Surviving and Thriving

Exciting news as of late is… drumroll, please… Internet access!! Apparently I wasn’t the only one scheming about getting Internet access in my room, with my computer. Last Friday, as I read in my room, I heard, “Tell Denise!” Seconds later, my door swings open, with my host ma informing me I must move my bed. “Drilling hole in wall” and “Internet” were mixed in whatever she said as she manhandled my bed for me. Sure enough, on the other side of my wall, an older man, grinning from ear to ear, sat cross-legged on the floor, looking a bit like a chimney sweeper but wielding a drill with a one inch diameter bit and a foot long shaft. More than enough to send concrete flying as he bored into the wall right next to a heating pipe. He snaked the Ethernet cord through and went on his merry way. My sister and I then strung the cord behind my wardrobe, letting it rest on the heating pipe. No worries, right?

A day or two later, necessary steps were taken for the computer I’ve got to get online. Ah, being able to wake up early and talk on Skype without using the family’s computer, which sits feet from where my sister sleeps. Now to figure out how to access blocked pages…

It’s little, but oh, it’s big.
What a wonderful evening. Gathered around a small kitchen table, I help my host family pinch together squares of dough around a spoonful of an onion and raw ground beef mixture. Manti. Oh, it’s delicious. The bundles – about the size of 1 ½ golf balls, maybe (?) are then put onto a special cooking appliance. Think tall pot for the stovetop, with lots of stackable layers inside. Get water boiling and the manti is steamed until fully cooked. In order to keep the bottoms from sticking, they’re dipped in a bit of oil right before placing them onto the metal pan. We finished off the dough, but had a handful of meat left over.

Now, in times past, I observed that the little bit of meat ended up in the trash. Tragic. So, I asked if I could cook the meat. I was greeted with looks of utter confusion. “You mean, in the oven?” asked my host mother and sister. “Or, you must mean the microwave?” Our little dog gets meat they put in the microwave for a few minutes. So maybe I want to eat what they feed the dog? “No, on the stovetop. In a skillet,” I say slowly. More confused looks. “Uh, may I have your permission to try it?” And getting an affirmative, but hesitant, reply, I got out a little skillet, perfect for the task. By now it was clear I was doing something crazy by putting raw meat and onions in a skillet.

But oh, cooking meat as my mom does! How wonderful! I grabbed some seasoning sent from the States – a citrus grill blend that smells delicious – and sprinkled some on the meat as it started sizzling away. (By the way, excellent choice, friends.) A few minutes later, I went to look for a spoon to remove the oil that had cooked out of the meat. As I step back to my skillet, my well-meaning host mother approaches with… remember the oil we dipped the manti in?? …with the excess oil. And dumps it on my browned hamburger. Yep, seconds before I was going to take out the grease already there. Really?? Really. Argh. Dejected, I now drain out as much of that oil as I can and put my cooked hamburger in a little bowl. After tasting a bite, my host mother, yep, thought it needed more grease.

Such a small event, but so, so telling of the cooking style here. The more butter, the better. Where some spread butter on bread, they slice butter for their bread. How about a little chicken with your oil? And oh, I could go on and on with little examples. Is it better to eat tomatoes and cucumbers saturated in soy sauce or not eat vegetables? Lord, give me the vocabulary and grace to explain the concept of healthy food prep. I promise it can save your waistline and your wallet.

Out and About
After my first bus ride to Karaganda, you may correctly infer that my host family can tend on the protective side. Makes Mom and Dad happy, at least. But when I mentioned a trip to a small town five hours northeast of here, they were hell-bent on talking me out of it. Some volunteers were gathering to play winter games, and I was excited at the prospect of joining in on the fun. Though, realizing it could likely be around -25*F, I decided against mentioning “outdoor games”.

