error">lawn</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">ornaments</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-error">were</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-error">common</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" class="blsp-spelling-error">from</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_26" class="blsp-spelling-error">gnomes</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_28" class="blsp-spelling-error">deer</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_29" class="blsp-spelling-error">both</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_30" class="blsp-spelling-error">grazing</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_31" class="blsp-spelling-error">and</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_32" class="blsp-spelling-error">attentive</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_33" class="blsp-spelling-error">flamingos</span>, the back sides of women in polka-dot dresses apparently </<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_34" class="blsp-spelling-error">working in a garden, to the random, rascist lawn jockey. Most were funny, kitsch, and seldom ironic, yet with the exception of the lawn jockey, somehow fit into the land or lawn scape. </p>
<br /><p>Here in Cappadocia, however, lawn ornaments are just wrong. A few examples suffice as evidence.</p>
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<br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_UXHJ2ah2PE_1Wo_rJjIrDQzyb4xUHY8lLIjH_L5Tlx3BKYj13_5y-EUdx1YApbglzbI5e-yQFzorqYiJJ5w1oB0ynaTVimFvRkjJKBLOLnb6pYFmACzLXiXR8pJA-BiaMw4SU81n84/s1600/CIMG6676.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642123920950185506" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_UXHJ2ah2PE_1Wo_rJjIrDQzyb4xUHY8lLIjH_L5Tlx3BKYj13_5y-EUdx1YApbglzbI5e-yQFzorqYiJJ5w1oB0ynaTVimFvRkjJKBLOLnb6pYFmACzLXiXR8pJA-BiaMw4SU81n84/s400/CIMG6676.JPG" /></a>Milk maids over Pigeon Valley
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSNtWd0UTS31coPoLjo_zZ48zR3nCll05YyhwZpOFPfI3y2fc6jFsNemUo-cFuH_IzigAxYkhUlkxo4CrtHDnSMEMs8xukBVnc-e11hhKD0yPdeAlepdjo-JI5GSkAkxPuGxotIttTeVk/s1600/CIMG6677.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642123914586721490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSNtWd0UTS31coPoLjo_zZ48zR3nCll05YyhwZpOFPfI3y2fc6jFsNemUo-cFuH_IzigAxYkhUlkxo4CrtHDnSMEMs8xukBVnc-e11hhKD0yPdeAlepdjo-JI5GSkAkxPuGxotIttTeVk/s400/CIMG6677.JPG" /></a>Perhaps she should get a bit closer to the animal.
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<br /></div>RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-73666601409161668682011-08-12T22:51:00.002-07:002011-08-13T09:53:23.555-07:00Driving Miss Rebecca<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">In</span> a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">previous</span> post, I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">alluded</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">to</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">the</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">way</span> in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">which</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Georgians</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">drive</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">It</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">deserves</span> a post on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">its</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">own</span>.
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<br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">There</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">are</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">apparently</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error">three</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error">rules</span> of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-error">the</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">road</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-error">the</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-error">first</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" class="blsp-spelling-error">two</span> of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_26" class="blsp-spelling-error">which</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_27" class="blsp-spelling-error">are</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_28" class="blsp-spelling-error">fast</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_29" class="blsp-spelling-error">and</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_30" class="blsp-spelling-error">first</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_31" class="blsp-spelling-error">When</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_32" class="blsp-spelling-error">the</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_33" class="blsp-spelling-error">roads</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_34" class="blsp-spelling-error">are</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_35" class="blsp-spelling-error">relatively</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_36" class="blsp-spelling-error">clear</span> of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_37" class="blsp-spelling-error">other</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_38" class="blsp-spelling-error">vehicules</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_39" class="blsp-spelling-error">our</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_40" class="blsp-spelling-error">drivers</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_41" class="blsp-spelling-error">reached</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_42" class="blsp-spelling-error">nearly</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_43" class="blsp-spelling-error">terrifying</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_44" class="blsp-spelling-error">speeds</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_45" class="blsp-spelling-error">What</span>'s <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_46" class="blsp-spelling-error">worse</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_47" class="blsp-spelling-error">however</span>, is <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_48" class="blsp-spelling-error">their</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_49" class="blsp-spelling-error">need</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_50" class="blsp-spelling-error">to</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_51" class="blsp-spelling-error">pass</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_52" class="blsp-spelling-error">others</span>, on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_53" class="blsp-spelling-error">curves</span>, in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_54" class="blsp-spelling-error">front</span> of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_55" class="blsp-spelling-error">oncoming</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_56" class="blsp-spelling-error">trucks</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_57" class="blsp-spelling-error">and</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_58" class="blsp-spelling-error">farm</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_59" class="blsp-spelling-error">machinery</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_60" class="blsp-spelling-error">up</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_61" class="blsp-spelling-error">hills</span>, on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_62" class="blsp-spelling-error">mountain</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_63" class="blsp-spelling-error">roads</span>... <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_64" class="blsp-spelling-error">We</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_65" class="blsp-spelling-error">foreigners</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_66" class="blsp-spelling-error">packed</span> in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_67" class="blsp-spelling-error">the</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_68" class="blsp-spelling-error">back</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_69" class="blsp-spelling-error">seat</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_70" class="blsp-spelling-error">with</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_71" class="blsp-spelling-error">ministery</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_72" class="blsp-spelling-error">representatives</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_73" class="blsp-spelling-error">and</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_74" class="blsp-spelling-error">assistants</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_75" class="blsp-spelling-error">cringed</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_76" class="blsp-spelling-error">and</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_77" class="blsp-spelling-error">cowered</span> at <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_78" class="blsp-spelling-error">near</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_79" class="blsp-spelling-error">collisions</span>, but <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_80" class="blsp-spelling-error">to</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_81" class="blsp-spelling-error">our</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_82" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gerogian</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_83" class="blsp-spelling-error">colleagues</span>, it <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_84" class="blsp-spelling-error">was</span> business as <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_85" class="blsp-spelling-error">usual</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_87" class="blsp-spelling-error">It</span> is <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_88" class="blsp-spelling-error">the</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_89" class="blsp-spelling-error">law</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_90" class="blsp-spelling-error">that</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_91" class="blsp-spelling-error">front</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_92" class="blsp-spelling-error">seat</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_93" class="blsp-spelling-error">passengers</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_94" class="blsp-spelling-error">and</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_95" class="blsp-spelling-error">drivers</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_96" class="blsp-spelling-error">wear</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_97" class="blsp-spelling-error">seatbelts. </span><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_99" class="blsp-spelling-error">Apparently</span>, it's safe in the back seat. Nevertheless, some drivers are insulted when you reach for the required belt, and insist you don't wear one. I assure them that I trust their driving (a blatant lie), it's just the other crazy drivers I'm worried about.
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<br />Without question, the most hair-raising of all is the ministery driver who calmly took our lives in his hands. Thankfully, I only once had the pleasure of being his passenger in the 5 hour drive from Zugdidi to Tibilisi. Just before reaching the capital city, we encountered heavy traffic including car carriers and other massive trucks. At one point, while passing a long semi, he realized that the oncoming tractor-combine was approaching too closely and rapidly for him to maneouver around and in front of the aforementioned vehicule, so he quickly swerved left onto the nearly non-existant left shoulder, barely missing a concrete barrior before speedily returning to his proper lane. It is customary for Georgians to cross themselves when approaching the many churches on either side of the road. I believe I crossed myself before the driver recovered his proper place in the right-hand lane.
