Being Slovenian *Home Entry*

I’m an American. And as an American fitting into the stereotype the rest of the world has of me, I’m fat, I’m loud, I’m a bona fide Bush lover*, I’m overly friendly while working in retail, I refuse to speak French, I brag about where I’ve been in the world, I can tell you how much anything I own cost (with pleasure), I drive a SUV, I support the sending in of troops to help out with the ‘situation’, I owe too many credit cards, and when asked, “Where are you from?” and I assume they don’t mean what state in the United of, I will gleefully rattle off the random percentages I hold in my ‘blood line’. I’m an American, and according to the world, this is what I do.

Those who know me will know what above I fit into the stereotype of, but to the rest I will only admit one thing. I DO rattle of percentages of heritages when asked where I’m from…when talking to other Americans who are specifically asking that question. I’m not stupid enough to tell that to people from other countries. When they ask, I tell them, “I’m Canadian and damn proud. Go Canucks!”

Ha.

Anyhow, since this entry is titled ‘Being Slovenian’ you might have guessed that I am (when talking to other Americans that is) part Slovenian. 50% if you must know, from my father’s side, whose parents came to the great US of A when they were kids. (That is obnoxious rattling that off, isn’t it?) There aren’t many Slovenian traditions that were ever practiced in my family except for the frequent jokes substituting ‘Polish’ for ‘Slovenian’. (i.e. How do you stop the Slovenian Army? Turn off the carousel) but I did grow up learning three very important words:

• Dober dan = Good Day
• Hvala lepa = Thank You
• This one is going to be purely phonetic as no online translator knows what the hell I mean. Got-chey = Underpants

Okay, maybe they weren’t that important, but dober dan sounds really cool when you want to insult someone without really insulting someone but seeming like you are.

I recently found a blog from a guy who is from New York but married a girl from Slovenia and moved there. It’s a great blog, and he had an entry all about making borovnica (blueberry schnapps) which you must know made me instantly intrigued. “I can do that!” I said. Unfortunately it’s a time consuming thing to do new this weekend, so in the interim, I also made Koroška Šarkel, a type of sweet bread.

I started on the borovnica first.



Following the instructions on the blog (which, in hindsight, didn’t provide any specifications of time) I started off cleaning the blueberries, soaking them in some water, than layering them in a glass jar with some sugar. I placed the jar out in the sun and 15 minutes later checked on it to see if the sugar had melted.


Please enjoy the hummingbird getting his own sugar in this picture.

It didn’t – at all. I knew I was in for a long wait.

So….I started on the Koroška Šarkel.



The Koroška Šarkel was pretty easy to make. Prepare the yeast, make the dough, add the raisins, roll, and then bake.



As all my kitchen adventures are wont to do, it wasn’t perfect. My dough never really rose all that much. The recipe was in metric and my conversion from grams to teaspoons\cups wasn’t perfect (damn metric system!). Also, I completely forgot to add the butter.



The bread was really heavy, but it was edible. The best was when it was warm from the oven with a bit of butter. We were able to eat it for about 3 days before it turned into solid rock.



Meanwhile, outside….

DAMMIT! Melt already, melt already!


So close....

The blueberry\sugar mix took a full week of 90 degree weather before the sugar was completely dissolved. I finally brought it inside and added the most important ingredient, the slivovitz. I thankfully live right next store to Orange County’s biggest liquor store and they not only had 1 type of slivovitz, they had 20 types of slivovitz. Wanting to be as close to the real thing as possible, I got the Croatian Creation (I swear to God, that is what is on the label) and added it to my blueberry …uh, juice.

I then stuck it in the refrigerator to stew…cook…melt…whatever. I haven’t touched it since then. I’m honestly a little bit afraid.



“Ooooooh Keeeeevin!”

*I can’t tell you how hard that part was to write. I threw up a little bit.

So, how you doing?

Oi. I am SO late with the next entry. I have half of it written out already but have had so many things going on recently that I haven't gotten around to finishing it. So, I think I will just give you a quick update to what the hell I have been doing while I take yet another day (and some) to give you my actual entry. It will, of course, be immediately followed with another entry, as so you can get your fill.

Most recently what I've been dealing with is a throttle position sensor that went out on my 2004 Nissan Sentra 1.8s (I'm being detailed here so that people who look up throttle position sensors for their shitty 2004 Nissan Sentra 1.8s on the internet will actually find some information, unlike myself). This means that when I step on the gas my car goes, "hmmm, I'm not sure I want to .... GO!" To fix the throttle position sensor, you have to go through the following tedious steps:

1. Talk to your mechanic who tell you he's going to charge you $60 to hook up your car to a diagnostics machine to find out why your Check Engine light is on and your car sometimes won't go.
   
2. Take your car to AARCO who will give you the diagnostics test (which will come up with the bad throttle position sensor error) but will tell you that they won't be able to fix it.
   
3. Take your car to the mechanic who will tell you that he doesn't believe AARCO, but if you really believe that it's right, he'll put on the part for $60.
   
4. Call up Nissan dealership. They will tell you that they have to order the part and you need to come in and pay for it before they'll order it.
   
5. Go to Nissan dealership. They surprisingly have the part. You pay $128 for it and drive away happy.
   
6. Drop off car at mechanic.
   
7. Get call from mechanic who tells you it's the wrong part and it's used. Mechanic will have already called dealership to bitch them out.
   
8. Go to dealership. Same sales guy will say, "Yeah, it's the wrong part" and will order you another one. Part will be delivered in 3 business days.
   
