Rustavi: My Street at Night

Rustavi - My street at night

Dmanisi: A Pig, A Cow, and a Dead Woman's Nightgown

Vodka and chacha in Dmanisi, Georgia

Sandy and I went to Dmanisi to spend the weekend with Jennifer. Plan: Check out the birthplace of the so-called first Europeans.

But damn it was cold and rainy. Cold rain. Brrr.

Upon our arrival, we saw a pig follow a cow down the road. If we lived in a fairy tale, both would have been princes, cursed by a bad fairy they'd offended.

Dmanisi, Georgia

Jennifer has a gorgeous view from her bedroom balcony.

Dmanisi, Georgia

The rumor was that a woman died in Jennifer's flat. A teacher. In Jennifer's bedroom? Or the second bedroom, where Sandy and I slept?

Dmanisi, Georgia

 
I don't know. But when I pulled back my duvet and lifted the pillow, I found a woman's nightgown under there. Wah!!! I tossed it across the room as if it were a snake. 

So I said Dmanisi was cold and rainy, yes?

We spent the weekend in Jennifer's cold flat, sometimes in the kitchen and sometimes in Jennifer's room, but always with the lone space heater cranked by us, drinking a bottle of pretty good wine, nail polish remover cheap vodka, and chacha. We ate khinkali, crackers, cheese, sausage, and cookies. We experimented with adding cherry jam to the vodka and the chacha to see if we could offset the paint stripper effect, and learned that this was fairly effective with the vodka, but did nothing to dampen the chacha's exuberance.
 

Dmanisi, Georgia

Jennifer made some excellent Turkish coffee on Sunday morning.

Incredibly, we sat in the kitchen and talked from the time we arose in the morning til about 3:00 p.m.

Then we piled on all of our cold-weather gear and hied off for the marshrutka back to Tbilisi.

Whereupon we stumbled on an interesting cultural something-or-another.

Sidebar: It happens that I have a fondness for small acts of insurrection. I believe an empire can be toppled by a sufficient number of micro-rebellions. 

We arrived at the bottom of Jennifer's side street and crossed the main drag to await the marshrutka on the other side. Ah, there is a private student of Jennifer's, also waiting in the cold, holding a bag.

We engage in a little chitchat, then note there is a marshrutka up the street about 500 feet. Ah, maybe that's ours. We wait for it to continue its way toward us, after what we thought was a pause to drop off or pick up a passenger. But no. It just sat. Ah, but here comes another one! Maybe that's our marshrutka. But no. It stops in front of the first marshrutka.

This was all quite puzzling. I ventured a guess that perhaps new marshrutkas will continue to come, and each will stop in front of the previous one until eventually there will be one in front of us and we can get on it and it will go to Tbilisi. 

Oh, and by the way, I asked Jennifer's private student, where are you going? Tbilisi? "No," she replied, "I'm going to give this bag to my sister."

"Oh?" I asked. "Where is she?"

"She's on the marshrutka up the street."

"You mean the one right up there? That we're looking at? Your sister is in there right now?"

"Yes."

"OK, wait. Are you telling me your sister is in that marshrutka right up there, right this minute, in the marshrutka, that we are looking at right now?"

"Yes."

This turn of events was so fascinating to me that I completely forgot my prior fascination as to why these marshrutkas were just sitting up there to begin with, not to mention why we continued to stand and wait where we waited while they sat where they sat.

".... mmm, so have you considered walking up to the marshrutka that your sister is in and giving her the bag?"

"No."

I pondered all this while we stood, shivering, in the cold rain while those marshrutkas up the street idled, no doubt with the heaters on.

I said, "Let's do it. Let's walk to those marshrutkas and see what happens."

And we did.

The student gave her sister the bag. Sandy and I got on the marshrutka. And we went to Tbilisi.

Note: There was another story about the marshrutka that has to do with a television (where? we don't see a television) and Sandy being told to sit on the pull-down seat and us not understanding why when there were regular seats still available, but later we did understand, but .... I'm tired now.

Rustavi: Beauty

Rustavi, City Hall Square, Old Rustavi

 A few days after the Rustavi Kalakhoba, workmen added a new feature to City Hall Square, still undergoing its renovation.

