Old Family Photos
Back when, the entire family used to gather at my uncle’s place on Sundays. Over a cup of tea, we’d chat, laugh and pick on each other. We’d boo at cricket scores (those were dark days) and hiss at the politics. We’d dig out old stories and laugh even louder. The old stories were never new. We knew exactly what came next, but it didn’t matter, they were always just as funny as the first time, possibly even more, enhanced as they were with every telling. I don’t know when those Sunday visits died out. It happened gradually, and it happened for a number of reasons: college, work, relocations, squabbles, new priorities, stuff. I didn’t realize when and how those Sundays dropped out of my routine; I didn’t realize how much I missed them, not till my last visit home.
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One of my cousin’s, back home after years, was clearing out the loft space above the kitchen when he rediscovered some old family photos – photos of us as kids, in pigtails, braces and terrible clothes; photos of our parents, slimmer, younger, elegant and chic; photos of uncles and aunts when they were just kids, eyes sparkling with excitement for things to come; photos of all our histories – the conversations practically come wafting out; photos that are real, that tell the whole truth, untouched as they are by the alternative world of post processing and airbrushing. He decided to put together an album, a family project in time for Diwali.
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The whole family is here – well almost. Whoever is in town, and back home from work, is here. In Mumbai, that’s more than you can ask for on a week day. My aunt is in the kitchen, stirring a ladle in a large aluminium pot, declining any help because ‘everything is done’. Tumblers of hot ginger tea are passed around. The rain hits against the living room windows, and inside the laugher fills up around the album. The album’s heavy cover feels as light as a feather as we go back to those days in the old apartments, reliving them over and over again. One memory leads to another and that leads us to what happened yesterday, which takes us back thirty odd years, which reminds someone of what happen much before that, which brings us back to my cousin’s living room, laughing and arguing and laughing even harder. It feels like the old days again.
Like this:
Keeping Warm in Stockholm
It’s pitch dark outside, even though it’s barely 3:30 in the afternoon. I am bitterly cold. My heavy scarf feels like an amateur in this Scandinavian winter. My ears are covered and my coat collar is stiff, pulled all the way up to keep the cold out. It doesn’t work. I feel the ice settle down in my chest, creeping through the gaps and falling in place with a painful thud.
“You’re lucky, it’s still a warm winter,” the lady behind the counter tells me as she wraps my wooden bookmark in a soft white envelope with the Swedish flag, “usually by this time, we are much much colder, under snow.”
I’ve been walking around Stockholm’s old town, Gamla Stan, all day, conflicted: should I leave my hands stuffed in my coat pockets, or do I pull them out, along with my camera, to take pictures? To keep warm I walk into the stores that line the old quarters. I am not picky. When I feel my face is about to fall off, I walk into the nearest one. As a result, I’ve spent a fair bit of today with reindeer and moose masquerading as kitchen towels, fridge magnets and candle stands, and the Swedish Royal family, smiling from cups, caps and cards.
What I’d really like to do is step into one of the cosy candle-lit restaurants serving lunch. The candles stand right by the window, the flames are sturdy, strong, tempting the cold to come in and try something warm. But I’ve never learned how to squeeze in a second lunch, so I settle for a compromise. I go for fika.
Fika, as I gather, is a sort of Swedish mix between high tea and coffee break. It involves something warm in a mug and something sweet on a plate. And given the weather, they are both had in a warm, comfy place. So I fika.
I fika, I take a photo, I look at plastic moose. I fika, I take a photo, I look at reindeer hangers.
I try the tea in a kitschy cafe, with a cinnamon bun, a Kanelbulle - I think it’s called. In an airy cottage-type cafe, I opt for black coffee with a gigantic fruit studded muffin. In the third, I sit on a bench with a pastry and a glass of water. In each, I open my guidebook, and plot tomorrow in Stockholm.
Like this:
Dwarfed by History
This gallery contains 6 photos.
History. The word has a looming quality to it. Towering, imposing, delicately impossible, and yet so real. Structures, elements that have been around longer than I can count. The numbers get smaller, buoyed up and further distanced by acronyms, BC and AD – tiny specks of years of landmark achievement and artistry, all towering, imposing, delicately impossible, and [...]
Global Kitchen: Bota Šare, Mali Ston (Croatia)
The parking lot is empty – an indication in itself of the soaring temperature. I wait it out under the shadow of an old stone arch. To my right, a set of uneven stone stairs rise to meet the ancient walls, and the scorching sun. To my left is the waterfront, blue and cooler in comparision; that’s the route we choose.
The water is full of sea urchins, inky black splotches staining the water, and fishing boats, on a break from their morning run. The boat closest to me – named Bota Šare – is small and clean, its benches are wooden and gleam in the afternoon light. Two fishermen play a game of cards. The old one is stocky and bald, the younger one is lanky and dangling a cigarette between his lips. The boat doesn’t smell fishy. It’s a good sign, this.
We walk past them, hollering a greeting, and towards the restaurant a few paces away. Like the boat it owns, the restaurant is called Bota Šare.
I’ve eaten at Bota Šare before in Zagreb, but this is the original one, set up in a medieval manor on the waterfront on tiny Mali Ston. The taverna has been in the family for generations and is known for staying true to the ways of Dalmatian cuisine culture – locally sourced produce make up the menu: fresh soups, soft breads, homemade wines, delicately prepared seafood and strong, fiery rakija.
We sit outside, under an antique-type ceiling fan; it doesn’t make any noise but it doesn’t help with the heat either. We can see the water, and the fishing boats. Inside, in the cellar-manor, it’s dark and cool, and kind of kitschy, but not over done. The day’s catch sits on ice, on display. A stocked bar is all the keeps them company. The tables here are unoccupied, but perfectly prepared; maybe in bad weather these tables get full. From the kitchen, somewhere behind the heavy doors, chopping and frying sounds and the occasional clang waft out.
It’s a formality, but we flip through the menu, recognizing the house specialties: soups, oysters and other shells, grilled fish, black risotto and homemade bread. For weeks we’ve been looking forward to this meal. We order it once, twice and then for good measure a third time: a serving of Ston Oysters, with a splash of lemon and a twirl of the pepper mill.
We also add a fish carpaccio, grilled vegetables and a small serving of grilled oysters to the table, and then there’s bread, but these are all just distractions (delicious, though). The oysters are fresh, the lemon and pepper give it a fantastic punch, and we chomp them down faster than our waitress (much to her amusement) can serve.
Eventually, we call for the cheque. The empty shells are cleared away and replaced by fresh brewed coffee. As we walk away from Bota Šare, though, I can’t help but feel, maybe there was room for one more helping. Just one more.
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An Extra Serving: If travelling with a party of vegetarians, be sure to ask your waitress if they can whip up something more substantial, in addition to the basic pasta and grilled vegetables on offer. The staff is very helpful and may even offer options.
Leftovers: As it happens, the house wine (white) can be pretty strong; don’t drink it up straight, especially if you like your wines but mix it with sparkling water and you’re good to go.
Address: The Waterfront, Mali Ston (for the sake of practicality, Mali Ston is about an hour’s drive from Dubrovnik)
Telephone: 020/754 482
Website: www.bota-sare.hr
