Big week. I learned to crochet. This is the second yarn-related skill have acquired during my time in Armenia and could be my last, unless I find someone who knows how to macramÈ plant holders. Those things are really cool.

Anyway, I’ve been crocheting something white and formless. Like a cloud, it’s open to interpretation just what it is. Fluffy bunny? Baby bootie? Fart in a mitten?

My teacher is a nice lady named Hasmik. She crochets so quickly I get dizzy watching the needle. Or maybe my swimming head is having trouble with all the new Armenian vocabulary needed to learn crochet: ornament, ring, chain, needle, you-twit-not-like-that.

I made up that last part. She’d never call me a twit, because she’s very nice. And even if she did, I’d never know. I don’t know the word for twit.

-m

I’ve been occupying myself this morning looking up words in the dictionary. Because I’m a giver, I’d like to share with you my favorite word today.

gimcrack (adjective): flimsy or poorly made but deceptively attractive

There’s a noun version too!

“a cheap and showy ornament; a knickknack”

But for what reason might one ever use this word? Here’s one, complete with a photo illustration!

“This gimcrack tea kettle looked good in the store but hasn’t worked since I brought it home.”

-m

Since about New Year’s, I’ve been looking out the window, wishing the greenhouse effect were a little more ... effective. Because right now, mine is a cold cold world, where even the ice would like to be asked in for a cup of hot cocoa.

Alright, it has warmed up a bit, and it’s possible I’m being a baby. For example, not everything is covered in thick white snow anymore. Patches have melted away, revealing black mud and suggesting that somewhere in the world, humankind has thought to combine Oreo cookie crumbles with vanilla ice cream.

Those people were geniuses.

People round these parts were saying in January that this was the coldest it’s been in the region in 100 years. I’m not going to doubt the veracity of these claims, because imagining something colder makes my hair hurt.

Just how cold was it? So cold that when water finally - and unexpectedly - made it through the pipes and into the house, our kitchen flooded because the pipes out of the house were frozen. So cold that our toilet froze and someone in our house who wasn’t me had to poop in a bucket. So cold that I collected some twigs and dried berries, stashed them under the covers, crawled into bed, and didn’t come out for a month.

I’m including some photo evidence of the cold. In the first photo, you’ll see the crispy freezey view from our living room. In the second, you’ll see that our water storage turned into ice storage. You can’t quite see it, but a piece of steel wool fell into the bucket, froze, and couldn’t be recovered until this month.

-m

First off, let me just say that I don’t remember the last time that I wrote in livejournal. Sorry about that. I guess that you’ll just have to take my word for it that I’ve actually been in Armenia for the last 16 months -- because I have. Where else would I get a chance to meet the friends (read: parasites) in my digestive system?

So yes, we ate the Armenian delicacy today. Apparently, we are not as devoted to the khash as the Armenians of yore. While we ate our khash with lavash at a table like a bunch of sissies, the real way to eat it is to put a towel over your head and eat it lampshade style. Why? The better to inhale the garlic broth, my dear. I think that it makes farmer’s blowing (or “snot rocketing”) a bit easier as well. On to the khash!

So yes, my name is Andrew and I enjoy khash. While the aforementioned garlic, water, and rectum taste was not there. It was more of a garlic, water, and butter with nuances of duodenum. Really, the garlic and the water covered up the organish tastes that could have arisen had an amateur created this concoction.

I think that it is worth noting that this soup does not resemble slaughterhouse floor at all. The Indiana Jones “eyeball soup” thing should not come to mind either. Rather, picture chicken noodle soup. Now take out the chicken. Good. Get rid of those noodles, and if you’re into vegetables, get rid of those too. Ok. So you’re left with the broth, right? Take a garlic clove now. No, one that’s bigger than that. Nope, bigger. Good. Now multiply that by 15. Excellent. Mince those 15 garlic cloves and put them in a vat of oil. Yes, I said a vat. Add that to your chicken-less noodle-less garlic soup broth and then go find yourself some salt. Now as I learned today, you can never have too much salt in your khash, so start adding. Don’t be shy, there’s no shortage of salt on the planet. When you’ve added enough salt to raise your blood pressure to 2000/5 million, get yourself some things from a cow. Please note, I did not say “meat.” This is on purpose because not everything in a cow is “meat,” right? Just add one or two of those things (don’t put too much thought into what parts you’re using... it’s better that way). And voila, you have what khash looks like.

