I don’t shop. I don’t cook.

And shopping at the market in order to cook fuels me with more anxiety than belaying naked from Mt. Kilimanjaro.

I know I looked completely stoic and unbothered on the outside, but on the inside my organs were feverishly dancing. I wore my long, winter coat (with fur around the hood), mall-walking shoes, and my hair tied back to prevent myself from ripping it the f**k out. In my ears was Disney music “in the circleeee, the circle of life…” – the carefree, innocuous melody helps calm my nausea as I lethargically float through the market aisles.

 

You think I’m being overdramatic, don’t you? Good! Because I also think this is completely absurd. But there’s good news, so read on.

The Menu:

The 5 Day Prep:

I started on Sunday. In advance to help subside the stress. The method of attack was to find ingredients most familiar to me and most universal in physical features and Latin roots. On Sunday I purchased pineapples (how could they really be confused with another piece of produce?) and vodka.

I also allowed myself to take advantage of my time at the market and walk through the aisles with ZERO pressure to cross ingredients off my list. This was merely a desensitizing (and learning) opportunity.

And in no time:  tears came trickling down my face, steam blew out of my ears, and I clenched my jaw so tight my teeth shattered. No, just kidding, my teeth are still intact. These emotions are completely normal for me in markets in the states (even the ones I’m most familiar with – this includes Whole Foods), so with the addition of the Estonian language that includes about… -8 (negative 8) Latin Roots, you can imagine how this challenged my antiperspirant.

Thankfully I was rewarded immediately after with my favorite meal (penne pasta + 10kg of parmesan cheese) and a showing of The Lion King in 3D at a friend’s. Talk about positive reinforcement, B.F. Skinner.

Tough day, I know.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday:

Yep, they all happened. In that order.

The good news, however: By Thursday, I totally made the market my Witch. Except replace the ‘W’ with a ‘B’. Keep the ‘B’ a capital one.

I also now know the following ingredients are rare and difficult to find here:

• celery
• graham crackers
• egg noodles
• candy corn
• white marshmallows that aren’t in the shape of Angry Bird’s or Daisies
• cranberries
• disposable cooking pans

One can say I got “creative” in the kitchen. Never will One say that about me again, methinks.

If you cut toffee into triangles it can do a candy-corn’s job; serve as the nose to truffle+waffle baby turkey’s. Duh.

If you can’t find disposable cooking pans because you only have 3 oven-safe dishes in your apartment, you can use the top to your Pyrex dishes. They’re shallower, of course, but they do the trick.

When in doubt, buy a nice block of cheese, kalamata olives, nuts, and some decent bread. If all the other food fails, they will save Thanksgiving (or any other celebration involving food). Don’t forget the booze.

Thanksgiving Day:

Thanksgiving is my absolute favorite day of the year. Wings down. It’s one of the few times I enjoy being in Dallas – as terrible as that sounds. Eek, don’t hate me Dallas folk.

At home, Thanksgiving begins at 6:00am on the last Thursday of November and doesn’t end until the weekend is over. Slices of tradition permeate the entire day on Thursday. The first piece is the Turkey Trot Run in Downtown Dallas (my dad and I would get there first thing in the morning to get the same parking spot every year), the next piece is going to my old neighborhood to play touch football with friends and family, onward to watch (and smell) mom finish cooking, and leaving home for multiple feasts with multiple groups. The final feast involving liter’s of pineapple vodka, friends I’ve known since I was in diapers, and acting like I’m interested in The Cowboy’s game. And still, year after year, I don’t know the rules of football or my blood alcohol content.

I had never missed a Thanksgiving in Dallas until this year. Before I left for Estonia I was determined to offset my potential Thanksgiving separation anxiety with a day full of amusement ; amusement in the form of cooking more than eggs, pasta, oatmeal, and placing cheese symmetrically on a plate.

And this is how it turned out:

Nobody got sick.

The turkey was a bit dry, but dry turkey calls for fresh cranberry sauce – and that’s exactly what it got.

And we ate the pineapple infused with vodka.

And we watched the Thanksgiving episode of Friends with Brad Pitt. In Russian. (Even though they wanted English).

And we did all the things I would normally do minus a few minor exceptions, but most importantly, I am so happy I had people to share my favorite holiday with. Good friends.

“Well, how do you feel?” a friend asked after everyone left my flat stuffed and energy-less. I slammed my body onto the couch; limbs sprawled in every cardinal direction – desperately wanting someone to put me into maternity pants.

“Shocked”, I replied starry-eyed and confused.

“You should be proud of yourself” he said, also being a 2-month victim of my minimal cooking abilities.

Before this week, I had trouble confidently cracking an egg yet alone dry brining and roasting a Turkey. I have grown (in more ways than one) from this experience, but not enough to continue this cooking spree. After all, I am my mother’s daughter and my aunt’s niece; neither of which cook, so I am obligated to continue this tradition regardless of what holiday changes my ways.

Santa is coming to town:

And we all know that once Thanksgiving is over, Christmas begins! Hip hip hooray!

I watched Elf, I went to the Xmas market in the Old Town, I drank warm, spiced wine (Glogg) with friends, played Scrabble in Estonian and multiple games of Janga, and I skipped around town and listened to Mariah Carey’s Christmas album. I love Christmas. And guess what?

THE HIGH IS NEGATIVE 5 ON FRIDAY. IT’S SUPPOSED TO SNOW TOMORROW!

‘Tis the season to be jolly,

Jenstonia – fa la la la la, la la la laaaaaaaaa

P.S. I also successfully delivered a sweet spudnik.

granny smith to honey crisp

I want you to draw a Venn diagram.

I want you to compare and contrast yourself to the person you last communicated with.

Next, I want you to draw another Venn diagram.

