Cherry Vodka, Bardzo Słodka

That rhyme only works in Pol-Eng, which is my personal mix of Polish and Polish. Bardzo słodka means very sweet, and I have stuffed 500 g of cherries in a big jar and poured 700 mL of vodka on top. In a few weeks, I will see how they are doing, and then decide upon a sweetening method. I don't want my cherry vodka tincture to become TOO sweet.

I really love this store, but I don't love their prices, so I shall begin my own line of tinctures for home consumption and Christmas presents.

When I was Single I never, ever drank alone because I had heard too many stories of elderly widows and widowers becoming alcoholics in their old age by drinking alone. And, really, alcohol is not really a thing in my family, drinkers of milk, except when they are on holiday--at least, when they are on holiday in Britain. Then they drink enough wine and gin to float a boat, and the Master of the Men's Schola loves to remind me of my claim that that my family drinks one measly bottles of wine together a year (Christmas).

I have never really seen the point of drinking alone, or being tipsy alone. It's one of those activities (and states) best with friends and family. When alone, I prefer a nice cup of tea, or a coffee, or even a nice steaming cup of broth.

My Day in Victory Rolls

Oh, poppets. I have discovered what makes you look weirder than a punk rocker or a Goth, and it is a 1940s hairdo, especially if you have long hair. As I looked at myself in the hairdresser's mirror, my little heart sank. I sported modified 1940s hairdos in elementary school, when rollers fixed my fuzzy hair into smooth waves for Picture Days, but this was much, much worse. Instead of two balanced victory rolls, I had one huge victory roll and two pin curls on either side. I crept out of the salon half-expecting to be accosted by school bullies. Taxi!

However, I am not in school but a grown-up and I spent the day inside grown-up Summerhall listening to very grown-up topics as part of the Polish Scottish Heritage Festival.

The first lecture was Scottish Nationalist Party propaganda disguised with a thin veneer of history. The lecture was supposed to be about Scottish migration in the 16th to early 18th centuries to Poland, i.e. between the early days of the Scottish Reformation and the Union of Scotland and England. What economic factors sent the Protestant Scots to Poland, you might ask. Terrible restrictions because pre-union Scotland was in direct competition with powerhouse England? And what economic factors following upon the Union stopped Scots from going there, you might also ask. Astonishing Scottish economic growth? And although what I wanted to do was pass unnoticed (if such a thing was possible, given the size of my victory roll), I did ask these questions. AND DID NOT BL**DY WELL GET STRAIGHT ANSWERS. Because the whole point of the lecture was not to discuss historical realities but to exploit Polish sympathies for nationalism to get more "Yes" votes for the separatist referendum.

I asked the only questions because the other "questions" were actually just other Scotsmen listening to themselves talk, and I do not recall which one it was who tried to draw parallels between Scotland's role in the United Kingdom with the three partitions of Poland, but the speaker certainly did not say that was a stretch. Seven of Britain's Prime Ministers have been born in Scotland; pretending Scots have been groaning under foreign domination since 1707 is ahistorical, an insult and a lie. Not only is it an insult to generations of Scots in Britain, and to Britain in general, but an insult to generations of Poles who suffered in ways the vast majority of Scots born since 1707 could not possibly imagine. How interesting that Poles continue to be exploited, this time by Scottish pseudo-intellectuals prostituting history for their "Yes" votes.*

The speaker was wearing a "YES" button--believe me, it was THAT obvious. I was so angry, I thought the rest of the day would be ruined for me. First I had mad hair, and second the Scots Nats seemed to have hijacked the Scottish Polish Heritage Festival. However, I then heard two excellent testimonies from Scots about Polish experiences in the Second World War and after, in Poland and Scotland. One Scot had a Polish father, and the other had aided Polish displaced persons in Germany in the 1950s and become a Polonophile. The latter wrote a series of short stories, and I was so impressed by her reading that I bought her book. The former's book sounded interesting, too, but he hogged the question period as the woman sat there quietly, so he lost my buyer's sympathy.

Next was an American film called "The Officer's Wife", about the Katyn massacre and the deportation of two million Poles to Siberia. It was very good although natually very depressing. I was curious about the voice given to the actress reading the memoirs of filmmaker's Polish-Chicago grandmother; it sounded neither Polish nor Chicago. It was also political, but at least it wasn't a cheap ploy to get the Poles living in Scotland to vote against the Union (which is not, IMHO) in their economic or political interests AT ALL. No, the film is 100% anti-Soviet and 99.99% anti-current Russian regime, which--given the events described by the film--is fair enough.

Then there was a concert in the main hall by Polish folk singers, which was very loud and reminded me that, although I am a huge fan of Polish pop music of the interwar--and war--period, and have a soft spot for the 1950s stuff (condemned by Polish Pretend Son as Stalinist forced cheer), and enjoy Disco Polo and other modern Polish stuff (and Chopin), I do not like village stuff. I really do not like Polish village stuff. I dislike it so much, I wrote a note to remind myself because every time I think I will like it this time, I do not. And as the room was very crowded with enthusiastic Polish folk music lovers, and I already stuck out like a sore victory roll, I couldn't escape. Oh dear. But at least that wasn't anti-British either. And when it was done, I tied a scarf around my head, like your great-grandmothers, and went out into the outside world for coffee.