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<br />The last, but certainly not least rule of the road is that farm animals have the right of way. Cows roam freely in the villages and on the edges of the city, herds of which are sometimes slowly driven down and across roads. Some tend to stand in the middle of the road, contemplating whatever it is that cattle contemplate, with little or no inclination to move forward, backward or sideways. It is the driver's responsibility to accomodate them. I swore on several occasions that the outside of the windshield would be covered in bloodied hamburger and my cracked skull from the inside. I'm more than happy to say there were no collisions between car and cow.
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<br />RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-15004999355008005362011-08-11T00:55:00.001-07:002011-08-12T22:49:28.544-07:00Rustavi Photos<div align="center">These photographs correspond to the post below.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Ej4MlAAusJ5-s6gaIGbxjnYRNllWnHbfIbWewW0YTsj1Uiqfy6CJD0herVHlzTXCHJo-j_ZGV27iSZtbV_xZPXEoWMokQCUjO24nzsIG3vvWQfUKcqQgJOfz-DEWDCGXdF73LnI4wms/s1600/rustavi+school.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639507301665925474" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Ej4MlAAusJ5-s6gaIGbxjnYRNllWnHbfIbWewW0YTsj1Uiqfy6CJD0herVHlzTXCHJo-j_ZGV27iSZtbV_xZPXEoWMokQCUjO24nzsIG3vvWQfUKcqQgJOfz-DEWDCGXdF73LnI4wms/s400/rustavi+school.JPG" /></a> Entrance to the public school in Rustavi</div>
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<br /><div align="center">The rear of the building is in worse shape but requires an effort to photograph.
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlrbUAO1j7hJp0_pB4llcjwAMBmnFo8ypzUGU_ISn1_l_BlaW9XxvfK4PLBzceWV4g8vwfPDZ81sE3F5m7N42i74WyejwlZ7kg5YhZJjwcM_7VkVO7QQUAsxIP_paaGlFRs1eAdCfst4/s1600/rustavi+school2.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639507295866687394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlrbUAO1j7hJp0_pB4llcjwAMBmnFo8ypzUGU_ISn1_l_BlaW9XxvfK4PLBzceWV4g8vwfPDZ81sE3F5m7N42i74WyejwlZ7kg5YhZJjwcM_7VkVO7QQUAsxIP_paaGlFRs1eAdCfst4/s400/rustavi+school2.JPG" /></a> From a window inside the school
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCRrn0HgQuI0BKycgteUADb7b_x4bmlGlWlyqgT4I6uTrqoE6cUzkYhj-V4vcK_cJZIiaHfOCS-F3leZdC0Dj6_6U9WAgl8xwEXlnKbXMYlK2UxVFtSEH3oei9pzvD5nbG-P1YZEX6ilA/s1600/rustavi+rustavischool3.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639507291031433954" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCRrn0HgQuI0BKycgteUADb7b_x4bmlGlWlyqgT4I6uTrqoE6cUzkYhj-V4vcK_cJZIiaHfOCS-F3leZdC0Dj6_6U9WAgl8xwEXlnKbXMYlK2UxVFtSEH3oei9pzvD5nbG-P1YZEX6ilA/s400/rustavi+rustavischool3.JPG" /></a> Another window view
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<br />This gives a better view of the condition of the building.
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<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht9hNQcsDgS51yoRuvMD1OL6tMeYFEMnUa023DPliAAfAf4m47lWUA9KqTKXM5qXkBW9BWaKeyKGZVqljhGerd-i-mwKChBysBOgGUPhz9wNaOe5CoF6KrVeWstmYpZrYBmuaSQVcz73k/s1600/rustavi+classroom.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639507285926632706" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht9hNQcsDgS51yoRuvMD1OL6tMeYFEMnUa023DPliAAfAf4m47lWUA9KqTKXM5qXkBW9BWaKeyKGZVqljhGerd-i-mwKChBysBOgGUPhz9wNaOe5CoF6KrVeWstmYpZrYBmuaSQVcz73k/s400/rustavi+classroom.JPG" /></a> My classroom</div>
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<br /><div>Due to the flash, this room seems less dingy and more cheerful than it actually is.
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<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9w-JUSyVTHm6I5ddYGKzWuylBsnix8TfBDr25C6Kmwft8LrY3OnytsAy9Rxmw-TAOVwkABtYCmkwHhGhn_aEDlQm3dRrUmV03X5pt5oZSXmSZfZL258L7nJ6BLBuoPM1sbqJar8hUe0w/s1600/rustavi+floor.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639507282053884850" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9w-JUSyVTHm6I5ddYGKzWuylBsnix8TfBDr25C6Kmwft8LrY3OnytsAy9Rxmw-TAOVwkABtYCmkwHhGhn_aEDlQm3dRrUmV03X5pt5oZSXmSZfZL258L7nJ6BLBuoPM1sbqJar8hUe0w/s400/rustavi+floor.JPG" /></a>The dangerous floor and my foot
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<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMTIN2fQxguBCi7AbKr5lx_jP2j0flCsy13Q_T73WIBDjK4erP_l75HBr78AyHmnBbi-JL2uBVlpUzy6y32o0oTmoD6s3BoqD_pnEB3L7uWPu-hSsMw8cPjyrbfwKhKzgF8Znx4K0K0o/s1600/teacher%2527s+desk.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639506063994410818" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMTIN2fQxguBCi7AbKr5lx_jP2j0flCsy13Q_T73WIBDjK4erP_l75HBr78AyHmnBbi-JL2uBVlpUzy6y32o0oTmoD6s3BoqD_pnEB3L7uWPu-hSsMw8cPjyrbfwKhKzgF8Znx4K0K0o/s400/teacher%2527s+desk.JPG" /></a>The teacher's desk
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<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8IobwLST3_jhaIFw2D6-E9KfZD52_2nbg9gwffGdCCRSyuUu1Y6q9A7jTrZgJL09LqD-eCOaDJYipc3i5hHYt-Ymv4gKqgXr2q0xesmQYbt9QJQXMRAHktOnzFBMQREfGRp4qpd7qUHo/s1600/rustavi+wc2.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639506063012981714" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8IobwLST3_jhaIFw2D6-E9KfZD52_2nbg9gwffGdCCRSyuUu1Y6q9A7jTrZgJL09LqD-eCOaDJYipc3i5hHYt-Ymv4gKqgXr2q0xesmQYbt9QJQXMRAHktOnzFBMQREfGRp4qpd7qUHo/s400/rustavi+wc2.JPG" /></a>The private restroom for students</div>
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<br /><div>Again, due to the flash, this appears brighter and cleaner than it is.