So Melissa pretty much covered everything else. We made new friends today putting our total of new friends to somewhere around 50 and new enemies at 0. Our new friends are anxious to have us over so that they can show us how khorovats (Armenian barbeque) is really made: in using a hole in the ground that’s big enough to double as a room for your personal gimp. I can’t wait.

So thank you for allowing me this opportunity to write in livejournal.

Flavorfully yours,
Andrew

My line when the issue of khash, the traditional Armenian soup made with cow hooves and various innards, in the past has been: Welllll, it’s not that it’s bad. It’s just that it’s not good either.

Which, based upon said ingredients, sounds gracious. After today’s second attempt at eating khash, however, I’m going to have to come up with a new line. It may go something like this:

“Khash isn’t bad. It’s actually pretty good. Wait. That can’t be right.”

But it actually sort of is. Good, that is. When made by the right person, which today’s khash must have been. Because, unlike last time, I ate today until I was full, not until my gag reflex was activated.

So here’s what the stuff is, for those who want the gory details of how it’s eaten.

The soup arrives as sort of a clear broth with white and brown chunks in it. The chunks are organs that have been cooking in the broth for a good solid day, maybe more. My understanding of this process is admittedly sketchy, but according to the Peace Corps cookbook, khash contains four cow hooves, six lamb tongues and a kilo of cow tripe. I sort of wish I hadn’t just looked that up.

I’ve heard that guests of honor may often be the recipients of said hooves. This doesn’t happen today, and I don’t feel the need to ask. It is best not to give people ideas.

Now that the soup is on the table, it’s time to assess the condiments nearby. There is a small bowl of crushed garlic, a tiny salt dish, plates of radish sticks and pickled peppers (think pepperoncini), and stacks of dried lavash set directly on the table.

Our host, an Army officer who’s taking English lessons with Andrew, offers instructions to my husband on khash-eating (I’m off the hook because I’ve done this before). But because learning is best accomplished via demonstration, Arnak himself spoons garlic into Andrew’s bowl and pinches salt out of the dish and into the soup. Andrew is instructed to stir and taste. Once his khash has the desired level of salt and garlic, Arnak crumbles lavash into Andrew’s soup like saltines into chili, except much more. Our other host, Gegham, tells us to keep piling on the lavosh until there’s no standing broth.

Khash is to be eaten with the hands. But since it is soup, assistance is necessary. Our hosts urge us to use other pieces of lavash as scoops, one in each hand. Another piece of lavash should lie across part of the bowl, to keep the heat in while you eat from the other side.

I’m a little freaked out to take my first bite, because my memory of khash is that it tastes like garlic, water, and rectum. My suspicions that this khash is different, however, are confirmed when Andrew says, “I actually like this.”

Gegham tells us to eat the radish and peppers too. For me, they act as a crisp refresher between bites of this really rich stew. But he says they clean out the system because the khash just sort of sits inside your gut if eaten alone. For the record, I’ve given up health lessons in social situations.

So we eat. And we toast with vodka. It is a nice time. It is a hangist time, easy-going and mellow. No drinking til we pass out, no force-feeding, no talking about the inferiority of America to “Our Armenia” (a popular topic for many hosts).

Our time together is just... good. And so is the cow hoof soup.

It’s hard to know if the arrival of my mother- and father-in-law bought us local capital or just made people ‘round here wish they could swap Andrew and I out for an upgrade. Suffice it to say Kathy and Gary were a hit, and we’ll be hearing about how beautiful and wrinkle-free they are until August 2007. I’m not joking about that. We probably will.

Should also mention the diabetes clinic we did Oct. 10-12. We screened about 260 people for diabetes and one person for a really gross bald patch on her head. I hope to never see that thing again. Anyway, the clinic was a success. Every patient got a blood pressure check, blood sugar test, height/weight measurement, and one-on-one consultation with the good doctor.

Now, Andrew and I are going to conduct classes for the diabetics who attended and distribute blood sugar testers to those who qualify. Just one problem. The testers and about 1,000 test strips are hung up in customs and guarded by an underfed grizzly bear. If anyone knows how to tame said grizzly bear, please respond. Quickly. Andrew wants his arm back.

Enough about work. Everyone wanted to hospitality* the fam, so we ended up eating enough dolma to turn into dolma (Have you had this? Ground beef and stuff rolled up either in grape or cabbage leaves. Pretty tasty). We also drank enough coffee to turn into coffee, and over the coffee, exchanged stories of family heritage, work, and how the kids’ generation always has it easier than the parents’. Universal stuff.

