A pickle by any other name

Once you've had the best, it's difficult to settle for less.

And I've definitely had the best.

Pickles, that is.

My grandfather Jerzy (the best jadek a polski ogórki could ever ask for) used to make the best pickles (in addition to mixing cement, sharpening knives, standing on his head and flipping his eyelids over... during dinner).

 not a flipped eyelid in sight

He was a man of many skills, my jadek. And also of languages. But back to his pickles.

He kept bottles and bottles of them in the cool, dark basement at the cottage.

Sometimes, in the middle of the day, we'd surreptitiously go down there and have a couple... PLUS a large bottle of Coca-Cola (because soft drinks were strictly forbidden). In order to avoid suspicion, we'd burp up the evidence before rejoining the rest of the family.

Since then, pickles have been one of my top comfort foods.

In fact, there aren't many things in life that aren't made better by adding pickles.

Take pizza. The smoked meat pizza at Pizzeria Magpie, more specifically. Garnished with smoked meat, pickles, cheddar cheese and Dijon mustard, it is perhaps one of the best pizzas I've ever had.

Other than the pizza made by my dad... but I digress.

Take salad. Just the other day, my mum and I tried Mandy's for the first time. Famous for their salads, Mandy's makes a mean smoked meat salad. Chock-full of salady goodness, plus "Montreal's best smoked meat" (do they mean Schwartz's or Lester's? I prefer Lester's but I can't speak for all of Montreal... or can I?), diced dill pickles and Cape Cod chips.

But wait!

Is it the smoked meat or the pickles that I truly crave???   

Speaking of cravings, isn't is weird how pregnant women crave pickles? I Googled it today and according to Dr. Phil, "women who crave pickles are really craving salt and may be mineral deficient, specifically sodium deficient."  

But why pickles? Why not... chips? Or... umm... something else?

Since I do not have answers to these questions, I will go back to what I know best: pickles.

As a true connoisseur and Polish pickle by birthright, I can safely say that Moishes kosher dill pickles, in their original brine, are the best I've had since my grandfather's.

And just like that, I'm craving deep-fried pickles. Deville Dinerbar has some divine ones. 

On the road (with Gypsies)

My favourite book is On the Road, by Jack Kerouac. I first read it when I was a teenager and have since reread it too many times to count. It struck a chord so deep in me that I had the last line, "I think of Dean Moriarty," tattooed on my forearm.

The book speaks to me for many reasons, too many to count, but I think what first attracted me to it way back when was the overall feeling of freedom I got from reading it.  

Segway to Gypsies.

Alternately (and incorrectly) referred to as Romani, Travellers and even Tinkers (look it up), what my father calls Tsigani most probably originate from a single ethnic group that left northwestern India about 1500 years ago. (Travellers and Tinkers are actually mainly of Irish origin.)

During World War II, Gypsies, along with Jews, Poles, Soviets, Jehovah's Witnesses, gays, the mentally ill and the physically disabled were all targeted by the Nazis as inferior, undesirable and even dangerous. 

While six million Jews were killed during the Holocaust, the mass slaughter also saw the death of 2.5 million Polish people and up to 1 million Gypsies (plus all previously mentioned targets) bringing the total number of innocents lost during the Holocaust closer to 17 million people.

Segway to my grandfather.

Growing up, my grandfather used to sing a song called Ochi Chernye, which means dark eyes. The tune always left me with a mournful, nostalgic, feeling that I couldn't explain.

Segway to last week.

While visiting my mother last week, we watched a movie one night called The Man who Cried. Directed by Sally Potter and set during the time when the Nazis marched into Paris, the movie stars Johnny Depp who portrays a Gypsy and Christina Ricci a Russian Jew.

While the movie left me thinking about many things, including intolerance, ignorance and xenophobia (fear and hatred of the unknown and/or foreign), it also left me thinking about what a beautiful lifestyle the Gypsies have.

With their nomadic existence and focus on family instead of consumerism, the Gypsies have, in my opinion, zeroed in on the meaning of life.

Experience. Or knowledge though experience. Another one of my tattoos.

My dad may not have a caravan but he does a shopping cart. And I can pack a suitcase (or apartment) like nobody's business. 

I'm not saying being a nomad is for everyone, but it's not surprising that I ended up with someone - the infamous beau - who lives out of a valise. 

Roma flag

Friday five

Everybody has their own soundtrack. If life is like a movie then it only makes sense. 

On the show Ally McBeal each character had their own internal theme song and at the time, somewhere between 1997 and 2002, mine was ABC, by the Jackson 5. Probably because I worked as a shelver at a library and it somehow seemed fitting (as well as motivating).  

These days I don't so much have one theme song as I have... five!

Madness by Muse has been running through my head almost constantly and one of the happiest moments I experienced recently was driving with the window open on spring while the almost theatrical song wailed defiantly on the radio.

Stay by Rihanna has also been on constant replay, in my mind at least, for the past week. I have to a admit a certain fondness, shall we say weakness, for music released by certain pop artists, like Rihanna, JLo and even, yes, Britney Spears, and this latest by RiRi is no exception. Catchy and melancholy. Gotta love it.

Thrift Shop by Macklemore, on the other hand, had to grow on me. The first time I heard the song, or rather saw the video, I thought it was a joke. Literally. And not a good one. Somewhere between that time and now it really grew on me... like mould, some might say.

I've had my grandfather on my mind lately and as such two of the songs that he used to sing while driving to the cottage have also been on my mind. I tried finding "perfect" versions, ones that really paid homage to my memories, but not surprisingly none do. Kalinka, written in 1860, and Ochi Chernye, interpreted from a poem originally written in 1843, are the songs.  

I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
   

Coming home or A partridge in a pear tree

There is something about certain people and places that make us feel like we’ve seen them before. They feel familiar.  Like when I first met my beau. There was something about him that reminded me, or made me think of, my grandfather. 
 

Funny story: About two years ago, my father gave me my grandfather’s old watch to wear. Shortly after I met my beau, it stopped working. I brought it in to get fixed but it stopped working a second time when I saw him again.

I took it as a sign.

Not surprisingly, there was also something very familiar about his family’s cottage. Those who know me well know that my grandfather built a cottage that the entire family used to visit when I was younger. 

From the moment I saw his family’s cottage this Thanksgiving, I felt like I was coming home, returning to a long lost memory. There was a similar atmosphere and vibe, yes, but the wood paneling was also the same, as were the couch and some glasses. 

And then there were the binoculars. 

I’ll never be able to return to the cottage my grandfather built because it isn’t in the family anymore, but somehow, I’ve been graced with the possibility of returning to a very similar, and familiar, one.

Thank you.