It is a sculptured orchestra, organized in the shape of a billiards game set-up, with a conductor and musicians. There is a delicious green-blue patina on each figure.

Rustavi, City Hall Square, Old Rustavi

The figures rest on large bronze globes.

Would the installation be a fountain? A light show? Too soon to tell.

Rustavi, City Hall Square, Old Rustavi

.... and days later, as I walked through the square one evening, I experienced a transcendent moment. Because just when I arrived at the bronze orchestra, I heard, through the air, Pachelbel's Canon in D Major. Beautiful.

This glorious sound came from two loudspeakers mounted on two of the light posts, which bookended the orchestra.

Rustavi, City Hall Square, Old Rustavi

I love when human beings create something for the pleasure of other humans. Doesn't matter if it's sublimely beautiful, like this was, or if it's thousands of people dancing in unison to Michael Jackson's Thriller, or the guy who dances around the world. Or a corn maze.

Rustavi, City Hall Square, Old Rustavi

Note: I have since learned the installation will be a fountain with a 3-D display within.

Rustavi, City Hall Square, Old Rustavi

Kardanakhi: Unity

When my hostess and cultural informant, Nely, introduced me to her marital village, Kardanakhi, she gave me some background:

Traditionally, the village houses were built close together (they are still close). Each homestead had its yard compound for growing and raising fruit, vegetables, and livestock. Each had its vineyard down on the plain.

The physical closeness was for neighborly protection from the enemy. Swords hung on a wall in the houses, and when the enemy alert went out, men grabbed their swords to meet their invaders in battle.

Losing a battle had savage consequences: vineyards burned, young boys slaughtered, and girls carried away.

Fortresses dotted the Kakheti territory. When sentries spotted enemies encroaching, they built signal fires to alert the other fortresses down the line, which, in turn, did the same.

Villagers sometimes fled up the mountain slopes to hide out. 

Georgia: The Real National Anthem

Georgia has an official national anthem.

But the day-to-day, real-life anthem is Patara Qalo (little woman). I hear it almost every day.

You'd think I'd get tired of it, but I don't. This is because Georgians love it and they never tire of it. You never know when someone will break out into this song.

Kardanakhi: Snapshots

Irakli, Kardanakhi, Georgia

 
I was in Kardanakhi (Kakheti region) for the weekend to participate in the 40th-day remembrance of my hostess' sister-in-law's death and the making of churchkhela.

My hostess, Nely, and her husband, Irakli, grow three kinds of grapes on their farm - green, blue, and pink.

Nely, Kardanakhi, Georgia

The small green grapes make white wine. The white wine is the color of iced tea.

View from Ana and Gia's balcony, next to Nely and Irakli's house, Kardanakhi, Georgia

The blue grapes are my favorite. They remind me of Middle Bass Island, Ohio, on Lake Erie, on which grew Catawba grapes.

Kardanakhi, Georgia

When I saw Irakli harvesting some of his blue grapes, I was very happy to see him pack them into a box destined for Rustavi.

Kardanakhi, Georgia

The pink grapes are pretty. They're big and firm. Nely likes to make jam from them that is so sweet and syrupy, she adds it to coffee.




Irakli had stripped off the leaves to expose the grapes to the sun to hasten ripening.

On Sunday morning, Irakli's sister and nieces harvested bay leaves from a garden tree.

Kardanakhi, Georgia

Mari, Ana, and Tamuna live next door. Ana is married to Irakli and Nely's nephew, Gia.

Kardanakhi, Georgia

And Ana's father-in-law, Gia's father, Irakli's brother-in-law:

Kardanakhi, Georgia

A neighbor.

Kardanakhi, Georgia

Two of Irakli's sisters, Mari and Lidia.

Kardanakhi, Georgia

Traditional, handmade rug that belonged to Nely's mother, probably more than 100 years old.

Kardanakhi, Georgia

I think every house in the Kakheti region has a wine room. It also stores food and preserving items.

Chacha accoutrement and wine, Kardanakhi, Georgia

Kardanakhi, Georgia

Qvevri (traditional, earthenware wine casks buried),  Kardanakhi, Georgia

And a memorial to Kardanakhi men who died in war.