My self-confidence improved drastically an hour or so later when I put on my 1940s gear in the Summerhall toilet reserved for the disabled. I had proper 1940s corsetry (squeeeeeze) and tights with lines down the back. I had a long black dress that could have been from the 1940s, black gloves and shoes of a rather 1940s-looking design. I had chunky rhinestone jewellery. Above all, I had brown eyeshadow with which to 1940sfy my eyebrows and super-dark red lipstick. And so I no longer looked simply peculiar but like a 40-something woman in 1940.

The reason many of us all think we look young for our age is because nothing was as aging to our grandmothers and great-grandmothers as the great divide between Maidens' Clothes and Matrons' Clothes. Once upon a time, once you were of a certain age, you HAD to stop dressing like a young woman. And, lo, if you were over thirty in 1940 you might have looked like this:

My mother says I looked magnificent and my hair is just like that of my grandmother in a photo my mother keeps on her mirror, but she has not offered it to my view as proof. Frankly, I thought I was not going to make a very good wingwoman for my Single pal after all, for surely the male reaction to my hair would be to fall about laughing.

But no. After supper and the Katy Carr concert, there was a swing dance, and at this dance I was suddenly SEIZED by a Polish Pretend Pilot (out of uniform) of about 60 and made to swing-dance all over the floor. He had a huge grey moustache and was delicately scented with tobacco and was reluctant to speak in either Polish or English, but I thought I would introduced him to my Single pal anyway. At first she did not look happy with this, for although our saviour from wallflowerdom was an excellent dancer, he was also familiarly affectionate, as if we were his long-lost grand-daughters.

Personally, I expect to be squeezed just a little too much and kissed soundly on the cheek or forehead by slightly tipsy cigarette smokers I have never met before on the dance floor. It is the price one pays for partner dancing. Indeed, I bet generations of women would agree with me, although nobody would admit it. However, my pal is a little more fastidious, so she looked rather irked, but she is also endlessly forgiving, so she may have forgotten about the over-squeezing and face-kissing already.

So after we had both been rescued from wallflowerdom, we went to the bar fashioned out of a room across the hall. The Scots barman had three bottles of vodka behind him, but he literally thought I was joking when I asked for mine straight. He even laughed. "They told me this one goes with apple juice," he said, so I had my zubrowka with apple juice, and it was actually very good. It also gave me the courage for my next wingwoman manoeuvre, so pay attention.

"We must dance with younger men," said I to my Single Pal. She agreed and bewailed the new male tendency not to ask women they don't know to dance. Primed with vodka, I looked around the room for anyone I knew, even slightly. But the only person I knew was Kasia, who looked great, by the way. However, I did recognize one of the men as someone who goes to various of Kasia's Polish poetry events, so I carted my Single Pal along to where he was talking to another youngish man, and I said, "Hey! I know you! You're a friend of Kasia's!"

This of course flies in the face of "The Rules", but I did not care because, being married, I am not interested in male strangers at parties as anyone other than men who might ask my Single Pals to dance. If great cosmic punishment falls upon those who talk to strange men at parties, it will fall on me, not on my innocent Single Pals. Perhaps this is one reason why Single Girls should have Married Pal friends. The caveat is that the Married Pal shouldn't look too obviously married and as if she were merely trying to marry off her Single friend. No, no, no. The Married Pal must look interested in whomever for himself, so that if he shrinks from her brazenness, her friend will look better by comparison. If he recoils with maidenly disgust, the really Single friend can roll her eyes in sympathy and apology and thus create a BOND of shared feeling with the cute stranger.

"Which Kasia?" asked the Polish guy, smirking. "I have two friends here named Kasia."

Oooh. Polish surnames. You know, I see them on Facebook, but it is years before I actually sound them out to myself, let alone memorize them. Faking your way through them is not really an option but...

"Kasia Kokosanka", I claimed.

The Polish guy laughed and well he might, for kokosanka, I have since discovered, means coconut cake.

"That's not her name," he said, chortling away.

"So what is it?" I asked, and as he could not remember, I said he had a lot of nerve laughing at me in that case. I then introduced him to my Single Pal, and eventually he asked her to dance. Ta-dah! (Victory roll.)

I then talked to his non-Polish pal, and eventually asked him to dance, as I cannot resist Irving Berlin songs, and had a marvelous time. My Single Pal may have helpfully corrected any potential misunderstandings by mentioning, when the non-Polish pal made inquiries, that I was married. I think I was back in the arms of Mr Squeezy Moustache at the time.

