Stephen is Ukrainian.
Prior to meeting Stephen my knowledge of Ukrainian customs and culture was pretty much nil.
Not anymore.
I know about the food, which is fabulous.
Stephen's mum served home made perogies one night.
Or varenyky (var-ann-e-kea) in Ukrainian.
With sour cream, or the tzatziki from Adonis. . . .uuummmmmmmm. . .
Cabbage rolls. . .or Holubtsi
I'm going to make some this weekend, because apparently it's not too hard.
We'll see.
Stephen's mother has been making them for over 50 years.
Of course they're easy for her.
Not for eating but very interesting: Ukrainian Easter eggs.
Stephen's mum has a biggest-brandy-snifter-I've-ever-seen full of them.
Clothing. . .
But I still have lots and lots to learn.
Sunday, after the church service, because I always insist that we go to St. Sophies Ukrainian Orthodox Church if we are in Montreal on a Sunday, we did our usual rounds.
Talking with Father Kushnir, with long time friends of Stephen's parents who have known Stephen since he was in short pants. . . .
We were at the front of the church when Stephen asked me if I had a napkin, kleenex, something in my purse that would hold bread.
Hold bread?
I actually had a small plastic container in my purse that I use to hold almonds in case I get hungry while I'm out.
Anything to prevent me from grabbing the nearest Oh! Henry, or ten.
I gave him the container and he put three bits of bread from the round and braided loaf that was at the front of the church.
What's that for? I asked, thinking that if that little bit of bread was to stave of hunger until supper time, we were in big trouble.
Twenty Oh! Henry kind of trouble.
For the tombstones.
I like this last one.
Makes me think of Edgar Allen Poe.
We visited the gravesites for Stephen and Maryann's grandparents on both sides, and at each tombstone, Stephen put a piece of the bread on top of the headstone.
Maryann left pennies.
I weeded.
I was amazed at the lovely plants people had placed around their loved one's headstone.
And equally amazed that they didn't weed them.
So while Stephen and Maryann wandered from tombstone to tombstone, I weeded around tombstones of people I'd never met.
And I'm not likely to.
At dinner, I mentioned this to Stephen's parents and his Aunt Irene.
Oh! Irene said, that perfectly normal. My mother (Stephen's Baba) did that all the time. You're becoming Ukrainian.
Дякую
That's "thank you" in Ukrainian.
At least I hope it is.
With my like luck I could be telling everyone to f*** off.
If it isn't right, I hope Stephen has the common sense to tell me.
The best thing about visiting Montreal isn't the shopping, or going to church or learning gardening techniques from Stephen's parents.
Although all of those things are very nice.
The best thing is the sitting-around-the-table-after-dinner-drinking-tea conversations.
Everyone likes to talk.
It's a great opportunity to ask questions about Stephen's parent's parents who immigrated from the Ukraine in the 1920s.
What their life was like, what it was like growing up in Montreal, all sorts of things.
I'll sit there until I'm practically asleep at the table, listening to their stories, trying to capture them for our grandchildren.
Maybe next time I'll take a tape recorder.
Title Lyric: Cemeteries of London by Coldplay
No comments:
Post a Comment