Ode to beets

I am compelled to write this evening because my husband – the computer scientistic GENIUS – is writing in HIS very own blogly space!  Which he started last night!  And could I just sit idly by and let him post away while I did nothing to improve my very own blogly space??  That would only be viable if I knew how to program alien shooter games.  And I don’t.

The fact is, I’ve been meaning to tell you all for some time now about the borsch.  K and I both spent good little portions of our lives living in Eastern Europe, where we were both introduced to the exquisiteness that is the beet.  And ever since it began to get nippy outside (for us this was early September), we have reminisced about shapkas and drunk taxi drivers on New Year’s and army tanks that shovel snow and… heavenly and oh-so-richly-red borsch.  With a huge dollop of sour cream.

So when a co-worker of mine recently said, “Oh, I have a million beets! Want some??”  I think I may have scared him a little with my emphatic enthusiasm.  I proudly brought them home and showed them to the husband, who was so emphatic himself that he tackled me (only in an attempt to wrestle the beet bag from my grasp).  And then we made borsch.

Beets are actually really horrible-looking vegetables when they’re first pulled from the dirt, like little hairy gnomes with dirty bottoms.  The Russian folk of olde probably couldn’t get their kids to eat them, so they figured out that when you peel them and grate them and make them into a soup, the kidlets would do anything to get that goodness all over their little tunics and milkmaid dresses and shapkas.  And hey, I’m right there with those little Russian peasants.

For when the borsch was simmering and it was almost time to eat, our house filled with the warm smell of a hundred different small apartments in the cities of Lithuania.  I could almost hear the chatter of a dying language coming from a tiny kitchen with nothing but a table, a stove, and a few 3-legged stools.  I opened the lid to the soup and a redness fit for royalty greeted me, bubbling gently in a pot.  And then I really was there, hiding out from a harsh Lithuanian winter with a Lithuanian grandma’s slippers on my feet, looking out the window of a tall gray building for my New Year’s taxi.  And Kendon saw that soup and heard the rumble of a faraway Soviet tank, on its way to clear the roads so he could visit a similar old woman with the same soup waiting for him on her own stove.  We ate our borsch with huge dollops of sour cream.  Then all at once we were at home with our memories and at home with each other. And nothing could be more delicious.  

Step 1: 

Step 2: 

The result: heaven.

Each day is Valentine's Day

Egle woke up that morning with a resolve to quit smoking.

She entered her tiny kitchen whistling a Frank Sinatra tune, picked up the full pack of “Prima” cigarettes on the counter, and broke her morning routine by tossing them into the rubbish bin. She put a pot of water on the stove and watched the steam fog up her view of the city outside the small window.  She drew a smiley face in the glass and could see clearly through the eyes and smile the identical gray buildings that surrounded hers.  “23” was painted in old flaking red paint on the building directly facing her kitchen.  It was the number of years she’s been married; the number of years she’d been smoking.  Looking beyond the dirty Soviet-built structures, Egle marveled at the perfect sunrise.  It was an explosion of light that striped the sky with a pattern of purples, oranges, yellows, and blues, stretching outward forever from a vanishing point she couldn’t quite see. It bathed the streets below her in a soft orange glow that was reflected in the old rickety autobus that stopped in front of her building, the “welcome” sign of the corner grocery store across the road, and the wet streets, littered with bottles, cans, and a few passed-out homeless men.

She sat on a three-legged stool and drank a hot cup of Summer Bouquet tea, nudging the old dog, asleep under the table, with her slippered feet. Wagging his tail, he got up and put his big boxer head on her lap.  He looked up at her with eyes that said, “Let’s walk,” and she agreed.

Egle pulled on her favorite pair of jeans and a soft pink sweater. She removed her house slippers and stepped into her only pair of heels, as black as the sleek boxer eagerly waiting beside her.  Her hair was a gray-brown frizz that had a mind of its own, and she carefully pinned it into a French twist before applying some mascara and a light layer of pink lipstick. She pulled out the perfume she’d purchased a year ago at the flea market down the road. They always had cheap imitations of American scents, and this one was her favorite – “Sensuous” by Estee Lauder. Egle only used it on very special occasions. Today she spritzed it on liberally, and the scent of mandarin and sandalwood filled her plain bedroom, taking Egle to a warmer place: one with more sand, more smiley faces, and less concrete. She smiled at the thought that today, the tropics wouldn’t be tainted with the smell of tobacco.

The November air outside looked brisk, so Egle bundled up in her nicest winter things and took an assessing look at herself in the mirror.  Her mother had always told her she was too skinny, but with her faux-fur scarf around her thin neck and the cream-colored turban on her head, she felt like Elizabeth Taylor, minus the cigarette.