At 11:15 or so, the crowd had thinned out a bit, and my Single Pal and I rushed off to our respective buses which, conveniently, came to the same stop almost simultaneously. And so I was safely home by midnight, and instead of facing dismay that his wife had run about town with attention-getting hair, Benedict Ambrose took a lot of photos.

"Did that really only cost forty pounds?" he asked, which as you may discover, is one of the nicest things a husband can say, combining flattery about your looks with the assertion that they didn't cost you that much. (Second victory roll!)

*Poles resident in Scotland can vote for or against the Union in September's Scottish so-called "independence" referendum. No-one living in any other part of the UK, including those born in Scotland of Scottish parentage, can vote. Four million people, including 16 year olds and people not born anywhere in the UK (including me), get to make a decision that will potentially worsen the lives of sixty-two million people. Nice, eh? Before the SNP got into power, "independence", never mind Scottish republicanism, was a fringe interest. IMHO this whole stramash is a vanity project for Scottish politicians without the talent or clout to get anywhere in the Union as a whole. As I said, at least seven Scots have been Prime Ministers of the United Kingdom, a major first world power. Why we're going to chuck this in... Oh well. If the economy collapes, B.A. and I can always go to Canada, and the Poles can always go back to Poland or to England, which I hope would weather the storm.

The Stein Speech (Abridged)

The Edith Stein sections of my May speech about "The Theology of Woman: St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross and John Paul II" have appeared in their entirety on the Dzielne Niewiasty blog. Twenty-four paragraphs strikes me as a lot for one blog post. I will skip the biographical stuff and just post the theological overview.

All direct quotations from Saint Edith Stein come from "Essays on Woman," Volume 2 of The Collected Works of Edith Stein, translated by Freda Mary Oben. As this was a speech, I didn't create the ordinary scholarly apparatus. And let me tell you, I regretted this later when I was translating the quotes into Polish. (Had I written the citations, I could potentially have found the official Polish version of St. Edith Stein's writings and swiftly looked them up.)

By the way, I am putting up a new tip jar because we are in serious need of a new vacuum cleaner in our battle with the common British clothes moth. B.A. would also like you to know that I have been known to proofread and edit the English style of academic essays for $40/hr. I accept work only from people who are recommended by their professors, however, so this is not an ad to the students, but to any professors who would prefer that someone fix up their keen but illegible foreign students' essays before the professors have to read them. Theology a specialty.

St. Edith Stein's Theology of Woman

It is a miracle that Saint Edith’s manuscripts and notebooks survived the war. When, after her arrest, a bomb fell on her monastery in the Netherlands, the nuns and villagers ran around rescuing her papers from the wind and the rain. Her writings on women were eventually gathered into a volume called “Die Frau: Ihre Aufgabe nach Natur und Gnade”, which translated means “Woman: Her task according to nature and Grace.” This book has been translated into several languages including Polish, and I think that everyone with university-level reading comprehension should read it. The essays are challenging, but deeply helpful for men and women to understand woman’s nature and what she is called to do in the modern world.

Saint Edith examined the reality of what it is to be a woman from two sources: Scripture and her experience of living as a woman among women as a teacher of girls and women. Her philosophical training under Husserl taught her to subject everything she was told about women to the light of lived experience. (It is a failure to do this which led Aristotle, most dramatically, to make severe errors about women, which subsequent generations merely parroted, without examining lived realities.)

Saint Edith identified a woman as human, first of all, called to the same overall human project as men: to be the image of God, bring forth children and be masters over the earth. Men and women are in the image of God because they have reason. They bring forth physical or spiritual children. They are masters over the created earth in several ways: they are “to fight and conquer it; to understand it and by knowledge to make it [their] own, to possess and enjoy it, and finally, and to make it in a sense [their] own creation through purposeful activity.” But Saint Edith sees that men and women differ in the ways they use their reason, have children, and exercise their rule over their earth. For example, men have a tendency to concentrate on only one subject or aspect at a time, whereas women have a tendency to multi-task and see “the whole picture”. In this they compliment and correct each other.

Saint Edith also observes that women are much more interested in people and in helping others with their work than men are; men literally prefer to mind their own business. Unless economic necessity directs otherwise, most men gravitate towards subjects and professions involving physical strength, independence or abstract thought, whereas women gravitate towards professions that focus on helping people: medicine, teaching, social work, translation. However, she sees no profession to which women are not suited: she observes that women have unique gifts to bring to what have been male-dominated professions. There is no need for women to become like men in order to enter a profession: what is needful is that a woman enter the profession for which her own unique personal talents most suit her and in such a way that this profession does not interfere with her primary vocation which is, whether or not she literally gives birth, a mother.

Motherhood is key to Saint Edith Stein’s theology of woman, and her great model for motherhood is Mary, Mother of God. Just as Our Lord Jesus Christ is the “New Adam” who frees humanity from the sin of Adam, so the Mother of God is the “New Eve” by whom Our Lord Jesus Christ enters the world. Eve was tempted by the serpent and sinned; Mary did not sin and gave birth to the Son who defeated the serpent.