To work off some of the hospitality, which has been settling into my hips for about 16 months now, we went on a hike. The hike took us from Jermuk, home of the healthiest water on the planet, to Gndevas, home of people my counterpart tells jokes about. It was about 14 kilometers, uphill both ways and so snowy we had to walk along the fencetops. Wait, wrong story. It was a pleasant fall day with no snow at all. At the end of the hike, there was a big old monastery, dating back to the 10th century.

... And along that hike I took the above photo of Kathy. She stands proudly at the base of the 2nd Most Scariest Stairs in the World. They’re made entirely of rebar.

-m

Look, I’ve tried really hard to not know a damn thing about football, but it hasn’t really worked out for me. See, I married someone who not only is into the football – and the Huskers to boot – but plays it twice yearly in the Peace Corps Amenia Khash Bowl.

So I’ve resigned myself to swooning over my favorite quarterback, No. 99 Andrew Ensz, who threw five TD passes and rushed for two touchdowns to lead the South to a 9-7 victory over the North on Saturday.

Did that paragraph seem like I knew what I was talking about? Here’s hoping.

My favorite quarterback Andrew Ensz looked very hunky for the big game. Now, though, he’s a little hobbly. If there were ice in this country, his shoulder might be a good place for it. I’ll ask if he can raise his left arm over his head yet, and get back to you.

Anyway, congrats South, on your victory over the North. Whispers of a three-peat next spring are afoot.

-m, wife of my favorite quarterback Andrew Ensz

On Oct. 4, my marriage to Andrew turned three years old. This picture was taken in celebration of our shared bliss.

-m

The Elements

Armenia has really put me in touch with earth, wind, fire and water.

In February, all the women of child-bearing age warmed up their uteri by jumping over piles of sticks on FIRE. Other people jumped too, for reasons I can't quite decipher, but it had something to do with love, fertility, luck and trying not to sear the hem of one's coat. Also on this day, so different from, um, other days, we ate things that came from the EARTH, including popcorn, hemp seeds and chickpeas. You lick your finger then just stick it in a pile of hemp seeds (is it legal to post that?). Proceed as normal with the popcorn, minus the coconut oil and pound of salt.

So, WATER. We had Water Day the other day, which is a holiday designed solely for the harassment of innocent girls by ill-behaved boys. Also, apparently, for the harassment of Americans.

I guess the holiday is technically about washing away all your sins since last water day, but it seems to me that it's more about wracking up as many sins in one day as possible. Case in point: My sister-in-law and I were chased down the street by tireless, shirtless, scrappy, gleeful little punks wielding buckets of water; later drenched; then still later forced to take refuge in a local shop because the boys were chasing us up and down the streets. And that was before 10:30 a.m. … well before the real battle even started.

The real battle commenced near the church, where well-dressed people filed in and out, carrying umbrellas and appearing terrified. Little boys armed themselves with cellophane bags full of water but were fortunately not blessed with the aiming gene.

Alright, I covered fire, earth and water. Not sure what to say about WIND. Eat beans and you'll break it. Done.

-m

Hot Dogs

I've had it with this vegetarian bull----. After seven years of eating rabbit food and enough cheese to back up a goat, I've once again discovered that chicken franks belong in their own, sacred section of the food pyramid. In fact, I sometimes sacrifice chicken franks at the altar of Spam, bologna, and those little chunks of gristle that sometimes end up in your burger.

It is also for this reason that I have declared Prague the greatest city in the world. Did you know that in Prague, they have hot dog stands at almost every corner? And sometimes more than one at every corner? I went there with some friends in April, and I can't wait to go back someday, so I can visit the hot dogs again.

Also on this trip we went to Budapest and Krakow. If you're on a hot-dog quest, I cannot recommend Budapest. It is a city severely lacking in hot dog stands, but it does have a KFC and a few Pizza Huts. Great if you've been living in a developing country for awhile.

Krakow's hot dog status was disappointing, too. Andrew and I spent way too long a time searching for Polish sausage, since, you know, we were in Poland. We only found one place. Then we went there again and again, for every meal, and a few times in between. If you go to Krakow, email me, and I'll give you directions TO THE ONE PLACE IN ALL OF POLAND THAT HAS SAUSAGE. Because going to Poland and not eating Polish sausage is like going to church and forgetting Jesus' name.

Paris and Amsterdam, where we went in January, probably have hot dogs. I just didn't eat them then because I was still a little weird about the meat thing. Stupid vegetarianism.

-m