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<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt2DHd6PEz8QSn8l94IGPPwJrzYee_j89FcV2mhIv8rs37I2kj5zJQnrSjts9rLlZ16TUmicULZFzbXnsANdoHpszRH-k_rLAJYJcqPkAsrgYHksNUMgXfSOu1KngHqU4PkQ3MClox5Gw/s1600/rustavi+wc.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639506056409904770" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt2DHd6PEz8QSn8l94IGPPwJrzYee_j89FcV2mhIv8rs37I2kj5zJQnrSjts9rLlZ16TUmicULZFzbXnsANdoHpszRH-k_rLAJYJcqPkAsrgYHksNUMgXfSOu1KngHqU4PkQ3MClox5Gw/s400/rustavi+wc.JPG" /></a>The private restroom sink </div>
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<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFAF5LypCPUGM7353hlKCtn-7CvKF7GQ_WFmyBG2NsHl4_rApKSzQforUdaEjp1Sw7KOVB7gaMpIu00GVXw1zl0nO9wEBxHV-hzhb6GiuTcdjlgeF3iefZUF3Kk72LzRIeOrRwWtGIHDk/s1600/slavery.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639506054359236706" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFAF5LypCPUGM7353hlKCtn-7CvKF7GQ_WFmyBG2NsHl4_rApKSzQforUdaEjp1Sw7KOVB7gaMpIu00GVXw1zl0nO9wEBxHV-hzhb6GiuTcdjlgeF3iefZUF3Kk72LzRIeOrRwWtGIHDk/s400/slavery.JPG" /></a>A poster project by a great group of teachers</div>
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<br /><div>The reference to slavery is very tongue in cheek, at least I hope. </div></div></div></div></div></div>
<br /></div>RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-15931971940139514092011-08-10T23:11:00.000-07:002011-08-11T00:55:19.761-07:00An Unexpected Addition to My CVA friend called me about a month before school finished to ask if I wanted to make a pile of money. Well, yes, why wouldn't I? E-mails sent, a contract signed, and I found myself one of a group setting off to Georgia (the nation, not the state) to train teachers. Again, I accepted a job for which I wasn't exactly qualified, but they needed bodies yesterday, and for that, I do qualify. Oddly, and to my surprise, one of my first thoughts on hearing about a job connected to a major publishing company was "This could be good for my career." Where that thought came from is a small mystery to me because I never think in those terms.
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<br /><div align="center">The Project</div>
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<br /><div align="left">Recently, the Ministery of Education of Georgia decided that, beginning from first grade, all students in public schools will have English lessons. Additionally, they chose a series of books ranging from levels 1-6. This is an ambitious project, revolutionary for the educational system of the country. Our job was to introduce the new books and to train teachers how to use the first level. The Ministery's goal, as I understand it, was to train all its English teachers, roughly 10,000 over the course of July. In total, 11 of us trained approximately 5,000 which is not too shabby for a month's work. We traveled to villages where teachers came to us at schools varying in (dis)repair. The teachers themselves were a mixed group of those who spoke English very well, to those who could utter only a few catch phrases or sing She'll be Comin' Around the Mountain. (To my regret, I missed that performance by a woman in her 70s.) At first, several of the trainers were met with resistance. Previously, teachers were allowed to choose which books would be used in the classrooms and therefore many felt forced upon to make sudden changes. Since I came a few weeks later than the rest, and since word had spread in particular after a spot on the news, I encountered little resistance and no aggression.</div>
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<br /><div align="center">Rustavi</div>
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<br /><div align="left">After a death-defying car ride from Tibilisi with colleagues, and an assistant from English Book, the store with which the publishing company is connected, one of the other trainers pointed to an abandoned-looking, shell-shocked Soviet era building in the village of Rustavi and declared that was the school. In my very own subtle and polite way, I said, "Shut up." Yet, that was where my day was to begin. </div>
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<br /><div align="left">My classroom was furnished with desks and chairs of dubious stability, a teacher's desk, the door of which fell into my hands as I opened it to reveal rusted metal stands for science experiments, a green board dating from god knows when, and a dirty parquet floor whose wooden slabs often lifted off the ground when walked on. Everything was covered in a layer of dust. I set up a laptop and tried to connect it to a projector to show training videos from the publishing company against the wall. For the life of me and our assistants, I couldn't get either to work and therefore became CD, DVD and unqualified teacher-trainer all wrapped into one package. And it was a sweaty package indeed. Working in temperatures in the low, humid 40s with no air currents, I consumed litres of bottled water and fanned myself constantly. Since I'm a very active teacher, (I jump around, gesture a bit wildly, dance and sing...) I became very unfeminine, dripping sweat everywhere.</div>
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<br /><div align="left">Now for what might possibly be a bit too much information. Despite copious sweating, a person does need to relieve herself after drinking litres of water. Here, however, we showed heroic restraint and ventured to the toilets only when absolutely necessary, sometimes waiting until after a hair-raising, half hour journey to the hotel. Students at this school can choose to go in what first appears to be a closet but which reveals itself to be a "Turkish toilet" equipt with a small sink and cold water. Both are filthy and badly lit. Their second option is a room with about six tiled, doorless stalls, (who needs privacy?) also containing Turkish toilets. My colleagues discovered the key to the teachers' restroom which seemed luxurious in comparison. Through a kind of storage room for broken furniture and faded Christmas decorations, there is a small, similarly dirty room with a seat toilet. This was liberally wrapped with Soviet style (think thin Kraft paper) toilet paper before use. Needless to say, travel experience has taught me to stock my bag with moist towelettes. I don't leave home without them. </div>
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<br /><div align="left">As you have probably concluded, the rest of the school was not a joyful place, and I often thought about what it would be like to study or work there. The stair railings are dangerously loose. Many of the windows were cracked or broken, and the radiators date from an earlier epoch. From the windows, the building exterior seems to be peeling off in chunks. Some of the floors were recovered in cheap linoleum, an improvement over the loose parquet. One small room on the ground floor is dedicated to prayer, complete with icons, prayer books and models of churches. For some reason, I found this a charming space.