Because the New Adam and the New Eve are mother and child, Saint Edith infers that woman’s most important role towards humanity is not her role as a wife, but her role as mother. Indeed, even a married woman’s role as a human wife is subordinate to her call to be a mother, which is to say, motherly. Edith talks of a spiritual motherhood, not just a physical motherhood; many women who do not have children, like female religious or other unmarried women, have a vast capacity for maternal love than can and should be used for the whole community. It is, in fact, a feminine gift which can help women become more like the Mother of God.

Jednakże w badaniach Księgi Rodzaju... Just kidding!

But in her studies of Genesis, Edith Stein notes two things in particular: that Adam was made before Eve and that Eve was made as a helper and a companion for Adam. She reflects that by having been created first, Adam seems to have a certain precedence over Eve. This masculine precedence is echoed in the fact that Our Lord Jesus Christ chose to live His humanity as a man. Thus, Saint Edith does not depart from the belief that woman was made for man, to be a helper and a companion for the man. And she sees in women around her an earnest desire to be helpful and to be companions for men. However, she notes that before the Fall, the relationship between man and woman was not the relationship of domination and submission it became after the Fall. Man’s tyranny over women is a result of Original Sin and should have no part of the redemption brought by Our Lord Jesus Christ. She notes that Adam showed what a bad master he was going to be when he immediately blamed Eve for giving him the apple.

Saint Edith has a keen sense that we still live under the effects of Original Sin and whenever she talks about humanity, femininity or masculinity, she always notes that we have a fallen humanity, a fallen femininity and a fallen masculinity. (She notes, too, that certain men have more developed feminine characteristics, and certain women have more developed masculine characteristics). Men have to strive against the fallen aspects of masculinity just as women have to strive against the fallen aspects of femininity. For example, men are more likely to become very narrow in their attitude towards the world: striving only for one thing or one goal, to the neglect of other needful things, including the feelings of other people. Women, however, with our interest in other people are more likely to become involved in other people’s business in a meddlesome way. And Stein also warns that if women become narrow in our approach to the world, we become narrow in a particularly dangerous way, abandoning abstract thought and creative action to focus solely on the possession and enjoyment of a good life. Our “reverent joy in the things of this world degenerates into greed” leading us to hoard things we don’t need, or to lapse “into a mindless, idle life of sensuality. “ We can well imagine what she means — ultimately to live for food, romance, entertainment and shopping.

Our primary model for overcoming the fallenness of our female nature is, for Saint Edith, the Mother of God. Not only is the Mother of God a model of obedience and openness to God, of marriage and of motherhood, but of how we should do our paid work. She writes, “Mary at the wedding of Cana in her quiet, observing look surveys everything and discovers what is lacking. Before anything is noticed, even before embarrassment sets in, she had procured the remedy. She finds ways and means, she gives necessary directives, doing all quietly. She draws no attention to herself. Let her be the prototype of women in professional life. Wherever situated, let her always perform her work quietly and dutifully, without claiming attention and appreciation. And at the same time, she should survey the conditions with vigilant eye. Let her be conscious of where there is a want and where help is needed, intervening and regulating as far as it is possible in her power in a discreet way. Then she will like a good spirit spread blessing everywhere.”

What Saint Edith was proposing was a radical departure from the arguments around the Woman Question. Instead of asserting with the feminists that women were the same as men, and therefore equal, or with the traditionalists that women were different from men, and therefore unequal, she asserted that women were both different from men and equal to men, with just one caveat: that men had some kind of precedence shown by the fact that Adam was created first and by the fact that Our Blessed Saviour chose to live His human life as a man. This precedence, however, does not mean that female life is any less important. Indeed, Stein points out that a woman’s assent — Eve’s to the serpent and then Mary’s to God — “determined the destiny of humanity as a whole.” And while Saint Edith affirmed that men, whose primary vocation seems to leadership, and fatherhood a secondary part of this leadership, are the heads of their families, she notes that a good leader knows when to deputize. She writes that “the husband will find that [the wife] will give him invaluable advice in guiding the lives of their children as well as themselves; indeed, often he would fulfil his duties as a leader best if he would yield to her and permit himself to be led by her.”

Meanwhile, Saint Edith put the good of the man and woman’s family life before any professional consideration. She is deeply concerned for the happiness of women who, through no choice of their own, find that their professional work conflicts with their responsibilities to their families. She notes that such a conflict is a heavier burden on mothers than it is on fathers. She asserts that “Any social condition is an unhealthy one which compels [my emphasis] married women to seek gainful employment and makes it impossible for them to manage their home. And we should accept as normal that the married woman is restricted to domestic life at a time when her household duties exact her total energies.” I think Saint Edith Stein would support a movement to grant Polish mothers more than just 20 weeks of maternity leave.

