The Joy of Cooking

Now, this may come as a shock to many of you (well, not really if you know me), but I've never been much of a cook. When I was in college, I lived mostly in the dorms and I used the dining halls. Then when I finally did live in an apartment, my roommate, Leslie, always did the cooking because she liked doing it. Now, don't get me wrong, I would help her whenever she would let me (I'm really good at stirring things and throwing away trash) and I would do the dishes after the meal. It was an even exchange. Also, back home, my mom never forced me to make any kind of meal. She would offer and I would politely decline and just watch her do all the hard work. So, needless to say that I came to Bulgaria with a lack of cooking knowledge.

Living with a host family, this was never much of a problem because they didn't like to have me help. Occasionally, they would let me chop the vegetables for the salad, but that was about it. Moving to permanent site, however, I found that it was a completely different story. Everyone always asks me what I cook for myself. From what I've gathered, it's strange for a woman to live by herself here (that and the fact that I'm American), so they're curious about everything. When I tell them that I usually just make soup and sandwiches, they usually fling their arms into the air and cry "Oh bozhe!" (which is kind of like a "Good grief!" kind of statement). Clearly they don't approve. Betty has offered to help me in learning to cook and I've helped her a couple times in her kitchen. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I have anything against cooking. I would like to learn one day, that day is just not today...or any other day in the near future.

Anyway, one day last week our Scout group was cleaning up the area behind the block that I live in. I came down to help and when our day's work was done, we were offered vafla (a waffle bar kind of candy) and something to drink from the store on the corner. There's a baba (Baba Mimi) who lives next to this store and she came out and offered Rory and myself jars of homemade lutenitza (peppers and other delicious vegetables made into a nice spread). We gladly accepted them and then she preceded to ask me if I like tarator (which is the cold cucumber soup) because today was the perfect day to make it because it was warm. I told her that I did like tarator because I was not anticipating what was about to happen. Her face lit up and she went back into her house to grab the ingredients for a nice bowl of the soup. She came back out and was giving them out to Rory, Betty and myself. I'm not sure what happened during all of this, but the next thing I know I was being invited over to Baba Mimi's house to learn how to make tarator. I just smiled and nodded (something that I've grown accustomed to doing) and followed Baba Mimi into her house.

We went downstairs into her kitchen and she started getting out all of the ingredients, explaining what each one was as she pulled them out of their spaces. It wasn't long before we were joined by Rory and Betty for more supervision purposes. She began adding everything into the bowl and it wasn't long before it was suggested that I give it a try. My first task was skinning the cucumber. Now, let me begin by saying that I've never been a big fan of knives (I blame this on a late night viewing of the movies "Scream" and "Psycho" when I was entirely too young). So, Baba Mimi hands me the cucumber and a knife the length of my entire forearm and instructs me to begin skinning. I try to the best of my ability to skin that cucumber, but it wasn't long before the knife and cucumber, as well as the task, were taken away from me. Baba Mimi finished skinning the cucumber and then went looking for a grater. She reappeared with grater in hand and instructed me to grate the cucumber. Now, this I can do. I grated that cucumber like I'd been doing it my whole life. I was a professional. Betty, on the other hand, didn't seem to feel the same way. She was nervous that was going to cut my fingers off. Rory reassured me that she'd feel that way about anyone and that it wasn't just because it was me. That made me feel better.

My next task was to add all of the ingredients into the big mixing bowl and start stirring. I did just that. I stirred until Baba Mimi told me to add something. I added and went back to my stirring. I'm not gonna lie, I feel like they were all pretty impressed by my stirring skills (thanks Leslie!). By the end of it, I had concocted a good-size bowl of tarator for my dinner that evening. Baba Mimi put it in a pot so that I could take it back to my house and gave each one of us an apple. I thanked her for the cooking lesson and for the free food. After a few minutes of smalltalk, I walked to my apartment and put the tarator in the fridge where it has sat for about a week. Why is that, you ask? Because I do not like tarator. Had I known that me saying that I liked it would lead to an entire cooking lesson and a pot full of it, I would have told the truth. So the lesson in this story is to always tell the truth, ladies and gentlemen, because if you don't, you may end up with a pot of soup you don't like in your refrigerator.

