It’s summer — time for watermelons.
We try a Santa Claus melon. “At seven bucks for a football-sized melon, it’d better be good,” I think.
“Tastes like pure honey,” K says.
Perhaps a bit too sweet, though.
Anyone try one?
When K and I began dating, we met every one evening a week at Pasieka, a small restaurant in her home village. It gave us a chance to see each other during the week (it was a long-distance relationship: all of seven kilometers between our villages), and I didn’t have to cook for myself one day a week.
We’d have a beer or two, talk about our week thus far, make plans for the weekend — it was the highlight of the week. After our marriage, we visited Pasieka less frequently, but when we come back to Poland, we have to go back to Pasieka.
We walked to the restaurant for a bite of supper and to meet with “Johnny,” a friend who now lives abroad.
Except for the order of fries for the little girl who joined us, it was just like old times.
Crepes wrapped around a mix of pureed fresh strawberries, farmer’s cheese, homemade whipped cream.
Strawberries: they’re what’s for dinner…
For many years of my youth, my mother and I went on Wednesday afternoons to a nearby farm to get fresh milk. The cream would sit on top, a visible band of white that dared you to disturb it.
Eventually, the couple stopped producing milk for sale and we went back to store-bought milk. It was a let-down.
Through a friend, though, K and I have found another farm.
Now if K’s mother were only here for a visit so she could make her amazing doughnuts…
 |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |
 |  |  |  |  |  | ||||||
Recent Comments