Tangos in my head…

Coming back
With a wizened forehead
The snows ot time whitening my temples

That life is a breath in the air
That twenty years is nothing
My febrile eyes wander for you in the shadows and call your name

With my soul fettered
To a sweet memory
That I mourn one more time.

My boyfriend just caught me as I was stirring my kefir fungi ans having a taste of today’s brew (not bad at all–much better than when I leave it in the fridge and the fungi fall asleep, but then what a chore to be on the watch for the moment when the milk starts to coagulate), and he called me a witch for all my troubles. But I’ll still have something pleasant to drink tomorrow.

If you’re wondering what the hell this is all about, kefir is fermented milk. It is made with a species of fungus that looks like tiny balls of whitish elastic matter, that you leave in the milk for a couple of days before you are able to drink the mixture, after scooping out the fungi to use in your next batch. It stings the tongue deliciously, like yogurt with a tinge of alcohol, as thick as cream and as light as water. During my tour of Ukraine, I drank litres of kefir–given that this was the only alternative to tasteless cheese, sour cream that tasted seriously off and unrecognisable things cooked in a lot of fat, not to mention the notorious brand of salted pig fat on horseradish toasts that is still somewhat popular in some parts of the country, it is perhaps no wonder that I developped a particular tenderness for this drink.

The witch must really get back to work now. Up, book, imprint yourself in my head! … Right now! ….

Doesn’t seem to be working… (sigh)


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