Taxi Cab Confessions

Whenever I travel anywhere by train, I have to go to Cherven Bryag, which is the town about fifteen minutes away. Well, it's fifteen by way of speeding taxi; it's thirty minutes if you take the bus and go the longer way with more stops. Either way, I enjoy traveling by train, so I'm pretty familiar with the journey. Usually I take a bus there and it only costs two leva. However, if I'm traveling back to Koynare from Cherven Bryag I usually have to take a taxi. This isn't really a big deal because I've done it so often. I even have a taxi driver that I call my own.

To be honest, I don't know his name and I'm pretty positive he doesn't know mine, either. He's either never told me, or he told me during one of our first encounters and I simply don't remember. I do remember, however, the first time I ever rode in this man's taxi. I was coming from the bus station and his taxi was the first one that I saw, so I got in. Now, this man's taxi looks like a toy car. Not only is it incredibly small, but the headlights look like they are stickers, purely for decoration. Everything about the taxi looks fake. I took my chances anyway, asked him to drive me to Koynare and climbed in. He immediately picked up on my non-Bulgarian accent and asked me where I was from. I told him I was from America. Then the usual pattern starts: What part of America? What's it like there? What are you doing here? How long have you been here? Do you like Bulgaria? Where have you been in the country? Then usually they have a family member or a friend who has been to America that they like to tell you about. He also asked me if I knew Rory (my site mate) and told me they had talked a few times. It was perfectly pleasant and he even complimented me on my Bulgarian. I was very impressed when I noticed that he wasn't speeding and he even stopped at the stop sign (here they are treated merely as suggestions). I was very pleased when I arrived at my block in one piece and not feeling like I had just survived a car chase scene.

The next time I found myself in Cherven Bryag and in need to get home, I sought this man and his funny-looking taxi out, because I knew that he would be safe and that he wouldn't rip me off with the prices. Taxi drivers love to do that here, though it's mostly in the big cities like Sofia. He put a huge smile on his face when he saw me walking towards him. He opened the door for me and said "Za Koynare?" (to Koynare?). I said "Da" (yes) and we were off. This time he asked me where I was coming from and more about the volunteers. I think we may have even gotten a little bit into family matters (if I have one and how they feel about me being in Bulgaria). I did notice this time, however, he didn't bother with obeying the speed limits or the stop signs. Clearly that was just a formality to gain my trust. Still I got to my block in one piece.

I may have ridden with him a few more times before I stopped seeking him out. It wasn't anything personal, there would just be sometimes when I didn't want to speak Bulgarian just yet, so I would go with a taxi driver who didn't look like he'd be much of a talker. Then, more recently, I found myself in front of this man's taxi again. I got in and we caught each other up on the things we had missed out on over the past few months. Then he starts asking me if I have a boyfriend and what I think of Bulgarian men. Great. My favorite topic. I tell him that I don't have a boyfriend and that I'm not looking for one, so don't get any ideas. He starts laughing. I laugh too (although I'm still half serious). He tells me that Bulgarian men are bad and he's glad that I don't have one of those. He tells me that American men are better and that I should wait until I get back home to have a boyfriend. Although I'm silently agreeing with him, I ask him what makes Bulgarian men so bad. He holds his hand up and rubs his fingers together (the international sign for money) and he tells me that Bulgarian men have no money. I chuckle and respond with the classic idealistic response "Well, money's not everything." He shoots me a look in the review mirror and says "No. Money is very important. Trust me, I'm much older than you." I laugh and admit defeat. Then I sat in silence for a while and laugh to myself and the fact that I just received relationship advice from a taxi driver in Bulgaria. Who would've thought?

I've ridden with him more since then and every time he's managed to dispense some more of his knowledge on me. I like it, though. I've made another friend. Apparently, he's a fan of mine as well. Other volunteers have ridden with him and he's asked if they know me. When they reply that they do, he tells them that I'm "a sweet little thing." Bridging the gap between Americans and Bulgarians: done. At first, I wasn't so sure, but now I know that I like this man and I'm looking forward to another year of his advice. Just think of how much wiser I'll be when I come back!