Dolce Far Tutto

The sweetness of doing everything.

Back in the spring we spent a week in the Austrian mountains doing nothing.
It was sweet.

I guess we behaved ourselves well enough on that trip because the Deaconus invited us to join them on another of their vacations in the mountains of Austria.  Only this time instead of doing nothing we did everything.

Cross-country skiing
Turns out cross-country skiing is like downhill skiing for the massively uncoordinated which includes yours truly.
It's also for those of us who recall the joy of downhill skiing in our youth yet have not forgotten what it felt like to fall while downhill skiing.  Those of us over 35 would prefer to flop over from a standing position instead of flipping end over end while zooming out of control at 40kph.
It's also a great workout although it turns out it doesn't quite mitigate the devastating effects of daily beer and sausage consumption.
But you see some beautiful scenery as you glide along and that is sweet.

Down hill skiing
Okay, so my kids are 13 and 10 and I've never taken them either skiing or snowboarding in the States.  My bad.
Unfortunately the Austrians, with their remarkable organizational skills, leave no room in their ski lesson program for the disorganized Ionescus.  Who knew that on Sunday we would have to anticipate a desire to ski on the future Wednesday and schedule accordingly.
Fortunately Mihaela and her boyfriend Roman came for a few days and were willing to provide informal lessons.

I want to publicly thank Mihaela and Roman for using the best hours of skiing weather on that particular day to stand at the bottom of a slope trying to coax my children into doing nothing more harrowing than simply sliding forward.  And eventually they did. Sweet.

Outdoor ice skating
At 12 I had no skating talent and my skills are not like a fine wine; time did nothing to improve them.  However, I went around the oval rink and remained upright and consider that sweet success enough.

Ioana possesses far greater skill which is evidenced from the fact that she was going fast enough to blur the photo. Bravo!

Mountain tobogganing
Probably the highlight of the whole week.
The first time we tried this dubiously safe activity was at night and this was not without its perils.  Perils involving hurling yourself down an unknown mountain trail in the dark with snow pelting you in the face.
However the Austrians are kind enough to provide warnings:
(I particularly enjoy the more highly the dead weight bit)

But when you are a teenage boy (or the adult father) loaded with testosterone do you bother to stop and read?  No. Neither do you listen to your mother as she shouts "pay attention to the signs....!"

The only way up is by chair lift.  In the dark.  In the snow. Sweet.

Ioana and Luci are the only people I got photos of not because they were going slower than the others but because they were the only two that I trusted would slow down and not plow into me while I was taking their picture.
It's a hazardous world for us bloggers.

Bathing
Unlike Budapest these baths were almost completely inside and with staff that were far more organized and less Gestapo-ish than in Budapest.  Still, for the beauty of the buildings and the variety of the water temperatures you can't beat Gellert or Szechenyi.
However, inside these baths there were lounge chairs to lie on and fire places to keep you warm while you relaxed and watched the snow falling outside.  Ahhhhh.....sweet.

There were also two water slides.  Mihai was clocked at 5:15 seconds.

Firework launching (and having no one lose an eye or finger in the process=sweet)

Duck feeding while others are cross-country skiing and trying to sweat off their beer and french fries.  Sweet, huh?

Snow ball fights (not getting hit with one the entire week-sweet)

And after all this outdoor-ness, what do you think was left to do?  Eat and drink.  Sweet.

Mia and Carlo, this is for you: the boys got hot chocolate after skiing.  They were trying to keep alive your tradition of hot chocolate after surfing.

That the Deaconus and the Ionescus are happy doing nothing (other than eating) was well established last spring. Apparently we are also happy doing a lot of things (as well as eating).
The fact that we like to do nothing or everything all together is...

saccharine.

Day of Pigs

Where to begin with this subject?

Probably with a message to any vegans or PETA card-holders who are reading:  Stop.
Seriously, don't read this.  Hit "next blog" or get up and go find an animal to save or a chunk of butter to weep over.

That's my upfront apology.

Now on with the business at hand.

Confession:
Yes I've killed me a pig or two in my day.
The Americans are shocked, the Romanians are like "So?  You're over 35, you should have killed more than 2, what have you been doing all these years, spending your days at the dentist?  What about chickens?  No, none? You're pathetic."

