dvi silkes

Unless you count washing dishes, I have no particular talent in the kitchen. I can’t “eyeball” measurements like my Mother can, I have no idea what “season to taste” is supposed to mean, and “golden brown” easily becomes “burnt black” when I am in charge. Recently, however, a recipe for something new fell into my lap, and I couldn’t resist having a whirl. The ingredients went something like this:

• one box of goodies sent to us from Nathan’s parents
• a touch of Christmas nostalgia
• one persistent craving for a Slurpee
• one nacho-fanatic husband
• a pinch of homework-free days
• a ray of sunshine making the kitchen the most desirable place to be

Several round of pots and pans and a few days later, four scrumptious new dishes had been stirred, grated, rolled, boiled, grilled, frozen…and licked clean. Here are the results:

Cranberry-Orange Bread, inspired by a bag of soft, dried cranberries sent by Nathan’s parents. The freshly grated orange rind in this loaf makes it smell wonderful, and even though it is usually baked as a Christmas tradition, our boiled version tasted almost as good in May.

Iced-coffee-slush, reminiscent of the kind I used to slurp while driving around on a hot summer day in Canada. This was the closest I could come to slurpee-making, but I am not at all disappointed. Topped with a drizzle of maple syrup, this is so good!

Vegetarian Sloppy-Joe’s, thanks to a seasoning packet that came in our goodie box. We decided to try buckwheat as a ground beef substitute, and were surprised…it worked!

Nachos made from scratch. The jar of Cheez Whiz that Nathan’s parents sent was the perfect thing to go with nachos, but we couldn’t find any unflavoured ones at our local stores. Finally, I decided to attempt making tortillas using a recipe from my culinarily astute cousin-in-law. The process of mixing, kneading, resting, cooking, cutting, oiling, and grilling the tortillas into nachos was a lot of work, but the fun of dipping them into gooey, melted Cheez Whiz made it all worth it. And they must have been pretty good, because they are all gone…even the burnt ones.

When we purchased our apartment, we had a new, super-duper-secure front door installed. This replaced the two old doors that had been used by a variety of renting tenants, and gave us the security of having a brand new set of keys. It also gave us a big ugly mess of crumbling bricks (mortared with something resembling hay and horse hair) in the doorway. The company that installed the new door had offered to repair the frame for us, but when they told us that it would cost an additional 1000 Litas, we decided that crumbly brick had a certain…charm.

We have often talked about how to repair the door ourselves: whether we would use drywall, or try to mix up concrete. The sight of broken bricks and chipped mortar has often been the subject of my daydreams, and has kept my brain spinning well into the night too many times. So, after much researching and measuring, and with more than a little trepidation, we finally dove into the unfamiliar territory of brickwork, cement, and drywall. It took four days, too many trips to the hardware store, a few leftover chunks of wood, an entire tube of wonder-glue, two sheets of drywall, and half of an apple crate, but we finally have a doorframe. It is still unpainted, and the bottom of the entry will be a piece of drywall until we can figure out what to do with it, but even if this white, square box is lacking in charm, it is fabulous.

Thankfully, the (almost) finished product doesn’t reveal the quirky details that went into its construction: like the finishing nails that are holding the metal drywall edging on, or the splinters of apple crate used as shims against the lumpy concrete wall, the splatters of quick-dry cement that always seemed to dry to quickly, or the three glue-laminated layers of drywall that dropped the header low enough to meet the doorframe. Eventually, the last of the plaster dust will be evicted from the crevices of our house, the smell of glue will vanish from the air, and my battered hands and aching arms will recover enough to let me forget the unpleasantness of sanding. Until then, I will chase after plaster dust, soothe my shoulders with hot packs, and wait to see where the next daydream leads.

It was a typical day of studying. In addition to wearing wool socks and two sweaters, I had piled our warmest blankets around my study-zone on the couch, and the laptop was dutifully keeping my knees and fingers frost-free. I have to admit, I don’t particularly like studying, so when the doorbell rang, I was eager to take a break. I climbed out of my blanket-igloo, and skidded over to the front door.

Out of habit and curiosity, I opened the peephole to see who could be standing on our landing. There were two young men, perhaps in their early twenties; both dressed casually in jeans and jackets. Since the main entrance has to be opened with a key, we don’t get a lot of visitors, but the door is often left open during the day, and solicitors, utilities people, Mormons, or potato sellers sometimes make their way to our door. These two didn’t look like utilities workers, and they certainly weren’t Mormons, but I would have happily bought a kilo of potatoes, so I opened the door.

I smiled, and said “good day,” they politely nodded and replied with the same. Then, the flash of a badge, and one single word: police. I wish I could describe what occurred in the following few seconds, but sudden anxiety does interesting things to one’s brain. My eyes were completely fixed on the shiny, laminated “Policija” card that was being held up in front of me. Or maybe it wasn’t anymore. Maybe he had already folded it back up and put it in his pocket, but it was still all I could see. Apparently, they were undercover policemen, and the one on the left was asking me something. I stared. Then the one on the right looked at me with a flicker of sympathy, and I heard him say, in Russian, that perhaps I didn’t understand. But I did understand, and managed to stutter the much-rehearsed phrase, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Lithuanian very well.” They didn’t look too impressed, and within the span of a heartbeat (which, at this point was pretty fast), a dozen thoughts flashed across my mind:

I am legal! I have a valid visa; it’s in my coat pocket…my left coat pocket. It’s pink, and shiny, and looks surprisingly like your police card, only smaller. We own our flat, and have the document to prove it. Goodness, these two guys are young to be policemen. What if they want to arrest me? What if I have to go to the police station? Can I ask to use the bathroom first? I really need to go to the bathroom. I don’t want to go to the police station in my frumpy blue study sweater. And the blankets on the couch are a mess. What time is it? Nathan is teaching; I wish he were here. Maybe they want to arrest Nathan. But we are legal! Just let me get my visa…

Somehow, simultaneously, I was processing what these two young men were saying. They wanted to know about our neighbours across the hall: their names, were they home, etc. Of course, I find speaking Lithuanian difficult enough, so when my brain is squeezed in panic, forming phrases and parsing verbs becomes nearly impossible. Through a stumbling mix of Lithuanian and English, I explained that we know very little about these particular neighbors. The lady who lives there, I said, likes to keep the hallways tidy, and the man who comes and goes is, sadly, usually drunk. We actually see very little of them, and aside from the occasional “hello,” they keep to themselves. I felt bad that I couldn’t be more helpful, but also very relieved that they hadn’t been looking for me! We stitched together a few more sentences, and they repeatedly assured me that everything was OK. I’m sure I looked absolutely terrified, but hopefully I didn’t seem suspicious. Maybe they were peering past me into our apartment, wondering why I was so nervous. Next thing you know, they will be asking our neighbours about us!

They thanked me for my time, I smiled (I think), and that was it. Despite an enormous sense of relief, my brain was too busy playing reruns of the encounter to focus on studying. I thought about all the difficulties we’ve had obtaining our visas, and belatedly thanked God for providing all the legal bits and pieces at just the right times. When I talked to Nathan on the phone a few minutes later, I laughed as I told him the story, but even then, the tension squeezed my voice into a squeak, and Nathan wondered if I was crying. Of course, we are living and working here perfectly legally, and we have nothing to worry about. Still, with visa restrictions getting increasingly tighter, we can’t help imagining the “what ifs.” All I know is that I have been as close as I ever want to get to a police badge.

The next time my doorbell rings, I’m hoping for the potato guy. I like potatoes.