For those of you who remember, and for those of you who don’t (or don’t know), a few years ago, I went to New Zealand and stayed on a lovely farm. During my stay I sent numerous emails gushing of my love for farm life and its simple charms. There they taught me the secret of selecting a good calf: look for big knees, bright eyes, and a clean bottom. They also taught me that an animal must be very calm at the time of slaughter or the meat will be very tough. A nervous and angry animal produces certain hormones that toughens the meat. If it’s slaughtered in that state the hormones that have spread through the body do not have a chance to dissipate and the meat will be just gosh darn awful. That said . . . . Here in Romania, where even the people don’t come with big knees, bright eyes, or clean bottoms, the animals are even worse. They’re all scrawny and stressed out. The farms I’ve seen keep the animals in very small, cramped spaces. The chickens have bald spots from where they peck at each other for lack of space. Once someone took me on a tour of their farm and it was a series of tunnels and passageways just off his house. He’d open one closet door and there was a cow, while another closet contained some pigs. The only exercise these poor creatures get is to graze on the sides of the roads while cars honk and zoom around them. The cows usually look thin and drawn and often one can see their ribs through their droopy skin. As I mentioned in earlier emails about the runny cow piles in the streets, I don’t have to lift their tails to know their bottoms aren’t clean…nuff said. Anyway, three days ago, I was at the Universaal market. I go there to give myself a treat and pretend I am at home. I push a shopping cart up and down the wide aisles. The shelves are actually stocked, and with more than one or two bottles/cans of an item. Happily, I often spend hours here looking at all the pictures. Most of the stuff is imported from the Netherlands, Germany, Hungary, and Turkey, and sometimes from Italy. Thus, the labels are written in all different languages, so I rely on the pictures and throw caution to the wind when it comes to the cooking instructions. Sometimes, there is a section of the label in English, but usually that sections is covered by a big sticker that translates the instructions into Romanian. If only they would cover the English part entirely so I wouldn’t know it was there. It’s so frustrating because I can’t peel away the label. They use these stickers with such horrible glue that even three boxes of brillo pads couldn’t scour away. So I have to translate the Romanian in my head back into the English that is peeking at me from underneath the sticker of frustration. But, as I am sure you all have guessed, this label crap is all part of a larger conspiracy to drive me insane…but that chapter is for another book. Anyway, as usual, I was perusing through the meat section. I am always hoping to find a prime rib roast or a rack of lamb, but never do. This time the chicken section was completely empty, which is really strange because there is always chicken. The pork section was stuffed to the rafters as usual…but much to my surprise the beef section had what looked like packages of thinly sliced ribeye steaks!!!!! I almost fainted with joy. I snatched the smallest package (4 steaks in all) and raced for the cashier. On my way home, I stopped at the vegetable market to buy some tomatoes, garlic, and onions. I planned to use two steaks to make myself a little boti kebab masala (thanks mom for the Indian spices) and have pan seared steak and onions for two other nights. When I got home I immediately started preparing my Indian feast. I diced the two thin steaks into nice cubes and seared them in a pan with a little olive oil, then I mixed in some diced onions and garlic. Once they were browned, I added in some masala spices and tomatoes. I let it simmer for thirty to forty minutes as a breathed in the scents of India. For that hour my home was transformed into a haven fit for any Bollywood film star. I even danced about my apartment to the imagined tunes of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan as I rinsed and cooked the basmati rice…ahhhh curry heaven! All I needed to complete the picture was some eye makeup and a sari. I chuckled imagining the puzzled faces of my neighbors as their noses were introduced to these strange and exotic yet intoxicating odors that overpowered the usual hallway smells of boiled cabbage and fried pork. When the rice was ready, I poured off the excess water. The white steam fogged my glasses. Blindly, I shook the pot to get rid of the last drops of water. My stomach was rumbling with anticipation. I carefully spooned a rather large helping of the rice on my plate. It looked like a small pile of fluffy yet steaming snow. Then, I removed the lid from my masala feast and the aroma made me weak in the knees with delight. I ladled a few good mounds of the spicy beef and succulent gravy onto the rice. I had a taste of the gravy…heaven on earth. But much to my chagrin…two tears in a bucket, mother fuck it…the meat was as tough as salt-cured buckskin. Trying to chew through the leathery chucks of beef hurt me gums!!!! Not to mention filled me choppers with stringy bits of meat. I had to toss the tidbits of buckskin and just eat the rice with the gravy. How sad!!!! I could hear the skids and smell the burned rubber as my Indian daydream came to a screeching halt. I spent the next hour flossing the bits of old cow out of me corncob nibs. I write all this to say…I won’t be buying any more meat anytime soon, unless I go to the farm and slaughter the animal myself, of course only after I have massaged and whispered sweet nothings into its fly-covered ears. The cows are just too stressed out to make a good steak. Which reminds me, I was invited to a xmas pig slaughtering. In the country, they have huge festivals where they slaughter the piggies for a big xmas meal. Never one to refuse an invite, I plan to attend and take part in the bloody massacre. I will sit cross-legged in the pen and chant with the pigs before we slit their squealing throats. After all, who wants to gnaw on some tough pig when we’re celebrating the birth of jeeezus christ. Just to let you know, I am almost back to my NY fighting weight. I have lost a lot of weight. Walking around is the only exercise I get because I refuse to join the gym. It’s too expensive for my volunteer salary, and it’s not as if I am going to find the latest exercise craze or even a passé spin class. I’d rather spend my extra cash on facials, waxes, pedicures, and dinners with Zsa Zsa. I did buy some interesting pieces of art. Also, I am buying higher and higher heels (trying to blend in with the Romanian women) to keep the hems of my loose pants from dusting the filthy ground. I still refuse to buy clothes here because my plan is to wear the stuff I have until it disintegrates so I’ll have nothing to carry home except for the sweet Romanian baby I am planning to adopt (just kidding…for their sake as well as my own, I’ll never attach myself to a crumb-snatcher) Asta e and farewell for now!!!!!!!!! Sticky