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<br /><div align="left">While I have painted a dingy picture of the school, my week working in Rustavi was not unpleasant. Our assistants, Tako and Mari, were fantastic. They helped me connect seemingly unconnectable projectors and cables, they brought us fresh hachapuri for lunch and made sure we had bottles of melted ice to drink throughout the day. With an ever-present representative from the ministery, they trouble-shot problems and answered questions that were not understood in English or outside of our domain. And both women are incredibly nice. A number of the teachers were quite motivated, creative, and responsive despite the changes forced upon them, the heat, and the distances they had to travel to the school. I've become invested in the project and hope to return over one of my school breaks to observe teachers, maybe teach some first graders (that will be an unprecedented event!) and actually have some time to see and appreciate the country itself. After work, we had very little energy or motivation to do much more than sit around the hotel. Days off were generally taken up by bus or ministery van rides (for a godless woman, I certainly relearned to pray) to another village, so we didn't have much opportunity to actually see where we were.</div>
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<br /><div align="left">After Rustavi, I went to Kutaisi and Zugdidi for three days each. More posts on these places and a bit of Tibilisi tourism to follow.</div>
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<br />RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-14365579246145113102011-06-07T06:17:00.000-07:002011-06-08T01:33:45.748-07:00Good FortuneBefore I stopped at the convenience store near my apartment the other day, a young pigeon fell from either the sky or off a balcony above me, just left of my center. It landed a few centimeters from my foot. Apparently, it's good luck if bird poop hits you, but what if the whole animal does?RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-7605353197402478042011-04-18T05:16:00.000-07:002011-06-07T06:17:37.383-07:00Bird WatchingThis post is dedicated to my mom. I vividly remember her green, cloth-covered <em>Field Guide to Birds</em> that sat conveniently on the engine of the two-toned van with the sliding door named Betty. Often, somewhere between here and there, Mom would let out with an excited “Bill stop the car! It’s a Pileated Woodpecker!” or some other unusual bird. On rides between Bloomer, WI and Winona, MN to watch the barges float down the locks on the Mississippi, we kept our eyes out for herons, egrets and cranes. When the Great Snowy Owl made his appearance, there was great rejoicing.<br /><br /><br />The service bus picks me up at 7:13 and arrives at school about a half an hour later.I sit in the princess seat in the front. The city falls away to tree covered hills, military grounds, a random shack with a slow stream of smoke rising from it. Packs of dogs roam the road side and fight over trash near the trees. In the fall, flocks of birds, probably seagulls, gather under a grey sky. Light reflects off their flapping wings, and the whole flock twinkles, white then light grey. Smaller migrating birds form one shifting body, dipping, swooping densely packed, then more loosely so, but never crossing an invisible boundary. About a month ago, I began to notice massive brown hawks, sentinels on fence posts and bare trees. I count them, collect the sight of them like trophies, sometimes as many as four before or after the school day. One recent morning, shortly before arriving at the turn-off, I sat trophy-less in the princess seat, but was rewarded by a group of thirty storks, resting on their way between here and there. The following morning there were seven, and then they were gone. One stork picking at the ground on his long spindly legs near the roadside is an impressive sight, a whole mess of them even more so. A friend once told me about migrating storks gathering near the Bosphorus in September, but I’ve missed them so far. Yesterday, the bus passed a mass of grey, slender-necked and long-legged birds, swirling in a widening, ascending spiral to veer off individually in an irregular line heading northwest.<br /><br /><br />I don't ask Suleyman to stop the service bus. For some reason, I like to keep these moments private.RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-1041293041951786352011-03-23T06:13:00.001-07:002011-06-08T01:32:54.244-07:00AshurbanipalRecently, I have found myself becoming attached to friendly street animals. For example, in the last month, I have twice noticed a full-grown Bassett Hound wandering near Topkapı Palace, bothering the guards and getting his picture taken by tourists. Shame on who ever bought the dog and kicked him out on the streets when he got too big to handle. I certainly have no time for a dog, but I nearly took him home. Last week, I fell for a cat in the Grand Bazaar. There are a few cats I have been fond of in my life, but I've never wanted to own one. This Tom was lovely, a kind of tabby but with larger circles and stripes than normal. And he did love being petted and scratched and clearly was not aware of just how dirty he was.<br />It occurred to me that maybe I needed a little animal in my life that likes human contact. Don't get my wrong, I do love Shuppiluliuma, the now 5 and therefore considered elderly rabbit, but she's not comfortable cuddling. I don't like to force my animals to be what they aren't. The other rabbit, Cenk, died about 2 years ago. Unfortunately, my fish died after about 3 weeks. I suspect the rest of the same fish from the same pet shop suffered the same fate.<br />Long story short, although I had no plans to come home with a new rabbit, I found myself with a little, 6 week old, black fur ball in my hands. His name is Ashurbanipal after the last great Neo- Assyrian king. According to Wikipedia, his name means "Ashur is creator of an heir." There will be no heir creating in my home, as Ashurbanipal is in a completely different room than the Shuppi, and neither the twixt will meet. He does the usual rabbit things, jumps and twists, and is very proud when he manages to climb on top of the box in his cage. He also tolerates cuddling.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAHFNFR-faNrRS-EP32Pb_54xvDGCtP_rnirHBiEbN9NoUcv3uyvXsyQuyI-buJ4aA2VnBKGW3itAQEVxp9UjH2tuEZGTVIKEOs0EiG93JawjoaF5NfoQ5zNWyr4k_ynYd33f4BYaObAE/s1600/bunny.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587263143138107330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAHFNFR-faNrRS-EP32Pb_54xvDGCtP_rnirHBiEbN9NoUcv3uyvXsyQuyI-buJ4aA2VnBKGW3itAQEVxp9UjH2tuEZGTVIKEOs0EiG93JawjoaF5NfoQ5zNWyr4k_ynYd33f4BYaObAE/s400/bunny.