Holidays Abroad, or How I Met my Husband

Whenever I tell people that my favorite holiday is Easter, there's always a pause, during which I know they're quickly running through everything they know about me--am I a secret, crazy religious Catholic?  Could I be joking?  Do I not know about Christmas or Thanksgiving, infinitely superior holidays?  But beyond its being the holiday that signals spring is coming (or already here), Easter remains for me a special day to look forward to.

My whole life, I have thought of my mother as the perfect hostess.  She has always been an excellent cook (countless people have told her she should open a restaurant), but there's more to being a hostess than culinary skills, of course.  Her dinner parties are always beautifully planned, with each course being perfectly suited to the one that preceded it.  Dietary restrictions are always taken into consideration, and wines are carefully paired beforehand.  The tablecloth and candles are always coordinated, but not in an overt or kitschy way.  Even when my parents hosted large parties, they were never catered, and those pre-made sandwich wraps were never, ever present on one of our tables.  My high school graduation party didn't include a few boxes of pizzas and bags of chips; my father personally grilled about 50 drumsticks and hamburgers for my friends, and my mom made lemonade, a cake, and various dips by hand.

When I got to college, however, it turned out that I couldn't cook.  Not at all.  I couldn't even make pasta properly for many months.  Eventually, my dinners consisted of Lean Cuisine meals or cooked noodles with grated cheese sprinkled over them.

In 2008, I studied abroad in Italy, and it was there that I discovered for the first time that people my age could and did cook.  My roommate Sari could concoct delicious meals out of whatever was lying around the fridge.  She was not only supremely competent, but she also genuinely enjoyed cooking, even for six hungry roommates.  I was inspired, and very slowly began experimenting on my own.  I quickly learned how useful (and satisfying) it was to be able to make your own dinner, but I was confident that that would be the extent of my cuisine.

Vanessa the Chef on Via de Benci 14

Then came Thanksgiving.  Four of the girls with whom I lived were traveling with family who was visiting during the week of Thanksgiving.  Only three of us were left.  By this point, all of us were homesick, and the thought of Thanksgiving without our families was depressing.  One of the three of us, Vanessa, decided that we should have our own small Thanksgiving.  She would do all the cooking if Amanda and I could provide the wine.  Although it wasn't possible to get turkey in Florence in November, we had duck, which Vanessa cooked beautifully, and some semblance of the other traditional dishes.  Maybe we weren't with our families, but we were together.  (And if you think about, the Pilgrims were pretty far from home, and, like us, had set up camp somewhere that they may not have been entirely welcome.  It seemed fitting).  Most importantly, this Thanksgiving--my first one without my family--was the first time I realized that while family would always be the most important part of holidays, the traditions were also a pretty crucial part.

The following spring, I was studying abroad in Poland, and my roommates and I conscientiously prepared our own Easter brunch, following most of the major Polish traditions.  We even got our basket blessed at the Dominican church in the Town Square.

Mary, Kat, Anna, and I after our Easter breakfast

But then, in the fall of 2009, I was living alone in Poland, without roommates, and without too many very close friends.  The prospect of Thanksgiving alone was, again, terrible.  I had to work on the actual day, but I finally decided that I would host my own Thanksgiving.  I knew two other Americans living in Krakow, and had some other acquaintances who would surely be happy to sit around a table eating.  Along with my co-worker, we planned out the dishes and e-mailed our mothers to ask for recipes.  (Who ever knew that it was possible to prepare your own cranberries?)  We went on a big shopping trip to Tesco at the crack of dawn on Sunday (having been too hungover on Saturday to go) and started cooking.  Our friend Dan, an Australian, arrived nice and early, having apparently realized we might need help with the turkey part.  With other pots sizzling away on the stove, we put the bird into the oven, only to have a fuse get overloaded and all the power go out.

As we frantically tried to make the power come back on, we ate the chips we'd bought for our vegan friend.

It was certainly not a meal I was all that excited to eat, but the company was excellent, and there was something about hosting my first holiday away from home that made me feel especially grown up.

My first Krakow Thanksgiving

I went home for Christmas that year, but when spring rolled around, I knew I would be hosting an Easter brunch for all my friends who couldn't (or wouldn't) go home for the holiday.

Having one holiday under my belt, I decided to go bolder.  More guests.  Better decorations.  A cleaner floor.  Etc.

For various reasons, I was not terribly happy at that point in time, and I thought the Easter party might be one of the last days I would spend in Poland.  I had quit my job, had had my purse stolen, and had had a falling out with a friend (the Thanksgiving co-host).  I was ready to go home to be taken care of by my parents.  Easter would be my last hurrah.

To make matters worse, the Monday before Easter, I went home from dinner with friends and then became violently sick with a horrific stomach flu that was going around town.  I lived all alone and wanted nothing more than my mom to come make me chicken soup.  The next morning, a student and a friend both stopped by with various home remedies and snacks.  They both called every day to see how I was doing, and by Friday I felt a bit better. I went to a friend's house for Easter egg painting, and that made me determined to go through with my plans.