Even so, my host mother launched into horror stories of buses freezing up and sliding off the road in the middle of the steppe with no one around to save them. Watching TV, she switched over to the news channel. Perfectly timed was a news flash of a bus, teetering in a ditch, with no sign of civilization in sight. If they had proceeded to pan across a field strewn with people lying frozen in the snow as they ran for help, I would have been converted then and there. Rather, I assured her I would seek advice from the volunteer with whom I’d be staying, and my host mother dropped it. Or rather, switched tactics. From my room I heard the order to my sister, “You must tell Denise she cannot go. It’s simply too dangerous.”

Sure enough, I soon got an animated message from my sister. The roads will be closed. Dangerous. Don’t go. But the final straw was the forecast I looked at while talking with my parents. The night I’d sleep over was predicted to be a whopping 50 below. I don’t care if you’re talking Celsius or Fahrenheit. That’s dang cold. So instead of frolicking in the snow, I wrapped up with a blanket and a cup of steaming hot tea, safe in my Shakhtinsk apartment.

This weekend, though, there’s no turning back. I’m setting out for Balhash, a town on the northern side of a lake by the same name. My purchased train tickets tell me the trip will take 11 hours each way. Boy, let’s hope I get myself on the right train and off at the right spot. Hey Ma, wanna talk to the train conductor for me? ; )

How’s the weather?
Как мороз? Как наша зимой? Ты холодна? Teachers ask. Students ask. Strangers ask. Women at the post office ask. Whatever form the question takes, their curiosity carries a common theme – aren’t I on the verge of death by frost? Nonchalantly, I reply that the weather is fine. I mean, it’s cold, but we also have seasons in the United States. The Northern U.S. is on a similar latitude as Kazakhstan. Result? Similar weather. Not often is it this cold in the U.S., but it’s not always this cold in KZ, either. As confirmed by many locals: this is one heck of a winter we’re in.

As a result, I think we’re still on Christmas vacation (or New Year’s vacation…). Will we have school today? Nope. Tomorrow? Likely not. How about next week? May be a negative there, too. I give my 4th graders a grade, or score, each time I see them. They’ve gotten a grand total of five scores so far this year. It’s February, folks. And even though they only have English 3 days a week, I’m still shocked at how seldom school has been in session. For those of you who are asking, “So, they’ll make up those days in the summer, right?” Nope. Which leaves teachers in quite the predicament. But no use getting worked up about it. Rather, I’ve taken to saying, “When spring comes, the children will come.”

Масленица
And according to the Russian holiday we’re smack in the middle of, we get to welcome spring right now! (Just never mind that we’re usually in the neighborhood of -20*F.) It’s Pancake Week! Масленица is a Russian religious and folk holiday. The folk side says it’s a sun festival, ushering in spring. The Christian aspect corresponds with Lent. For Russian Orthodox Christians, meat is already forbidden this week, and it’s the last week they may eat eggs and dairy products. In typical fashion, binge before the fast. So to tie the folk and religious celebrations together, you eat блины (crepe-like pancakes)!

Blinis symbolize the sun – round and golden. And they’re impressively versatile. Delicious as-is; or smeared with butter, jam, or сметана; or burrito-style with any number of fillings. For dinner, roll a blini around cooked meat and onions or chicken or potatoes or vegetables… For dessert, go with творог (think dry cottage cheese) with sugar mixed in, or sweetened condensed milk, or honey, or jam… Oh, I’m getting hungry writing about it!

In talking with an English teacher at school today, I learned that each day of the week has a special activity attached. For instance, on Wednesday the mother-in-law brings her son-in-law blinis. (Precisely the “activity” you had in mind, yeah?) The English teacher said her mother held up her end of the deal, and said she expected her son-in-law to bring her blinis on Friday. Other activities apparently include sleigh-riding and visiting godparents. (Got the last bit from Wikipedia… so don’t go betting a lung or anything on the validity of it.)

Anyway, I like any excuse to make and especially eat blinis. I’ll have to be sure to get plenty of practice to ensure successful replication outside the country. Sadly, we haven’t had blinis since Monday. While I was rather hoping for a daily dose, I suppose there’s always the possibility of too much of a good thing.