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div></div>RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-11295589449528744682011-03-02T04:29:00.000-08:002011-03-02T04:54:59.325-08:00The Loud PrincessAs most Turkish schools, the one I work in consists of a lower primary, junior high, and high school combined. While the buildings are separate entities, they are all connected to each other. To get from one to the other, you walk straight through from the ground or second (in European terms) floor. Alternatively, you can go outside and walk to one of the many building entrances. This connection causes some difficulty as there are rules that apply in two of the buildings but not the high school. For example, high school kids are allowed to use their cell phones during the school day, while thankfully, the kids in my block aren't. I never realised how very huge high school students are (were <em>we</em> that big at Bloomer Senior High?) nor how loud they can be. I am forever convincing high school students to go outside rather than through my block, to put their phones away and not smirk about the request, and a laundry list of other infractions.<br /> Today, I found myself on the twisted portion of the stairs, carrying 8 dictionaries and facing the same handful of high school kids I've faced countless times, not realising there was a small army of them behind me coming down the hall. Now, many of you know I can be loud myself, and only after a minute of "no you can't's" and "yes we can's", I watched the whole group turn around and head back to their building. I'm sure it wasn't my great authority that convinced them, but rather a desire to get to where they were going and not to hear the crazy American teacher's voice.<br /> It was only then that I realised I was wearing a tiara, a prop from my previous lesson.RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-603425773184515602011-02-14T05:24:00.001-08:002011-06-08T01:32:23.337-07:00More Stuff I Made<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQ3B7NIhEJu1PUpLHsRQ4D91BMUTDzfunAhWOdx2DCAG1s8JHUBdnAw1w_sgai2v5_p1NfKrYH_JFEyjNeiIlMkJaD15Nvnbw1XfF-Hi0vVrYX5P2YFWqMCBH7yGe1zp6OC8-5oyg3oc/s1600/wheeled+bird.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573536371918111234" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQ3B7NIhEJu1PUpLHsRQ4D91BMUTDzfunAhWOdx2DCAG1s8JHUBdnAw1w_sgai2v5_p1NfKrYH_JFEyjNeiIlMkJaD15Nvnbw1XfF-Hi0vVrYX5P2YFWqMCBH7yGe1zp6OC8-5oyg3oc/s400/wheeled+bird.JPG" /></a> Wheeled Bird<br /><br />May I present a few of the latest archaeologically inspired objects to emerge from the kiln? The wheeled bird is slimmer than those in an exhibition at Yapı Kredi last year. I haven't quite figured out how the originals were made. At least it doesn't tip over on its wheels as I thought it might.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYSNoP2NmGwnLepeI-lIOwF_4tXaPKi26fRjJVBbTanUBRhSn0hTi-Jtd_FENIM1EkRrWezYC8hv0YJgoK96wegUwPiWxWr7p8f5trBPZCXmObzfRnvrLbC7fW-JNc5VaOTbFNHC9Uia0/s1600/mice.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573536368495583058" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYSNoP2NmGwnLepeI-lIOwF_4tXaPKi26fRjJVBbTanUBRhSn0hTi-Jtd_FENIM1EkRrWezYC8hv0YJgoK96wegUwPiWxWr7p8f5trBPZCXmObzfRnvrLbC7fW-JNc5VaOTbFNHC9Uia0/s400/mice.JPG" /></a> Mice and a Spouted Vessel</div><br /><div>Originally, these were going to be hedgehogs. Clearly, that didn't happen. These are quite small. They fit in my hand. Not all at once.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpHZfa3Bt4d_bRE_pPOB19TcfoEeGIDiNFoSgVqC_4DBNS_WxfXyhYyXbiWVD62kUC12sKasHWuqlti6iKuK0wIyaBLJOPcWe7bx1rWN2fUVWTOtbD6lLNJ4lD6KSXvtXOCChIJ3dRAh8/s1600/man.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573536370973122050" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpHZfa3Bt4d_bRE_pPOB19TcfoEeGIDiNFoSgVqC_4DBNS_WxfXyhYyXbiWVD62kUC12sKasHWuqlti6iKuK0wIyaBLJOPcWe7bx1rWN2fUVWTOtbD6lLNJ4lD6KSXvtXOCChIJ3dRAh8/s400/man.JPG" /></a> Anthropomorphic Vessel</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>A spouted vessel in the Louvre was the inspiration for this piece. The original has a hat, but I chopped it off of this one. It looked far too phallic.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiEu1JXoqlU2VLdzxtBw6o_ItCRtWG4ll5ECRrckU3qKCJdojrKL3VEpBgo9QvkciC3hUlIEjbZAarEzHCqUr5MErGjKZI_zLkiSQklkPuWaZUDEvWDhEJahpv4T1-Vm_8hSFwbdNqM0w/s1600/demendgehogs.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573536365097222274" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiEu1JXoqlU2VLdzxtBw6o_ItCRtWG4ll5ECRrckU3qKCJdojrKL3VEpBgo9QvkciC3hUlIEjbZAarEzHCqUr5MErGjKZI_zLkiSQklkPuWaZUDEvWDhEJahpv4T1-Vm_8hSFwbdNqM0w/s400/demendgehogs.JPG" /></a> Demendgehogs</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I alternate between being very fond of these two creatures, or thinking they're just acceptable. They look a little demented, hence the title.<br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div></div></div></div>RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-19180767226965948072010-12-20T05:19:00.000-08:002010-12-20T05:36:45.831-08:00When You Feel Like a Complete IdiotIt was a beautiful sun-shining Saturday morning, all the more glorious because it was the first we'd seen sun in a week. I got myself up and out of the apartment relatively early, walked the 2 blocks to the bakery for breakfast, then another block or so to grab a bus to Taksim. Of course, since I was riding backwards on the double-decker bus, and even though I go to Taksim often, I had no idea where I was, so I got off the bus a stop or two too early. After 10 minutes of walking on the crowded street, I spent at least twice the amount of time picking out clay tools at the ceramics hobby shop. Back to Taksim Square to buy a paper and as usual play chicken with the other pedestrians, then head to the Metro. I took the subway from one end of the city to almost the other, then got on a dolmuş to Sariyer where I exited at Çayırbaşı. Here, I went to Anatolian Arts, a store in which you can find reproductions of Hittite ceramics, glass and ceramic pomegranites which apparently are quite popular though I prefer copper ones, juniper "rosary" beads, and other artsy craftsy things. While I was shopping for a friend's Christmas present, I stopped to pet the annoying little dog who I assume belongs to the nasty woman who works in the store. I'm not a big fan of little dogs, but it was much easier to humor this one than it was to be annoyed by it. The nasty unnaturally blonde, dog-owning woman sat at the computer and sporadically shot me nasty looks. I thought nothing of it. She's just that way. Purchases purchased, I walked the block to the ceramics studio and made a French press of coffee. I need coffee when I wake up in the morning, and just about before I begin any project before 5:00PM.<br /><br /><br />While the kettle was heating up, I for some reason looked down at my feet and realised I was wearing two different shoes.RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-19795928846561306372010-08-19T09:37:00.000-07:002010-08-19T21:50:12.319-07:00To market, to market<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyTI2HP9A6huVnpigVQbK88wqbPRObKPo8JekQj2rwfGd8a87XV1W2NcdQk58otF_F45Qt6-XxPMMZzYltVi13mkAE2LECKhyXBxB7JgVnLYKSBnM3r2N0xTo-rzhhLvF19Gk9nw8i3qk/s1600/6th.