The thing is, it's hard to kill an animal.  I wish I were more quoteable on the subject but there it is with the bark still on.  Whether or not you enjoy bacon is pretty much beside the point when it comes time to wield the knife.  Emotionally and physically it's a rough road to travel especially when that road takes you past a dozen Trader Joes, Safeways and Whole Foods.  Oh, just a left turn into the parking lot and the bloody, pig-squealing, husband-weeping business could be avoided you think.  Just a few dollars on the counter and I walk away with a pork chop in cellophane and styrofoam.  

But we don't have Trader Joe's in Obedin.  We don't even have cellophane.  We have knives and pigs and what more do you need when you want a pork chop dinner?  Ah, actually it's a bit more organized than that: when the smell of snow is in the air, when the mayor hangs the lone string of Christmas lights from the electrical pole at the mid-way point on the village road, when the drum kettles are pulled up from the root cellars and dusted off, it's time for little Wilbers to meet their end.  Charlotte does not know how to write "some pig" in Romanian and Tempelton got eaten by the dogs on his way across the yard one morning. It ain't no Hannah Barbera cartoon here folks.

This year we didn't actually have to kill the pig.  I'm glad because I didn't have Marius here to help with that particular task, I only had Mihai and he usually can't manage much more than some quiet weeping while he secretly urges the animal: "Run, run for you life!"

The pig arrived on our doorstep already dead (the point at which it evolves from pig to pork is vague but it might be at this particular juncture) and the next step was the "processing".  What a deceptive word that is.  So small, so simple, so inadequate to describe five or six days of your hands, wrists, arms, knees, feet, nose all up in guts, blood, sinew, fat, muscle and organs.

By the end of the second 8-hour processing day the pig has begun to seek its revenge.

Pig fat coats every surface in your house, which means you can't turn door handles or walk across your kitchen floor without ending up in the splits or careening into the cabinets head first. Extra points if you were carrying a pot of diced pig skin when you fell.

By day four the odor of boiling pork parts hangs thick and humid throughout every cubic foot, not even the bathrooms are safe.  Trying to brush your teeth without breathing through your nose poses such a problem that you give it up entirely, preferring to risk tooth decay rather than have that scent trapped inside your nasal sinuses.

By day five there are no pots nor pans, no plates nor cups nor plastic bins to be found that are not filled to overflowing with pig pieces.  Your children beg for a hot meal and you tell them to stick their peanut butter sandwich in the microwave and leave you alone while you sob into your pig-perfumed hands.

In the end you have tubs of loin and chops on the balconies, pots of organs on the stove, jars of fat on the counter tops and ropes of sausages in the attic. Your pork-scented sleep is filled with nightmares of little cloven-footed animals dancing on your bed, mocking your nauseated, swine-infused exhaustion.

The next morning some insane person requests sausage with their breakfast and you dutifully stumble into the low-beamed attic to retrieve some.  On the way out, choking back the bile, you ram your head into the ceiling and then try to soothe the wound with a pork-fat covered kitchen towel.

Oh is it really that bad you ask?
Yes.
And folks here do this without running water in their homes, without washing machines in which they can throw a load of pork-fat covered clothes and towels...I don't know how they do it.
They do it because they have to.  Not like us silly Americans who do it because we're trying to be Renaissance men and women or who feel guilty enough about the tragedy of pig farms that we don't want to contribute financially to them but not so guilty that we'll give up baby back ribs.
So we get what we deserve.
And while we weep into our pork-infused pillows or crack our heads open on the pork-fat-slick floors I know that somewhere, somehow, a little pig is laughing darkly.

Budapest

I know what you're saying, "Budapest again?"
Go ahead, roll your eyes, huff in exasperation.  I'm all the way over here in tiny Obedin, Romania and I can't see or hear you.

Most of you won't even bother with this post, you'll just skip it and wait for the next installment wherein I will either discuss having a dead pig arrive on your doorstep the day after your mother-in-law has begun chemotherapy or perhaps dental health in the post-communist world.

But for those of you who care (and the short list includes my mother, who really only wants to see photos of her grandchildren, Linda and maybe Tali and Anand if they aren't lost in the Ajanta Caves of India) this is Budapest in the late fall.
Mostly it's little series of photos.  I was fooling around with the lighting, thinking I had finally found the one lone artistic molecule in my body.  Turns out it was just another one of the anal, neurotic molecules of which I have billions upon billions but this one decided to go crazy and wear purple that day.  Fooled me.
So I took photos. The anal molecules force me to use all of the photos I take which brings us to this post.

It begins with the Palikarium (riotously fantastic) and ends with that couple on the bench by the river at dusk...raise your hand if you don't melt over that bit of sweetness.