Saint Edith’s theology of woman is also the source for the notion of the complementarity of men and women: the idea that men and women, working together, combining masculine and feminine characteristics, create a balanced whole, not only in family life, but in professional and national life, as well. Saint Edith’s work is so well known today because of her most famous disciple, who never met her, and was in Kraków when Saint Edith was murdered with her sister in Auschwitz. I speak, of course, of Saint Jan Paweł II.

---from "A Speech about the Theology of Women of St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross and St. John Paul II to the Dzielne Niewiasty in Kraków, Poland on May 4, 2014 " by Dorothy Cummings McLean.

1940s Fashion

Although I admit there is a galaxy of difference between the point of view of a married woman and a Single woman when it comes to social life, I have to say that I make an excellent wing-woman. For example, when I attracted various men at an Edinburgh party with my admitted trampy (because double-sided tape doesn't work on me, apparently) dress and can of pre-made G&T, I chatted with them briefly and when I got to the being married part, introduced them to my Single Pal. It turns out it is soooo easy to meet men when you are married and no longer care. Oh, I suppose this does not apply to married women with children and therefore no time or inclination to stand around at parties having wardrobe malfunctions.

I probably should explain that B.A. and I don't always go to the same parties. For example, he is not coming to the Polish Scottish Heritage Festival dance on Saturday night, even though it is called the "Swinging Allies 1940s Dance Party." Guests are supposed to wear 1940s clothing. How much cooler could a party BE? And I am quite sure I will be able to use my wing-woman skills get again, if only because my companion for the evening will be Casimir the Fox Fur Stole. Everyone will want to meet Casimir.

1940 was the best time to be a Single Catholic girl in Edinburgh in the post-Reformation history of Scotland because overnight 30.000 Polish soldiers turned up. Can you imagine having only Michael this and Patrick that to choose from (actually, I'm sure you can, especially if you are a trad) and then suddenly your parish church is packed to bursting with handsome foreigners in uniform paying as much attention to the women as to the solemn gestures of the parish priest? You, the Single Catholic Girl in Edinburgh, have the advantage over all your Presbyterian and Pixie neighbours for the first time in your life, for you get first pick of the invading, er, liberating, er, helpful Polish army.

This thought was floating through my head when, having secured one female friend to join me at the Swinging Allies 1940s Dance Party", I tried to convince another. "Swing dancing," I said. "1940s outfits. Homesick Polish soldiers!"

Actually, I didn't get that carried away. For one thing, this was after a Requiem Mass and the Schola was in earshot. And for another, although there may be homesick Polish soldiers there, they will have been from among those who turned up in 1940, and therefore too old to swing dance. (I suppose if asked to tango by a 90 year old Polish veteran, it would be very impolite to refuse, but regarding swing, it would probably be kinder, yes?) Presumably, though, there may be some cute new Poles. I tried to beam the message "Cute new Poles" to her with with thought waves while she wailed some nonsense about deadlines. Swing dancing! 1940s outfits! Homesick Polish pretend soldiers!

Today I went shopping for 1940s gear. Obviously I am taking this party very seriously. I have already booked an appointment to get 1940s hair, strongly regretting that my mother isn't here to set my hair in curlers for free. Benedict Ambrose drew the line at my plan to paint my legs with self-tan and have him draw a line up the backs (too ruinous to the sofa, he feared), so I bought seamed stockings. I MAY have a dress already but I am not SURE. (You know how it is.) I saw a brown dress, clearly 1940s, in a vintage shop that I really liked, but it was 32 quid, and I never pay more than 15 for a garment if I can possible help it.

While travelling about trying to find an outfit while spending as little money as possible, I came across this passage in The Eagle Unbowed: Poland and the Poles in the Second World War. It is the first cheerful story in 221 pages, so I will share it with you.:

When the battle of Britain officially ended on 31 October 1940, the Poles were acknowledged as having made a contribution that belied their small numbers. They lost 33 pilots but 34 had become aces - men who had scored five or more kills. 303 Squadron had downed three times the RAF average. The Poles received enormous publicity and gratitude for their daring deeds in the sky. After visiting a Polish squadron in in August 1940, the king was heard to remark: "One cannot help feeling that if all our Allies had been Poles, the course of the war, up until now, would have been very different." The head of Fighter Command, Sir Hugh Dowding, told Churchill, "the Poles in our Fighter Squadrons were very dashing but totally undisciplined." Churchill in response said, "one Pole was worth three Frenchmen, Gort and Dowding said nearer ten!" Having a Polish fighter pilot on one's arm became the height of fashion for young women in Britain in the summer of 1940, and jealous RAF piots sometimes adopted phoney Polish accents to attract girls. The headmistress of a girls' school ended her speech to the school leavers with the warning: "And remember, keep away from gin and Polish airmen."

--Halik Kochanski, The Eagle Unbowed: Poland and the Poles in the Second World War (London: Penguin, 2013), 221.

Gin! Polish pretend airmen---for my friends! And now I shall decide if I want to look more like Ginger Rogers or Veronica Lake. The thing about long hair is that Victory Rolls may be difficult. When I proposed the idea to a chap at the local (and cheaper) shop, he all but threw me out. "Ooh nae, hen, ah couldnae dae it, ah couldnae, not with yoor lang hairrr. Try next doooor. She's verra guid."