I want you to compare and contrast the city you live in now to the city you grew up in.

Finally, draw another Venn diagram and put a big X through it.

Quit comparing, quit contrasting. Seriously, screw it.

K now listen “Nothing from Nothing” by Billy Preston just because it might make you feel like dancing.

 

While thorough analysis is a highly sought-after skill, I’ve found that when we compare and contrast our lives, it may keep us from giving our new experiences (people, places, things) a real chance.

Can’t you hear it? Your future experiences on hand and knee, begging you to “take a chance on me, take a chance on me”? Listen carefully.

People. We’re all different, yeah? And it’s a natural human tendency to compare and differentiate oneself from others. How are you different? Why should I hire you and not the last dude who walked through the door?

It’s also natural to high-five, say “OMGsh”, and jump around and squeal when you find out you have the same favorite color as a new acquaintance.  That’s perfectly lovely, but it’s the effort put towards differentiating and potentially isolating oneself from others that may get us into some trouble.

I used to believe I had a way of thinking about the world that was unique to others. So unique there was no way anybody had ever had the same thoughts as me; all these books in the library? Psh. No way they mention the things that go on in my head. No way have people felt what I felt. I am different. I am me.

Oh, young Jen, this isn’t so. 

Get off that high horse and quit doubting people.

I found that if I opened myself up to new people, remain humble and not impulsively raise myself above or below them, maybe I’ll do more jumping and squealing upon common thinking.

I’ve personified this thought with basic human emotions, so I can not only understand it, but feel it: it’s not fair to your new experiences if your past experiences are constantly lingering around. In a way, you’re not respecting the possibilities of new people, new places, new things (to be ambiguous).

 And yourself. Ohhhhhhh, you.

• You are not your 6-year old self.
• You will not fit into the same pants nor will you be able to relive the same memories.
• Camp one summer will be different the next summer (a tough, tough first world problem I had to learn).
• Your hair will get bigger with age, so quit the nostalgia trips of the tamed-hair years.
• Your first relationship will be different than the next, and the next, and the next after that. You don’t go into one and blend them together, isolate them, compare them, and spit them back out and decide you’re in the one you’re in because of x, y, and z. You don’t go into one because you lacked or had too much of something from the previous one. This isn’t fair to the current and futures ones.

And new places:

Yes it’s true that Tallinn, Estonia is not Lawrence, Kansas or Dallas, Texas. I’m glad it’s not. You think I would let the -20 degree weather along with hanging death icicles keep me from letting Tallinn shine in its’ own right? That wouldn’t be fair to Tallinn. (see, personifying?)

You think I would travel to Helsinki and walk around the half-cobbled streets and keep thinking Tallinn’s cobbles are better? No. Again, not fair.

World, I don’t care if you have a Starbucks or McDonald’s or Chipotle (well, maybe) or free public toilets. I will not think less of you don’t have my comforts from home. I intend to make new comforts, and when I get too comfortable with those comforts, I intend to make more comforts.

Quit the venn diagrams

Quit comparing yourself to people

Quit comparing people to people

Places to places

Apples to apples

Post-preach update:

I’m really loving work. The teens could not be more special. Seriously.

The first snow fell on Friday! Which obviously means it was time for my first frozen yogurt.

I took my new friends to Texas Bar & Cantina. The Russian philologists. I was crying laughing around these people to the point we had to get paper and pen to write down every funny. When I lifted up my cactus-for-a-stem margarita glass to cheers, I said “chairs” and my Russian tutor said “tables”. Oh, puns do exist across cultures.

And last night I hosted my first work-related gathering. My oven was also used for the first time. We (okay, they) made pizza and we sipped on Ukrainian prosecco. It was such a joy to see a handful of new friends comfortable and happy in my apartment.

We made moves to Old Town by sliding across the icy cobble-stoned streets; as a precautionary justification to any sudden face-planting, I whispered, “I’m from Texas, I’m from Texas”.

After a few hours of dancing I was basically gliding through the streets like a professional Russian ice-skater. I also had a cold water bottle in my hand. If that’s not adapting I don’t know what is…

OKAY, fine, I’ve also been sleeping in my wool socks and fleece jacket 🙂

Chairs and tables,

Jenstonia – so you can’t really jog on ice…

The PERFECT Sandwich

This will be my last post in America – though I’m not promising anything. So read up:

1. 1/3: Round challah bread. Slow roasted brisket. Apples. Honey. Kugel – hold the raisins.
2. 1/3: One week in Tallinn, Estonia.
3. 1/3: Repent sins with a side of 24hour fast

I know I overuse and abuse the adjective “PERFECT”, but this recipe is really sitting well in my stomach. With 5 days remaining until I make moves to Estonia, I realized I’ve been served a pretty fantastic high holiday sandwich.

Why? How? Are you using another metaphor to prove your point? Yes, of course I am. If I could use a metaphive, I would.

I’m being served the perfect sandwich because a higher power is basically saying, “Happy Jewish new year, indulge in foods that are 1,200kcal per serving; get on a plane to Estonia – because the altitude and sodium from the brisket will do wonders to your ankles and phalanges; during the first week, you’re off the hook if you offend anyone, so please lose your passport and proudly get lost finding your apartment coming back from your first outing. Come to Shul on Yom Kippur, pray and pound your heart out, and don’t even think about food. Have an enriching, meaningful year.”

Of course I won’t intentionally stuff up my first week, but I’m also finding it peaceful that maybe I don’t have to be so hard on myself if I do end up getting excommunicated my first week. Not likely, but the sandwich is looking good for me.

To everyone observing, HAPPY 5773 – wishing you a sweet, happy, and sandwich-filled year! Make sure you check out Tallinn’s FB page here and sift through some photo’s!

Cheers,

Jenstonia – reporting from America, but not for long!