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507168775843969714" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyTI2HP9A6huVnpigVQbK88wqbPRObKPo8JekQj2rwfGd8a87XV1W2NcdQk58otF_F45Qt6-XxPMMZzYltVi13mkAE2LECKhyXBxB7JgVnLYKSBnM3r2N0xTo-rzhhLvF19Gk9nw8i3qk/s400/6th.JPG" /></a><br /><div>Monday is market day in Nevşehir. I will never tire of a good market, and this one isn't bad at all. The labyrnthine streets are lined with awning-protected tables. My favorite part is the fruit and vegetable section. It smells of sun-warmed peaches and strawberries. There are small mountains of eggplants at 1 Lire a kilo, piles of peppers, neatly-lined pears and plump figs, both purple and green.</div>Some of the venders grumble amongst themselves when I take pictures. "Tourists, foreigners.." I imagine they're remarking that it's as if I've never seen a vegetable before. Others, such as the man above, are more than happy to strike a pose.<br /><div></div><br /><div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507163308877364178" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSgymr1ltpgLe4JvPHSK6yRWLmNuboIX14F92VgW5e5aDYzuJmWMwp9mqGhGKeucBFSYzkNrXtlzSovWI2Fm1CLFtkW6iNE2LSB5LiY1pLyXM-8kQfGLs7tU0d0rafox1AnYQeaNP5wCI/s400/10th.JPG" /> Okra </div><br /><div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4BEBf1ZLzoST1sGmX2s_JfM94dkIgSu2yAFyPf4V7-eTjRWsSuNAQ3LNchTYGaSMLUB15NavaQ2FdWsihFedEc9bLf_gGCOwgzjGn3bO2pRNOuL7G5YAG6ZJiPFAFb-tBqStFqfk_pq0/s1600/9th.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507163302052635090" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4BEBf1ZLzoST1sGmX2s_JfM94dkIgSu2yAFyPf4V7-eTjRWsSuNAQ3LNchTYGaSMLUB15NavaQ2FdWsihFedEc9bLf_gGCOwgzjGn3bO2pRNOuL7G5YAG6ZJiPFAFb-tBqStFqfk_pq0/s400/9th.JPG" /></a> Sweet peppers<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDJfzQwW9sfL_7JkQFuvPx6i2cjrk9KX_v-1K229i7KFmtdYchL6l9lK6xbOERUJnTmRiKPkUxqLpK7RdCjDrTukR4kMtsc6rNMpqHybyuW8ZX9lu3pZ8QJ6fsBIGwFwAZqeVZ3LGV08o/s1600/8th.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507163299061378258" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDJfzQwW9sfL_7JkQFuvPx6i2cjrk9KX_v-1K229i7KFmtdYchL6l9lK6xbOERUJnTmRiKPkUxqLpK7RdCjDrTukR4kMtsc6rNMpqHybyuW8ZX9lu3pZ8QJ6fsBIGwFwAZqeVZ3LGV08o/s400/8th.JPG" /></a> Nice to look at, but I still can't eat them.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx8NWYIlHc7TnH3osMXmpYYMoBN2QyckM6TGbvPpJklydZg1khpUX_uA7YqLq29_bLe14V4UEs-Ru_vZQpyB7QDCNsDOARFXK01LQcLhDOBMbBDiharWVzWK13q5wFbAwY5zATeyfb8x8/s1600/7th.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507163291688334866" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx8NWYIlHc7TnH3osMXmpYYMoBN2QyckM6TGbvPpJklydZg1khpUX_uA7YqLq29_bLe14V4UEs-Ru_vZQpyB7QDCNsDOARFXK01LQcLhDOBMbBDiharWVzWK13q5wFbAwY5zATeyfb8x8/s400/7th.JPG" /></a> </div><br /><div>Many of the venders heap their produce on newspaper, or leave them in crates on the ground.<br /><div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWnwZbHOzYSg2UBR_eQRWh2U8IbDZIs5XBt7eH0hk0XcqvXyI8oi2-kkxW-LHLl8E1Mqeb5hqt_0xXQcegjbkiIgCuQgcAq5BD3C0FZyaSylmdAC6mDW-aM9IQm1yZb5hXPwGjVOLWVyE/s1600/5th.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507162328802280898" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWnwZbHOzYSg2UBR_eQRWh2U8IbDZIs5XBt7eH0hk0XcqvXyI8oi2-kkxW-LHLl8E1Mqeb5hqt_0xXQcegjbkiIgCuQgcAq5BD3C0FZyaSylmdAC6mDW-aM9IQm1yZb5hXPwGjVOLWVyE/s400/5th.JPG" /></a> The cheese market</div><div></div><div>This market is not for those with a sensitive stomach, as the animal odors that waft from the cheese, especially on a hot day, are quite strong. The cheeses are kept in open basins, in jugs and plastic buckets, either placed directly on the blacktop or on plastic crates.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUj3aOiv7b4ekjhtqYzmrVDHlrgoK_iAVoh5kNm2xvcAIVUk32fiPKebD8BnG5KrWFHvY_BPm3DB0j6zCZeTxUVfvFg62ATBKg_2S6RjkCY29t1oH2klD1hhKxDsWZkatREmR_NAmfAhw/s1600/4th.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507162313267505090" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUj3aOiv7b4ekjhtqYzmrVDHlrgoK_iAVoh5kNm2xvcAIVUk32fiPKebD8BnG5KrWFHvY_BPm3DB0j6zCZeTxUVfvFg62ATBKg_2S6RjkCY29t1oH2klD1hhKxDsWZkatREmR_NAmfAhw/s400/4th.JPG" /></a> Tulumu peyniri in animal skins</div><div>Some of the cheeses are stored in animal skins. I don't know how expensive they are, but the flies, I assume, are free.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibIVgoz8XoDet5sQQvBqMKB71Cbs9rN8ISPx-LTHIUGqbTgwz4bo-8B4pNhAEgUYrgfFxrEjuyMA2A4qlucZALZpWqrNhSA5weaLE0-8ZGOpBNvj3aWAQnYJ-V2seFgxnN3UUtay9AxoY/s1600/3rd.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507162311906330018" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibIVgoz8XoDet5sQQvBqMKB71Cbs9rN8ISPx-LTHIUGqbTgwz4bo-8B4pNhAEgUYrgfFxrEjuyMA2A4qlucZALZpWqrNhSA5weaLE0-8ZGOpBNvj3aWAQnYJ-V2seFgxnN3UUtay9AxoY/s400/3rd.JPG" /></a> More cheese in an animal skin. I think it's a goat.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjxZBinagRIySec3w28SJB4SvyAbYFnHsdQCiQwEMvBCi3gaT5tCQcgAhvFhsQUpFnKUMzWLLJuu7bD_nBcpub7KRW4-UOuLuadZHTWqqrEnshiz_KoTvQP5VquAz8kd7NBft3EXwQ3ec/s1600/2nd.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507162303050610338" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjxZBinagRIySec3w28SJB4SvyAbYFnHsdQCiQwEMvBCi3gaT5tCQcgAhvFhsQUpFnKUMzWLLJuu7bD_nBcpub7KRW4-UOuLuadZHTWqqrEnshiz_KoTvQP5VquAz8kd7NBft3EXwQ3ec/s400/2nd.JPG" /></a> Cabbage on a side street</div><div><br />I am still struck by the size of the cabbages. They're wider than my backside. At the end of the street, you can buy a handle-less broom in any size.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ6QIAHp7Q32njaEJUcwlLJhw0xrxXwFeLWBAvBLOw2xA2KD2LoimVjGoV9TEVznz2SJBAAtb-yIc16ykkwjYE-SimzSp5VhzQL-Erhc0nl18x6XyJfohHoHqHLxWTlNEFmWfgdgFGwns/s1600/first.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507162293452442722" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ6QIAHp7Q32njaEJUcwlLJhw0xrxXwFeLWBAvBLOw2xA2KD2LoimVjGoV9TEVznz2SJBAAtb-yIc16ykkwjYE-SimzSp5VhzQL-Erhc0nl18x6XyJfohHoHqHLxWTlNEFmWfgdgFGwns/s400/first.JPG" /></a> Still Life with Cabbage</div><div></div><div>Once in a while, I'm really proud of a photo, but have to admit this was a complete accident. </div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-13344046550085233762010-08-16T21:51:00.000-07:002010-08-19T00:41:36.528-07:00Popettes for 25<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3nLhN2KS4yUw6y6M2ujZ1SwWBT2CFLz-CsNaYhKazkt9RmkgzAlStCmnID-Bsdnff-i7MyFrg0Wlc7lRWnTZKPm1ffhZdz15E-Ve63WR4Duf-0y3BoJJvmoAivUP_ZD9jyxjv8_Sg_E4/s1600/popettes.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507022238745893186" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3nLhN2KS4yUw6y6M2ujZ1SwWBT2CFLz-CsNaYhKazkt9RmkgzAlStCmnID-Bsdnff-i7MyFrg0Wlc7lRWnTZKPm1ffhZdz15E-Ve63WR4Duf-0y3BoJJvmoAivUP_ZD9jyxjv8_Sg_E4/s400/popettes.JPG" /></a><br /><div>When I was a kid, one of my favorite meals was spaghetti and popettes. "Popette" is a bastardization of "polpetta, " Italian for meatball. My grandmother's family made these meatless meatballs because, as I understood it, they didn't have a lot of money. Made primarily of bread crumbs and eggs, they act like little sponges for pasta sauce and are quite delicious. I wrongly used to think that it was a secret family recipe until Pina, a Sicilian married to a local Turk, told me it's a commonly made dish in Italy. So much for carefully guarded family secrets.