Cold Summer Soup

It's been a long time since I posted a recipe, and this time I want to post it so I have a record of what I made yesterday afternoon. In short, after reading three contradictory recipes for chłodnik, I just made my own.

Chłodnik (HWOD-neek) is a cold Polish beet soup, which I first tasted last Saturday in Ognisko, a Polish restaurant in London. If you think you don't like cold soups because you don't like starchy, cloying old vichyssoise, give chłodnik a try.

Seraphic's Chłodnik (Anielski Chłodnik)

for four, suitable for Fridays and vegetarians

You need two biggish bowls, and one is the serving bowl.

4 cooked beets
one cup veggie broth
half a lemon
half an English cucumber, diced very small
3 little radishes (or more, if you love radishes), diced very small.
a package of fresh dill (about 3/4 cup), chopped
a handful of fresh chives, chopped
500 mL (around 1 pint) of plain low-fat yogurt
1/2 cup (or half a small Tesco container) sour cream
3-4 cold hard boiled eggs, quartered

I suppose you could add salt, but I'd wait until the end because the veggie broth might be plenty salty. I used Marigold Swiss.

1.Into the big serving bowl, grate the cooked beets.
2. Pour into beets the veggie broth and the juice of half a lemon.
3. Into the second bowl, combine cucumber, radishes, dill and chives. Then toss them into the serving bowl and gently mix into the beets and broth.
4.Into the emptied second bowl, mix yogurt and sour cream. Gently fold into the veggie mixture in the serving bowl. It will become pink.
5. Taste to adjust seasonings. Gradually throw in more dill or chives or salt, as you like. Mix.
6. Add the quarters of hard boiled egg as a decoration on top or gently mixed in
7. Cover the serving bowl (my Polish one, which looks just like the photo, has a lid) and put it in the fridge to chill for at least three hours.

This is so good I rudely served myself seconds before offering seconds to guests. This was very bad behaviour, but the soup was soooo good. It doesn't need saltines or bread, really, although I served it with Polish brown bread.

If you don't have guests, I suggest making it for yourself and then eating it all weekend. Delicious!

The Machine is Bad

I have to retranslate eleven paragraphs of my Theology of Woman essay because they are impossible for a Polish speaker to read and PPS's head almost blew up.

The Magic Polish Translation Machine is bad. Very, very bad. Apparently the paragraphs I did without the Machine are better than the Machine ones. There is no substitute for human + dictionary + verb book + grammar primer + 2.5 years of study.

But the other moral of the story is that a woman who decides to render her own English language essay into Polish has a fool for a translator. To quote B.A., "I cry."

When this is done, I'm not reading or writing anything above my grade level in Polish EVER AGAIN. I am sticking to Julek i Julka and memorizing the dialogues in the soap opera composed by my prof, and that is it. Well, hymns, songs and poems will still be okay, but no more translating myself. It hurts my brain and eats up all my time.

On the other hand, it can not be too widely known among English-to-Polish translators that I will find out if they are sloppy with my work.

(This is where you should all chime in, "Don't quit, Seraphic!")

My Cure for a Broken Heart

I got an email the other day that I am not at liberty to post. In short, it was by a brokenhearted woman who is dating again and thinks that in order to have a relationship with a new man, she must make herself "vulnerable." Now, "vulnus" means wound, and it strikes me that this woman needs to heal the wounds so recently inflicted on her heart before she does any such thing. And I am deeply suspicious of any view of male-female romance relationship that talks about a need to accept wounds anyway. The essence of trusting a guy with your heart is a deeply informed and correct opinion, formed over time, that the guy isn't going to reject you

If anything, the male-female romance relationship is the LAST relationship where you need to court vulnerability. Vulnerability is for mentors and protegees, bosses and employees, teachers and students, editors and the edited. When you hand over your intellectual work, or your creative work, or your paid work, to someone for evaluation, you are pretty darn vulnerable. And you have to take whatever is said by mentor, boss, teacher or editor on the chin. And mentor, boss, teacher or editor will have to field your reaction. It used to be said that men could accept that their work was something separate from themselves, but women took criticism of their work personally. I don't believe that: I think we ALL take it personally, and most of us have to work to A) become detached B) accept justifiable criticism.

"Don't despair when you see all the red," said Polish Pretend Son last night, as he prepared to embrace the beckoning Edinburgh night. He was talking about his correction of my "Teolgia Kobietości" essay, and since I have corrected the English in any number of essays, I thought, "Hey! That's my line!" I was highly amused, and this morning I am even more amused to read Polish Pretend Son's comments. The reasons for my wondeful detachment are that I completely trust Polish Pretend Son's opinions regarding Polish style, and at this point I have few expectations of my Polish prose. As Polish Pretend Son pointed out, there's quite a distance between reading Julek i Julka and translating theology into Polish.