Saturday, I woke up very early to start cleaning my apartment (which was, to put it delicately, in a God-awful state).  I went to the farmer's market to pick up all the vegetables I needed, as well as flowers and traditional painted wooden eggs.  I dropped my loot off at home, then went to the supermarket to get the other things I needed.  I cleaned all day and even ate a yogurt (I'd spent the week avoiding anything besides plain rice or wafers).  I hid plastic Easter eggs around the house for my Finnish friend Susanna (who had informed me that she wanted an American Easter egg hunt).  I did all the food preparation I could, and finally collapsed into bed, exhausted, at 2 a.m.

Still fragile from the flu, but determined to be the most elegant and classy hostess ever

By about 10 a.m. Easter Sunday morning, there were substantially more guests coming than I had originally invited.  Susanna had some friends staying with her, and two other people she knew happened to live nearby.  My American friend Dominic was bringing a South African friend he'd met at an open mic a few weeks before, and my friend Helena had decided to bring her sister with her since their parents were traveling during the Easter weekend.

My beautiful Easter table

Dan, again being an angel, arrived early to help me move tables around and finish decorating.  Other people slowly started to arrive.  I was very proud of how the table looked, and especially touched by all the extra goodies Susanna and Helena had brought with them to make sure my table wouldn't run out of anything, what with all the guests.  Dominic was responsible for bringing the CD player, and when he arrived almost an hour late, I was a bit peeved.  But all my disgruntled-hostessness melted away when his friend, the South African, exclaimed as I opened the door, "My God, you look fantastic!"  As someone who had been very sick for a week (and had spent a good hour primping herself in the morning), I couldn't help but be charmed by the flattery, even if the flatterer was late.  At least both boys had had the good sense to dress nicely for my elegant brunch.

We finally sat down to eat.  Because there were so many people, I had to use both sets of plates, and teacups instead of bowls for the zurek (a traditional Polish sour soup with a fermented rye base).  We quickly ran out of cheese for the vegetarians to put on their sandwiches, and on several different occasions people ran out for more wine.  But we were having a wonderful time.  There were people from Poland, America, South Africa, Australia, Finland, Austria, Spain, the Netherlands, and almost definitely one or two other countries I've forgotten.  Most of us didn't know each other that well, but wine and food make for good icebreakers.  On occasion, the smokers of the group would go downstairs to smoke.  On one such trip, I went down, too, and got to talking to the South African, Gordon.  He was telling Susanna about his literature class at the Jagiellonian University, and when he started talking about Czeslaw Milosz, I was officially smitten.  So few non-poets (and non-Poles) that I'd met were aware of him, and here was someone not even from the same hemisphere talking about his work.

As it got later and later, some people left to go home, and still others arrived for drinks and dessert.  Finally, a group of us went into Kazimierz, the beautiful Jewish quarter near where I lived.  We went first to Singer, a curious little bar that turns into a rabid, packed dance party late at night  (it's named Singer because the tables are made of old Singer sewing machines).  Later, we went to Alchemia, where Susanna and I took turns dancing with Gordon and his band mate Davie, from Scotland.

By the end of the night, I'd decided to stay a few more weeks in Poland.  I had such lovely friends, after all, and I'd met so many interesting people.  I hadn't had the experience back at home of having so many different people, from so many different walks of life, sit at my table, enjoying the meal I'd prepared so carefully.  And that feeling of having successfully hosted such a wonderful Easter still resonates with me.  To this day, it's one of my most beautiful memories.

Enjoying homemade Advocaat (a dessert drink similar to eggnog) with some of my guests

And then there was that charming South African.  He wasn't really the type I'd gone for before.  (For one thing, he was a lot hairier).  Boys I'd dated in the past had generally had a lot in common with me on paper, but not so much when it came to details.  Gordon, on the surface, did not seem like my type.  He was in not one band, but two bands;  he smoked; and he had a more stress-free attitude toward relationships than I could envision myself having.  He was a socialist with very strong opinions on almost everything, and, as a last straw, genuinely enjoyed sports.  But he had an ease about him that I found appealing and novel.  I thought perhaps I could, for the first time in my life, date someone casually without falling pathetically in love with him, and then many decades later have a nice memory to look back on and tell my grandchildren about.  (I actually imagined telling my children about the romantic spring I spent with a political South African in southeastern Poland).

Needless to say, the rest is history.  And personal.  I won't go into the details of our courtship, but suffice it to say, that hairy, opinionated, musical South African and I have been married for just over a year.  We've hosted a few holidays and dinner parties, and I imagine we'll host many, many more.  But Easter will always be my favorite holiday, because, by fate or sheer dumb luck, on April 4th, 2009, Easter Sunday, in Poland of all places, I met the love of my life.