<br /><br />I first made Polpettes A la Turca a few years ago. Since it's impossible to find parmesan cheese in Cappadocia, I have to make due with what I can find, and instead use Tulumu Peyniri, a crumbly but soft "village" cheese. It makes for a tasty popette, but does not go well with pasta sauce. Instead, we eat them plain, with our fingers.<br /><br />Last night, we were about 25 for dinner. A group of French friends were invited, a pair of couples from Rome offered to make pasta, and Taner's wife Serpil brought her lentil soup. Somehow during the day, two other small groups of Italians were also brought to the evening table.<br /><br />I spent a good portion of my day preparing the bread and cooking. Here's my recipe for Polpettes for 25, breakfast leftovers guaranteed. (Really, some foods are better the next day.) To be honest, this recipe isn't written in stone. I can never remember from one time to the next how much of what I used.<br /><br />8 large loaves of bread from Uchisar Market, not nasty sliced white bread from a plastic bag.<br />1 1/2 kilos of full-fat tulumu peyneri. I suppose the half-fat version would work as well, but who are we kidding? This isn't diet food.<br />62 eggs<br />2 heads of garlic, or more to taste. (Normally I would use a bit more garlic, but a person needs to consider her guests.)<br />Olive oil, not extra virgin.<br /><br />Sit in a sunny spot. Split open all the bread with your fingers so it can sit in the sun and dry a bit. Pull the bread apart to make small pieces being careful not to squish the soft inner parts. No need for bread glue. This took me about 1 1/2 hours, but the process is a kind of meditation.<br /><br />Crumble the cheese with a fork and mix with the bread crumbs. For this amount, you will probably need to use more than one huge bowl.<br /><br />Finely chop the garlic and add to the crumbs and cheese. Get your hands dirty, and mix until the ingredients are evenly distributed. Admittedly, it's difficult to tell if the garlic is well-mixed throughout, but I kind of like a surprise chunk of it.<br /><br />Add the eggs. Get your hands really dirty and squish the crumbs and cheese through your fingers so the bread is completely soaked in eggs.<br /><br />Depending on the bread and whatever day it is, you might need more or fewer eggs. The mixture, in my opinion, should be wet enough to form "meatball," but shouldn't be runny. I think the correct term for the texture is "gloppy."<br /><br />Form balls of the mixture, then flatten them like a hamburger. You can make them larger or smaller. I like to make them about the size of my palm. Make sure to pat around the edges so they don't fall apart when frying.<br /><br />Heat olive oil in a big pan, not so much that the popettes float in it, but enough so that the oil comes half-way up their sides. I use olive oil, but not extra virgin. It tends to break down when heated. You can also use vegetable oil, but I don't recommend it.<br /><br />Carefully place the popettes in the heated oil. Flip them when they are crispy brown. Make sure they're cooked in the center. I don't know anyone who wants to eat raw-egg-soaked bread.<br /><br />Serve hot, warm or rooom temperature. I prefer to eat them with my fingers, but those who are more refined than I can certainly use a fork and knife.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-28282339208696411232010-08-10T07:04:00.000-07:002010-08-10T11:36:58.887-07:00Three Times LuckyLast week, a friend from Istanbul came for a visit. Since it has been so hot, and since there wasn't enough room upstairs for all of us to sleep comfortably, Nicky and I decided to sleep on the terrace. We piled cushions of woven and embroidery covered bags on the floor and threw sheets and blankets over them. It's pleasant to sleep under the stars with the wind blowing gently. As far as I know, the few bats didn't fly too closely, and I refused to think about insects that might creepy crawl there way over and around us while sleeping. The nights are a bit chilly, but at about 8:00, the sun beats down unbearably hot. <br /><br />One morning, I woke up with the sun burning a small hole in my face. I stumbled into the kitchen to make my coffee. Because the transition between sleeping and waking is a long one for me, it took me a while to find the Italian coffee pot and fill it with water and coffee grounds, then locate a lighter for the stove and a something for heating the milk. While the water was slowly making its way through the coffee into the upper part of the pot, Nicky came in holding my pillow away from her body and laughing. On the pillow case was a great gob of bird poo, slowly and viscously sliding its way downwards. Since, as I mentioned, the transition between sleeping and waking is a slow one, I failed to see the humor in the situation. <br /><br />As I was trying to verbalize that the poo was headed toward the floor, the lid of the coffee pot blew upwards and coffee exploded all over the wall, the stove, and one side of my person, including my face. Fortunately, the coffee wasn't hot, but the noise and spray was, needless to say, startling. I still wasn't able to put a sentence together. Pina, hearing the explosion, came out of her bedroom, concerned. After she realised I wasn't burned, she found the newly painted walls and my face very funny and had a good laugh. I, however, failed to see the humor in the situation. And the bird poo was still sliding floorwards.<br /><br />After cleaning myself and the kitchen, (Nicky took care of the poo) I went to the store just down the hill. As usual, I asked if anyone needed anything. No one did, but Murat offered to go with me. Murat is 10 at most and a gorgeous kid. He's one of the few people I can tolerate while cooking because he carefully helps me, cutting tomatoes, mixing the salads. He's also extremely polite and asks if he can use my computer before grabbilng it and turning it on. I was pleased to have his company, even for the short trip to the store.<br /><br />I offered to pay for the package of two milk puddings that he had chosen, but he paid for them himself. As we were returning the store, he handed me a plastic spoon and found a place in front of a blocked door to sit and eat. I had the impression that he wanted to share this treat as our little secret, and for that, it was delicious.<br /><br />With a little distance, I realise now how lucky I was, three times, that day. First, my head was not on my pillow when a bird shat on it. Second, I am not disfigured from coffee, and third, Murat shared his pudding and a little private moment with me, in the shade, on a doorstep.RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-61406067664688686942010-08-08T08:20:00.000-07:002010-08-08T21:03:31.011-07:00The Apricot Thief of UçhisarThis post is dedicated to Roger Hours, who every summer makes the most glorious apricot jam. If he likes you, he will give you a jar. If he likes you, you are a lucky person indeed.