But imagine if I were a great Polish stylist, and my ego was wrapped up in my ability to turn out Polish prose. Perhaps I had won a gold medal in university for it, or something. And, flushed with the compliments of my teachers and professors, I wrote a masterful book about the Polish countryside, and all over Poland, critics tore it to bits. My professors backtracked. My friends who said they liked my book were obviously lying. Would I, heartbroken, be handing over my essay to Polish Pretend Son within six months and snickering at the sea of red and the snarky remarks about my alleged linguistic feminism? No. I would be weeping in my coffee.

In short, if you get your heart smashed, the last thing you want to do is make it "vulnerable" to some man again. And you shouldn't want to. Your heart needs a good healing, it needs to be as detached from the opinions of strangers as I am from my Polish prose, and you need to get your equilibrium back before you pop back out into the world with an eye to attracting suitors. It takes as long as it takes. However, I think there is one way to speed things up.

Travel across a body of water, preferably an ocean. There are study programs and work programs for foreigners under 30, and if you are over 30, well, a ten day holiday in Tuscany, religiously saved for out of your earnings, can work wonders. Oh, and go alone. I forgot to mention that part. If going alone is too scary, sign up with a tour group you'll meet up with when you get there, wherever there is. The idea is to go away from the scene of your heartbreak into a totally new place, a place with no memories of the ex, and ample opportunities to put your adult skills of self-reliance to the test. (If you go with a female friend. you will talk to her about the ex, which defeats the purpose of this exercise.) If you are forced to speak another language, so much the better. Reading maps, asking strangers questions, finding food, finding shelter--your brain will be too crowded to contemplate your aching heart and every time you achieve something, you will feel like you have scored a goal.

"I have fallen in the shower, and I need some ice," said Seraphic, age 27, in Italian to a hotel receptionist over the phone somewhere outside Venice, and not only did the ice ease my aching limb, it soothed my wounded heart. Look what I can do!

If you really, really, cannot leave home now or within any imaginable length of time (but if in England, why not France? If in New England, why not Quebec?), then I recommend you find something new to do. Take a night school class, particularly in a language. Take a second job, part-time, somewhere you think is cool--cafe in an art gallery, office in a charity. Do something that speaks to your sense of adventure to remind it that romance is not the only adventure.

And I think this really goes to the heart of what was wrong with my attitude to romance when I was growing up. For a long time, romance was the only adventure for most women. If one doesn't work out, well then, start another. And another. And another. And unsurprisingly, this gets old. It gets boring. Serial monogamy, even if completely chaste, gets to be a drag. And if you are now shouting "Yes!" at the computer, then why not get off the old treadmill of romance? Find another adventure. Get out of Dodge. Take a night class. Get a second job. Try a martial art. Challenge yourself to something utterly new and absorbing. Not only will you heal, you'll grow.

Where There's a "Wola", There's a Way

There are some things in life we cannot control. Most of us, for example, are not very good at controlling other people's hearts and minds. However, when it comes to our intellectual faculties, there is a lot we can do. Of course, when it is difficult, we have to really want to do it. For example, since January I have wanted to lose weight and do a proper Spring Cleaning of our flat. I have lost at least 14 pounds, but I have not done a proper Spring Cleaning of our flat. I suspect this is because I really wanted to lose weight, but I didn't really want to get on my hands and knees and scrub. Mea culpa (whack), mea culpa (whack), mea maxima, maxima culpa (whack, whack).

Another thing I really, really want to do is become fluent in Polish, for various reasons, including wanting to know what it is like when one's brain makes the switch into second-language fluency. However, as I don't live in Poland, or in a Polish-speaking household, and am over thirty, I expect this fluency to take some time. Meanwhile, I promised Alicja over at Dzielne Niewasty (Brave Women) to translate my speech about Saint Edith Stein into Polish, and eleven days later I have stopped procrastinating and have begun this difficult task.

Here are the original two paragraphs:

The concept of “theology” may sound complicated, but it is very simple. St. Ambrose of Milan defined theology as “faith seeking understanding.” Any time you seek to understand a truth of faith, you are doing theology; you are a theologian. Every Catholic who believes what the Church teaches and seeks to understand what it is that he believes is a theologian.

However, there are men and women who dedicate their entire lives to reading the works of the greatest, most insightful Catholic theologians, who themselves had read the work of major and minor theologians before them. Seminarians must read theology, but only a few priests are allowed to dedicate their lives to studying and writing it. The same is true for many religious sisters, and few lay men and women can both study theology full-time and support their families.

And here is the first draft of my translation. I am sure it is riddled with errors, and I will send it to Polish Pretend Son, begging him to fix it.

Pojęcie teologii może wydawać skomplikowane, ale to jest bardzo proste. Sw. Ambroży z Mediolanu zdefiniał teologię jako "wiara w poszukiwaniu rozumienia." Kiedykolwiek szukacie rozumieć prawdę wiary, robiscie teologię--wy jestecie teologami. Każdy Katolik który wierszy co który uczy Kościół i szuka rozumieć który co to jest że on wierzy jest teologiem.