Their morning walk was longer than usual.  They strolled for several blocks, enjoying the sunshine and stopping to browse the wares of the street vendors. Old, weathered women smiled at her and held up their odds and ends: shoelaces, pantyhose, and vegetables.  An old paperback romance novel caught her eye, and she talked the old gypsy down to 50 cents.  A few blocks later, she bought a small bouquet of wildflowers.  Pressing them to her nose, she tried to envision the distant countryside garden they were picked from, somewhere far beyond the walls of building 23.  Finally, she bought a jug of grapefruit juice, hoping it would give her mouth a bold enough flavor to resist the “Prima” box that still lay in her rubbish bin, tempting her the more each hour. Then she and the boxer returned home.

Egle carefully placed the flowers in a yellowing glass vase she kept beneath the kitchen sink, then spent the afternoon reading her new book. She gripped its pages especially tight when the urge to smoke became stronger. She knew she should get up, that she needed to boil the potatoes, that it was only a matter of time before he came home hungry.  But she didn’t dare go anywhere near the kitchen’s rubbish bin, so she stayed in the living room, hoping he would be so pleasantly surprised by her decision that he would suggest a romantic evening out.

At long last she stood up and returned to the bathroom to freshen up. She put a fresh coat of lipstick on and smoothed out the frizzy stray hairs on her French twist, smiling at her Elizabeth Taylor reflection. She turned the large knobs of the radio to her favorite station, where Frank Sinatra was belting, “You make me laugh with my heart….”

That’s when he walked in.

The door slammed behind him, a cold interruption to her day of peace.  He kicked clumsily at the dog, who whined and slumped to his spot beneath the kitchen table, tail between his legs.   Timidly, she gave him her news. She was congratulated with shouts of outrage. His scathing words drove the stench of alcohol out of his lips, raging a winning battle against the lingering scent of the tropics. He grabbed the vase of flowers and threw it to the ground. It shattered along with all her hopes for the evening. Frank Sinatra sang on, unaware.

Dinner wasn’t ready.

Is your figure less than Greek?

She looked like a whore. 

Is your mouth a little weak?

And if it wasn’t for him, someone would have put her away in a mental hospital long ago.

When you open it to speak

Are you smart?

Everything was spinning, and her mouth had tied itself up in knots again.

Her makeup streaked down her tired face, creating a marble effect on her hot cheeks.  Swallowing hard, she managed to steady herself enough to flee into the dimly lit bathroom again, where she locked the door and looked in the mirror.

She was not Elizabeth Taylor. She was a circus clown.

Egle waited until his rampage was over, and she could hear him settling in front of the television with something he’d found in the refrigerator. She crept out of the bathroom and into the kitchen.

Shakily, Egle dug into the rubbish bin for the box she had tossed away so freely that morning.  She hurried to the balcony and tried to whistle, but the cold night air seized the music trying to escape her lips and turned it into a bitter fog. She could hear the muffled sound of his slurred voice inside, cursing her damn smoking habit.

Egle looked at the dark, fading “23” on the gray brick wall before her. She lifted a cigarette to her lips and closed her eyes.

She would try again tomorrow.

Coincidentally, everything is perfect.

Once upon a time, by mere coincidence, I went to Lithuania during a time when visa problems were a thing. So I was shipped off to Ireland.

Coincidentally, I was given a companion who is the most amazing soul ever and who went to the same college as me and who had my EXACT same major and also played the piano and who I needed in my life at that moment to teach me a great many things.

Then one day, my coincidental companion and I happened to be walking down an empty street on a rainy day and happened -- by chance -- upon a young Egyptian woman who laughed and cried and bonded with us for the whole week she had remaining in the country before she had to return to Egypt.

What a coincidence: she came to the United States -- UC Berkeley, to be specific -- during the very summer that I moved from Hawaii and happened to be two states away. I visited her last weekend with my coincidental companion.

And there we sat in a Berkeley cafe -- a returned missionary from Lithuania and the companion she met in Ireland with the phenomenally awesome Egyptian they met once for a week. And together we marveled that God is so good at coincidences.

Some things I failed to mention

Once upon a time, on a blazing hot morning in the desert, there was matrimony.

And while we're on the topic of major life events, I recently realized I rarely include them when I'm writing about my life. So let's do this like a resume, shall we? Most recent first. List style. But with photos.

1. July 30, 2011. Scott (my brother) and Jayne (my new sister) were absolutely BEAMING yesterday. They couldn't keep their eyes (or hands) off each other. Totally legal, though, since it was their wedding day. I'm so happy to welcome this gorgeous, confident, loving, bargain-shopping woman into our family, to see my brother in such a blissful state, and to pass along the "grandkids question" to someone else.

2. June 2010. I graduated from college. I know, I know, all the kids are doing it. To me, however, this was a long time coming. It feels good to say I did it. I did it! I'm done! *Sigh of immense relief.