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3M15AYrHLpi-yzZYW4xFt7ZTul08POcZCzQulr4yh8VKxtO73F7cWMdX4mRya19Abo5pIHD7BMpBrX5h7z3GFs37MxBwVY39NT-BKahfI8_AxRBBH7WX4iUEZEProhZv-9C_lISsNPHs/s1600/thief+1.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503067953802289106" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3M15AYrHLpi-yzZYW4xFt7ZTul08POcZCzQulr4yh8VKxtO73F7cWMdX4mRya19Abo5pIHD7BMpBrX5h7z3GFs37MxBwVY39NT-BKahfI8_AxRBBH7WX4iUEZEProhZv-9C_lISsNPHs/s400/thief+1.JPG" /></a> Pigeon Valley<br /><br />In the evenings, when the temperature drops from intolerable to pleasant, I often take a walk near Pigeon Valley, specifically to steal apricots. Past Goreme Onyx, a large jewelry store invaded by busloads of tourists, I turn into the driveway of Yemini Restaurant to visit my favorite dog. He's huge. Unlike most sensible people, I am not afraid of this Kangal even though I know they can be dangerous. He must be terribly bored all tied up with little place to run. The men who work at the restaurant are now familiar with me from my frequent visits and sometimes wave at me from a distance. There is a small poodle-like dog who runs about freely. Often, when I'm visiting, she runs for the larger dog, jumping and playfully snapping at his face. Clearly, the Kangal does not like this attention, but patiently stands, completely aware that he could snap the little one like the preverbial twig.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZWq9P6fPJiXaFhyphenhyphenV02AHQTeVaOooIVwycku7smqMa9ZGQ7fyiCen80_bYYD2D4umTOWtP0PJbxdiYjF1YWei469e4oDjE4tMUm89WtcjqWZtGHHQUH0v39rn26BiI0P1j4cvPRw8Dtf4/s1600/thief+2.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503067441795313490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZWq9P6fPJiXaFhyphenhyphenV02AHQTeVaOooIVwycku7smqMa9ZGQ7fyiCen80_bYYD2D4umTOWtP0PJbxdiYjF1YWei469e4oDjE4tMUm89WtcjqWZtGHHQUH0v39rn26BiI0P1j4cvPRw8Dtf4/s400/thief+2.JPG" /></a> Noble the Kangal</div><div></div><div>After dog therapy, I follow the dirt road above the valley and walk next to fields of chick peas, squash and other vegetables and through vineyards. Once, I was surprised by a fox who was equally startled by me. He ran across the fields, white tipped tail in the air.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUj1BriHTWAlyYEJH5X5N-sSYgzrWpeRrmjNh5yKkWJtJG3xiEdzypShAU5xuL-wQTeqcXFk57flamNacfkCQIC2hQK0GUbo0osr3Sj4LclZQA2YBwvi4l6Hg3SdihzzoZORr2bsaTYfQ/s1600/thief+3.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503066805003714642" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUj1BriHTWAlyYEJH5X5N-sSYgzrWpeRrmjNh5yKkWJtJG3xiEdzypShAU5xuL-wQTeqcXFk57flamNacfkCQIC2hQK0GUbo0osr3Sj4LclZQA2YBwvi4l6Hg3SdihzzoZORr2bsaTYfQ/s400/thief+3.JPG" /></a> Butterfly on a sunflower. </div><div>The outside of the butterfly's wings look like dirt, but when opened<br />reveal a white-spotted black ground.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmt_RvprMsNIIYqUVJGiOs6EOSIPIj19uiQjCxVFv98fxxzORBR9FsSPjF1Nn7pxEjwsb-b2AJq5GH6Kz9vyoaetPfAvRu4jtZw6sXF7sjzGSQmmv9Zzd_bvXrNJiOdUcHT4hoeEDieGI/s1600/thief+4.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503060299841716946" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmt_RvprMsNIIYqUVJGiOs6EOSIPIj19uiQjCxVFv98fxxzORBR9FsSPjF1Nn7pxEjwsb-b2AJq5GH6Kz9vyoaetPfAvRu4jtZw6sXF7sjzGSQmmv9Zzd_bvXrNJiOdUcHT4hoeEDieGI/s400/thief+4.JPG" /></a> Apricots</div><div></div><div>Before stealing apricots, I check the ground to make sure many have fallen. To my logic, this means no one else is eating them except me and insects. When I find a tree particularly burdened with fruit, I find it difficult not to strip it bare. Many of the apricots are freckled by the sun and would probably be rejected by customers in a supermarket. I've learned not to be prejudiced by these spots, as they are usually sweet and perfectly edible. There is one tree with tiny fruit, slightly larger than gumballs. These are the tastiest. I sample from various trees and fill plastic bags from the market with them to bring back to the store.</div><div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxjm-MRQT1cocdWi9OSI_eLD-Y_xjTccxcUd4u3U0rJfMt87qyObo8SLoAsjZgN4DnUlPpcDx9PXocaljZ7Jqag5wgqvu7Ym4EXMoR11Ei8N-wjfyjB-NIIo9KO3IwNr_1jILAOJiv2AU/s1600/thief+last.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503059848256842610" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxjm-MRQT1cocdWi9OSI_eLD-Y_xjTccxcUd4u3U0rJfMt87qyObo8SLoAsjZgN4DnUlPpcDx9PXocaljZ7Jqag5wgqvu7Ym4EXMoR11Ei8N-wjfyjB-NIIo9KO3IwNr_1jILAOJiv2AU/s400/thief+last.JPG" /></a> Sunset<br /></div><div>As the sun begins to set and before heading "home," I make a second visit to the dog. On my way back, I give handfuls of fruit to the various merchants whose stores I pass. They think I'm a bit nuts, but I don't really mind so much.<br /><br />Here is my recipe for stolen fruit dessert, but you can also use ones that you have procured by honest means.<br /><br /><div>Use a big pan, the kind used for making spaghetti sauce.</div><div>Split the apricots in half and toss the stones on the compost pile.</div><div>Cut peaches into smallish pieces and put them in the pan with the apricots. </div><div>Squeeze a few oranges into the pan, or use orange juice. Use enough so that the fruit doesn't burn and stick to the bottom, but not so much that you'll end up with orange juice and fruit soup.</div><div>Add cinnamon to taste. I like a lot of cinnamon.</div><div></div><div>Cook on medium heat for about an hour, more if you have the time. The longer it's cooked, the thicker the juice gets.</div><div></div><div>This can be served warm over really good vanilla ice cream. Please don't waste the dessert on average ice cream. If you do, don't tell me.</div><div>If you live in France, you can skip the ice cream and pour creme fraiche over the fruit instead.</div><div></div><div>You can use other fruits as well. I've made this with apples, pears, and plums in different combinations.</div></div></div></div>RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5284119562631342106.post-26677487454520250652010-08-08T08:01:00.000-07:002010-08-08T08:20:12.239-07:00Peppers on a String<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfAKaZFb3JGRekDEPz2E-bN3Aw-ERn8G-VPyCKjnRD4GD1i7XeiplROWLCwu_3Z8jPNEg9XXu5iV0QkEf6xykHm083Um7iPTw-l1Zu3y4UUpSNbq-WJGoT0Aws3MgHVsLDItwFcC3EFSw/s1600/peppers.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503058066661246770" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfAKaZFb3JGRekDEPz2E-bN3Aw-ERn8G-VPyCKjnRD4GD1i7XeiplROWLCwu_3Z8jPNEg9XXu5iV0QkEf6xykHm083Um7iPTw-l1Zu3y4UUpSNbq-WJGoT0Aws3MgHVsLDItwFcC3EFSw/s400/peppers.JPG" /></a>Summer vacation truly begins after a string of peppers hangs from the exterior wall of Ala Turca Old Collection.<br /><br /><div></div>RMHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04005657852421038174noreply@blogger.com0