13
August
2007
The middle of July was hellish in Romania, incredibly hot and dry, especially in the southern part. So, naturally, I had to travel to Bucharest.
You see, dear readers, our brain dead minister of Health, mr. Nicolaescu, accepted in his infinite wisdom the request from the Romanian Psychologists’ College that every hospital psychologist, even if she doesn’t have a private practice, should apply, willy-nilly, for a License of Free Practice. Which means that you pay a hefty annual sum and travel every few years to Bucharest , all for the great privilege of… doing exactly what you did until now.
The last days before going to the capital were filled with worried faces and paranoid advices from my entourage. Now you non-transilvanians might not know that, but the average inhabitant of this region bears a deep fear and loathing of the evil place inhabited by “Mitici” as they call the metropolitans. Therefore I was told countless times to “Take care of your money, hide it in a few different places” ” “Never leave your mobile unattended, it will disappear in a second” “Be careful with the thieves in the buses, they are EVERYWHERE and nobody cares if you get robbed” and of course “Don’t ride with a non-corporate cabby, you’ll be conned, beaten and raped, not necessarily in that order”. A few days later, backpack on my back, plenty of water in a bottle and my trusty needlepoint in a bag, I was prepared to go.
The train was an Intercity, luxurious by Romanian standards, except for the fact that ..we didn’t have any air conditioning. Therefore me, Emma and Pelle (the two Swedes I was sharing my compartment with) got the window down, hydrated ourselves as much as we could and started sweating like three Yeltsins in a sauna. We managed to strike a friendship, so by Brasov, where they got out, phone numbers were exchanged and I invited them to our house a few days later. In Brasov a French doc couple replaced them and we spent the rest of the journey happily chatting about the differences between our countries’ hospitals, yours truly ocasionaly sneaking a peek at the guy because he was, girl Pioneer’s honor, the essence of eyecandyness.
I had two friends I phoned constantly while on the road - Ina, who offered transportation, and Anne, who volunteered the shelter. (Sweethearts, both of them.) Ina told me to wait for her at the station’s Micky Dee, and that’s where I stood, a bit touched by Transylvanian paranoia since it was too close to midnight for my liking; all inner eyes on the backpack, all outer eyes on the street kids that occasionally came to ask me for a dime.
But then Ina and the husband came, kisses flew on the cheeks and off we went, occasionally phoning Anne for direction. I looked at the car’s thermometer - there were 33 centigrades. At midnight. Damn.
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29
July
2007
Why yes, I’ve been lazy ..again. Blogistically speaking. Because otherwise I’ve been one busy punk rockin’ Bucharest visitin’ pacient consultin’ hospitality clubbin’ jam makin’ gobelin sewin’ goddess.
I’ll start with the jam part, since the pictures are already uploaded. I’m not a big dulceata eater, but the rest of the family is, and since my mom’s concoction was more of a fruit flavored block of sugar, something had to be done. Therefore, last year I made my first batch of raspberry jam. Huge success, odes and praises followed. So this year, apricots, blueberries and the familiar raspberries were sacrificed on the altar of my culinary prowess.
Ahem. Ladies and cooking gentlemen, I give you …
.. The Apricot Jam!
We started by picking the apricots from the big tree in my mom’s garden - Robi shook it and I gathered the fallen fruits. We washed them,sliced them in half and took out the seeds.
Then we bought the sugar (1/2 kilograms for every kg of fruits) and the jellifier ( 100% fruit pectin - no additives for us). And then I put it all on the floor and decided I should document the process for posterity. And great justice.
The jellifier was mixed with 2 tablespoons of sugar / package …
…and poured on the unsuspecting apricots…
…who were then placed on fire, their fleshy mortal coils exulting sweet smells all over the kitchen while they were brought to boil .
The rest of the sugar was added…
…and their apricoty ectoplasms watched me in horror as I stirred them like a low-level demon would stir a pot of damned souls on his first day of work, until they got boiling again.
All the available jars were unlidded and placed in a Conga line…
…then filled with the hot stuff…
… then placed on their lids to cool.
The jam should last for two years. We’ll never know if it’s true though, since my dear locusts will probably raid the last jar in less than a year. Good thing that by that time the apricots will be ripe again, eh?
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13
July
2007
Next Friday. Who wants to meet ?
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10
July
2007
I love calling my kid a variety of names. There’s little squirrel, wee one, li’l bug and sugar bite , to say just a few. A month or so ago however, whenever I called her “sugar bite” she started to answer with a furious “No! Balen!”
“What? Ballet?”
“NO! BAALEEN!”
“Erm ..ok … Robi, do you know what that could mean?”
“Nope”
Well, last Monday I went for the first time to a gathering of the local Hungarian young moms. There was a swarm of kids running around on the lawns of the Catholic high school, tons of pizza and chatter . Timi saw a trike under a tree and claimed it as hers, according to the third toddler propriety law (”If I got to it first, it’s mine”). A taller boy rushed there and argued the lawfulness of the acquisition. I, seeing that the kid was a lot larger than mine, intervened in favor of my daughter. The matter was settled after the kid’s mom told him “Balint, let her play since you don’t play with the trike,anyway! “
The chitchat grabbed my attention after that and so I left Timi to pedal around. When I looked after her she was off the trike and coming towards me hand in hand with her previous aggressor. My jaw dropped. I turned towards the mom:
“Does he go to the Catholic kindergarten too?”
“Yes”
“They seem quite friendly to each other”
“Oh yes, he tells me sometimes about little Timi and how much he likes her.”
“What did you say his name was?”
“Balint”
Balint? Balen! The term of endearment she’d prefer to hear more than anything else was actually this kid’s name? The certainty kicked me in the chest. Holy cow, my daughter has a crush. Well, at least he’s cute. I have to have a talk or two about abusive relationships and the importance of getting your partner to share, though 
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6
July
2007
…originally a balloon poodle , 1 hour and a few pop! sounds later.
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5
July
2007
“Gas station!”
“What about it, Timi?”
“Let’s buy one.”
“A … gas station?”
“Yes! Let’s buy a gas station!”
“Well.. hmmm. What colour?”
“Red! No! Pink! Mommy, daddy, let’s buy a pink gas station!”
“Ok, the minute we’ll see one, we’ll do so. “
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1
July
2007
We’re sorry. We really tried not to post pics of Timi here, since this event wasn’t about her, but … we’re parents 
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