3. November 26, 2010. Once upon a time, on a humid morning on the islands, there was another matrimony. Mine. 'Twas the most unforgettable day of my life, though it came and went like a blur... Does that make sense? We rode away into the sunset (literally) on Kendon's yellow motorcycle (which died the next day... my parents had to pick us up from our honeymoon). Can it get any better than a tropical island wedding and a remote mountaintop cottage? Oh, yes. Every day.

P.S. The rumors about in-laws? All lies. These Bagleys are the bee's knees.

4. November 2010. Shortly before my big day, brother Neal had his own big day... and I don't mean with a woman. This commitment was to God, for two years, and he continues to commit on a daily basis, all the way over in Bolivia. Neal has white hair and blue eyes. Bolivians don't. I wish I could delight in this contrast by seeing it for myself. Instead I just daydream about it. I couldn't be prouder of my towhead Bolivian hermano.

5. September 10, 2010. Once upon a time, on a slightly chilly morning in Logan, Utah, there was also matrimony. Brother Alan made the wisest choice he's ever made by finding someone who will force him to make wise choices for the rest of his days. Heidi is the most organized, devoted, and domestic 20-year-old I've ever met. When I was her age I was still failing at tuna melts. I'm proud to call her my sister.

6. July 2010. I went to France on Bastille Day. Then to Lithuania for friendship purposes (see why in item 8), where my camera got stolen. So no photos here.

7. November 2009. I went to New Zealand with great friends and ate white bait with eggs.

8. October 2009. I also did a gig where I committed to God. It was for 18 months in the wee country of Lithuania (Labas visiems!), and it ended one sad, tear-filled October afternoon. I will never, ever, ever forget the beautiful people of this country. I will never stop loving them. And if I can't meet them again in this life, I hope to be a good enough girl to see them in the next, where I will give big, "thank-you" tackle-hugs to all the people who changed my life and perspective in this lush, resilient nation.

Note: I went to Ireland too. For six weeks. And gained memories to last a lifetime.

Yes. There. I'm glad to have gotten that all off my chest. Now perhaps, dear readers, you will know a deeper side of me. You will understand my reasons for loving the things I love (like family), and hating the things I hate (like bigotry), and not really caring about certain things (like white bait). Seriously. Don't try the white bait.

Earigations

After being half-deaf for some time now, I made an appointment at the campus health center yesterday as an alternative to learning ASL. It was a relatively painless process -- kind of an awesome sensation, really -- a syringe that sprays water into my ear and lets nasty brown chunks of wax out into a kidney-shaped tray waiting below. The experience, however, brought me back to a day a little over a year ago that involved a dear friend. It is with her permission that I share this story. Actually... she has no idea.

Rachel -- then Sister Richards -- was my LDS mission companion. It's a rare privilege to get to serve in the same mission as your best friend. Even rarer and more privilege-y is when she gets to be your companion. We lived together in a small, quaint Lithuanian town called Siauliai when one morning Rachel woke up without her hearing. A regular part of a missionary day is talking to people, and my friend was getting frustrated as she found herself approaching strangers, not being able to hear them, then having them walk away in confusion when she couldn't communicate with them. Finally we decided it was time to take medical action.

Lithuanian hospitals are very... Soviet. What many have found is that if you don't need antibiotics when you go in, you will most certainly need them when you come out. Instruments are rusty. Doctors don't have fancy light-up tools to look in your mouth but rather duct-taped flashlights to hats on their heads. Dark, moldy, paint-chipped walls surround rooms with squeaky beds and dirty windows. People don't smile, and who can blame them? It was thus with much trepidation that we -- and especially Rachel -- stepped into the Siauliai hospital waiting room.

A dirty old poster hung on the wall and dust covered the painted floor when we walked in. Rachel got more fidgety as we sat and waited our turn to learn our fate and destination. "3rd floor, Wing C," said the pink-haired woman behind the counter when we told her our problem. To get to 3rd floor, Wing C one must walk down a long, very dark underground hallway. It is painted green. There are metal doors leading to other wings as you make your way through the "cave," as we called it, labeled "radiology," "dermatology," and "podiatry." I swear I saw an especially large grey door labeled "morgue."

When we made our way to the "eye, nose and ears" department on 3rd floor, Wing C, Rachel was pale. Her eyes gave away the fear that she would walk away from Siauliai hospital as a female version of Van Gogh (an irrational fear: Rachel's a terrible artist). We sat outside the door, waiting for our turn to enter the mysterious "eye, nose and ears" office. Finally we were let out of the green, dirty flourescent-lit hallway into a bright, fresh, well-lit office. Two cheerful women in clean white coats greeted us, looked into Rachel's ears with an instrument my family doctor in America would use, and chatted with us as they worked. Then one of them used a shiny, legitimate-looking instrument to remove a big ball of wax from Rachel's ear. No one got deadly infections. No one lost any limbs. Nothing in the room was rusty or even smelled weird. The sun gleamed through the big windows. It was incredibly anticlimactic... just like this blog entry. The end.