9. 5 days pass, no call from dealership. Go to dealership because they have the part. Pick up part only to realize it's the same stupid fucking part you already have. Sales guy will say, "yeah, but this one is new"
   
10. Insist to talk to Nissan mechanic. Nissan mechanic will look confused, mumble something about a non-existant recall then say "Oh yeah, you have to get the whole thing that part attaches to, not just that one piece"
    
11. Whole Thing part not in stock. Nissan dealership tells you that there are only 3 Whole Thing Parts in the whole USA. Tells you that it will take 5 business days before it's in...and oh, it's $30 more dollars than just the throttle position sensor.
    
12. 3 days later, part is in. Unfortunately you got suckered into working the 8-5 shift at work and won't be able to pick up the part until Saturday.
    
13. DURATION OF STEPS: Look repeatedly online for new. fucking. car.

Actual entry is coming soon, I promise.

Orange County Fair - Costa Mesa, CA

And back to our regular scheduled blog:

Yes, yes, I know. I have officially spent 6 summers here in Southern California (granted, not all consequently) and up until yesterday, I had never been to the Orange County Fair. This is almost absurd to me for the following reasons:

• The Orange County Fair is in Costa Mesa. I have lived in Costa Mesa all 6 summers.
  
• The Fair runs for approximately 4 weeks. 4 weeks is plenty of time to make it to a fair for at least one day.
  
• I love fairs…and festivals…and carnivals. Basically anywhere where they are guaranteed to be selling funnel cakes and corn dogs I will most certainly enjoy.

I have tried unsuccessfully to figure out why it has taken me so long to make it to what is surely one of the bigger fairs I have ever seen. I can’t figure it out. I certainly had enough time. I certainly could afford it. It’s a mystery as Ed would say.

Convincing Kevin to accompany me to the fair was another matter all together. Kevin doesn’t like fairs. He finds them too hot, too crowded, and way too expensive. He has valid points but I tend to think of the good (funnel cakes and corn dogs) outweighing the bad. I buttered him up for weeks with vague notions of maybe, if the weather is nice and we have a little money, to perhaps, if it wasn’t too much hassle, to kind of go to the fair. He always said maybe in the exact same vague manner and as the weeks went on, my time was running out. Finally, on the second to last day of the fair, I put on my best sad puppy eyes and whiney voice and said, “Please can we go to the fair? Pleeeeeease? Pretty pretty pleeeeeeease? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze??”

No, I’m not proud, but I got to go to the fair.

Because the fairgrounds are about 3 miles away from our house, we decided to take our bikes there. We save about $8 in parking fees and the headache of actually finding a spot to park.


Sand sculpture

We walked in and immediately set out to find something to eat. Kevin opted for a pulled pork sandwich and I held out for a falafel sandwich at the Greek place. During the course of the day, we had that and a corn dog (!), a vanilla ice cream cone, and a smorgasbord of fried artichoke hearts, zucchini, and mushrooms (Kevin’s choice). I honestly was amazed at the fried food options there. From a person coming from Wisconsin, that’s saying a lot. They even had fried Snickers bars and fried Coke. Fried Coke? What is that anyhow? My favorite food listed there that I wouldn’t dare eat is the fried Krispy Kreme chicken sandwich. That’s right, a piece of fried chicken in between two Krispy Kreme donuts. I don’t even have anything witty to say about it, I think it speaks for itself.


Fried Veggies

After our first round of food, we went to look at the livestock. We saw the world’s finest collection of odd looking chickens, I pet the bad side of a cow, and I got attacked by a bee when looking at the steers. For Kevin’s sake I will tell you that the bee landed on my shoulder and I freaked out. I started running in circles and screaming, “GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!” while Kevin stood there and yelled towards me, “Stay still! I’ll get it, I’ll get it!” But I kept running and freaking out until I finally swatted it away with the only item I had in my hand which was my camera. By then I had more people looking at me than at the steers and Kevin just stood there rolling his eyes. For the rest of the afternoon Kevin mocked me and my fear of bees. While I felt silly, I didn’t feel as silly as this goat:


Overheard: Daddy! That goat doesn't have a head!

Oh, and here’s the one of many odd looking chickens:



And a pig who needs a little TP:



Feeling like I shouldn’t just face one fear in a single day, after the livestock we went on the Sky Tram thing. You know, that little rickety bench seat that takes you from one end of the grounds to the other via the world’s smallest cable 30 feet up in the air. Beth and I used to ride the same thing at Summerfest when we got too tired. With my (now) fear of heights, this ride was torture. I held on for dear life while Kevin did his best to distract me with funny fried food signs. Afterwards I was shaking and had myself three cigarettes and the world’s most expensive cup of beer to calm down. Then I had another beer, but in the bigger more expensive size.


Not the Sky Tram thing, but another ride I would not go on.

Later, we headed over to the Midway to play some games. Kevin saw the below guy with a Homer and sparks of jealousy washed over him. While we couldn’t find any game that was giving away Homer, we did find a game that was giving away Bart and sat down to play. It was the perfect game too. You played against other fairgoers and the object was to fill up a beer pitcher with a tap of water that kept moving. After $12 we walked away with Bart.



We were beginning to get low on money, so we spent the next couple of hours walking around, looking at the games and the rides, watching the acrobats, laughing at the kids on the pony rides, and general people watching.



After the sun went down, the fair became unbearably crowded so we decided to head home. I will say that biking was an excellent idea for getting to the fair but later on when we were tired from walking around all day, it was a bit tough. We made it though.



All in all, the fair was awesome. I’d love to go again next year….if I can only convince Kevin. I’ll have to work on him starting in April I think.