Kardanakhi, Georgia

Kardanakhi: Making Churchkhela

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

Sunday, following the 40th day activities on Saturday, family and neighbors switched gears to making churchkhela. (Note: Jajune, the woman who died 40 days previously, was renowned for her churchkhela.)

Nely, my hostess and cultural informant, said: "Churchkhela is the most difficult Georgian food to make correctly."

Churchkhela is a string of nuts (in Georgia, usually walnuts or hazelnuts) dipped into a hot, thickened mixture of reduced grape juice, then hung to air cure. Eventually, the sugars within will make their way to the exterior in the form of a white film. The cured casing is semi-hard. 

In a country always vulnerable to enemy invasions, the vagaries of good and bad harvests, long and hard winters, and other causes of scarcity, churchkhela is a high-calorie, portable, easy-to-store, and durable food item. Georgian soldiers traditionally carried churchkhela and vodka on their campaigns. (The vodka provided warmth, cured illness, and anesthetized soldiers from ills both physical and mental.)

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

When I arose Sunday morning and entered the kitchen, Irakli's sister, Mary, and neighbors Rusudan and Elena, had already sifted a vast quantity of flour (not whole grain, but not as processed as white flour). From one huge bowl to another, Elena poured a jelly-glassful of sifted flour at a time, counting each as she did so.


Then she did the same in reverse, transferring one glassful of flour from that bowl to the other, this time with Rusudan counting. Rusudan and Elena removed the numbers of glassfuls from this bowl to result in the exact quantity needed in proportion to the amount of liquid already gleaned from a recent vintage pressing and reduction.

The women took the huge bowl out to the yard, where the partially-reduced grape "juice" awaited them in a tremendous pot. The pot was on the ground. Nearby was a wood fire over which stood a sturdy metal stand. While one woman stirred the juice in the pot, a second woman carefully added flour a bit at at time.

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

When they finished adding the flour, Rusudan dipped the sifter into the admixture looking for and pressing out lumps.

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

Once the lumps disappeared, the pot was placed over the fire onto the metal stand. That metal stand must have been on very level ground, planted firmly, because over the next few hours, the pot and its contents took a beating.

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

 At first, the mixture of flour and reduced juice isn't too hard to stir with the gigantic wooden paddle. Over time, however, it requires more and more muscle. The fact that women are the primary stirrers is a testament to their prodigious upper body strength.

For the next hour or so, family members and neighbors stirred the pot without ceasing. The goal: a mixture thickened enough for the wooden paddle to stand upright in the pot.

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

As the "tatara" thickened, it became more and more difficult to stir. At times, the women called on Nely's son, Paata, to stir it.

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

At one point, the women called out urgently to Paata and Irakli, Nely's husband. The two men lifted the heavy pot off the fire and put it carefully on the ground.










Immediately, Ana, Nely's niece, pommeled the tatara with fierce strength. When she tired, another woman took over. And another and another.

Presently, the pot was returned to the fire. More stirring. Frequent checking for consistency. There came a time when the paddle stood upright in the pot. "Kargi." Good.

One stage in the process now complete, it was now time for the next -- approximately two hours of simmering until the tatara's consistency was close to wax.

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

Intermission ... All of us gathered for a feast of leftovers from Saturday's supra. The churchkhela "principals," however, kept an eye on the burbling tatara.   

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

The two hours passed, but still the tatara wasn't quite ready. Another neighbor arrived on the scene, who I came to think of as the "churchkhela whisperer." She oversaw the addition of small amounts of flour to bring the tatara to the correct consistency.






When things started looking good, the churchkhela-makers brought out the previously-strung nuts in preparation for dipping.

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

Dipping time.

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

Leftover tatara went onto plates. These were distributed among the churchkhela makers.

Making churchkhela, Kardanakhi, Georgia

So you're wondering how the tatara and churchkhela taste, right?

See those plates of tatara? For me, visually, I think of luscious butterscotch or caramel pudding. Or pralines. So I experience cognitive dissonance when I pick it up and eat it, as tatara's texture is somewhat gelatinous and there is the taste of grape. When Georgians ask me if I like tatara, my response is: "I don't love it."

Churchkhela, with nuts inside a firmer texture, tastes better to me, but that's because of the nuts.

Having said that, I think churchkhela is an ingenious MRE (meal-ready-to-eat) from ancient times.