Jednak są mężczyzny i kobiety którzy poświęcają ich całe życia czytaniu książk najwielkszych, najwnikliwszych katolickich teologów, którze siebie odczytać książky głownych i niewielkich teologów przed nimi. Seminarzyści muszą studiować teologię ale tylko kilku kapłanom wolno poświęcić ich życia studiowaniu i pisanie tego. To samo jest prawdziwe dla wielu zakonnic, i niewielu świecki może zarówno się uczyć teologię na pełnym etacie, jak utrzymywać ich rodziny.

Oh heavens. Two and a half years of study, two dictionaries and two verb handbooks went into that. But it's like losing weight: there are no overnight solutions. And I did it in less than an hour, so that is a vast improvement!

The Brave Women Retreat, Krakow (Part 2)

The retreat was from Friday, May 2 until Sunday, May 4, and I gave my own talks on Saturday and Sunday. These were (mostly) in English, and the rest of the retreat was, of course, in Polish.

Being prone to worldly distractions, my mind was often occupied with the thought of where my next coffee was going to come from. Polish instant coffee, the kind found in the guest dining room, is charming and evokes memories of other visits to Poland, but in order to think, e.g. understand any Polish, I must drink real, fresh, brewed coffee.

Saturday morning began with prayers and meditation in the chapel. I rushed out beforehand to see if the coffee shop on ulica Kalwaryjska (Calvary Street) was open. Alas, as it was Constitution Day, it was not. So I returned to the the Redemptorist klasztor and went to prayers.

At breakfast I asked Father Paweł for some real coffee, and I was truly grateful when he brought me some. Somewhere in the secret corridors of the Redemptorist house, there was a proper coffee machine. Invigorated and brainy, I joined the throng in the parish hall for Praise and Worship hymns before giving my first talk.

Incidentally, you know that I go to the FSSP Usus Antiquor on Sundays, but you probably don't know that I have a soft spot for "Praise and Worship" music. It makes a cheerful change from solemn plainchant and male-dominated polyphony. I can see the argument that P & W is not appropriate for Holy Mass, which is one reason why I enjoy it so much outside of Mass. Guilt-free enjoyment, and when it is in Polish, there is the educational aspect, too. Singing is fun, and what could be more fun than belting out the following, eh?

Duchu Święty, przyjdź! (Come, Holy Spirit!)
Duchu Święty, przydź!
Duchu Święty, przydź!
Duchu Święty, przydż!

Niech wiara zagości, (Let faith find a home)
Niech nadzieja zagości, (Let hope find a home)
Niech miłość zagości w nas. (Let love find a home in us).
Niech wiara zagości,
Niech nadzieja zagości,
Niech miłość zagości w nas.

Duchu Święty, przydż!, etc.

Of course, there is the difficulty of pronouncing przyjdź, which is something like p-shh-eay-je. But never mind.

My first lecture was on "Catholic Heroines of the 20th Century", and I had chosen Servant of God Dorothy Day of New York, Blessed Natalia Tułasiewicz of Pozńan and Heretical Simone Weil of Paris, who I admitted was an unusual choice. However, she was Single, and I deliberately chose Singles with super-strong principles. My young translator, who chose not to bring the text with him, stumbled over "Servant of God". Simultaneous translation was not his forte, and we painfully gave my speech clause by clause. When I got to direct quotes by Blessed Natalia, I just read them in Polish. The kindly ladies applauded a particularly long one.

Afterwards, the translator dropped a hint that the awkwardness was all my fault for reading directly from the text instead of ex tempore, whereupon Father Paweł and Alicja beat him to death began to remonstrate with him in English and Polish.

When we reappeared after the break for my second lecture, I was relieved to see that my translator now had a copy of the text. This lecture was on "The Dignity of the Unmarried Woman," and it went much more smoothly and--very important--rapidly. Then there were some questions, the first asking why B.A. and I don't adopt, and another asking how to cope with feelings of failure. Then Father Paweł talked a bit about the importance of not being angry at men (I believe) and having good friendships with them.

Then there was lunch and the cake episode. Cake (ciasto) and cooky (ciastko) are, as you see, very similar in Polish, and when I asked my translator what Father Paweł was announcing, he mentioned that there would be coffee and cake set up at three o'clock. He meant "ciastki" but unfortunately I took him at his word. A huge desire for cake overwhelmed me. Cake! Cake! Cake! I ducked out of Adoration rather early in search of it. Cake! Cake! Cake!

There was no cake in the darkened guest dining room, so I peeked into the Redemptorists' dining room. No cake. I looked in the guests' little kitchenette on the second floor. No cake. So I went to the parish hall. No cake. There was another lady there already, so I asked about the cake, and she pointed to the two plates of cookies. She smiled sadly when I protested that the translator had said cake.

I began to ponder how I might sneak out and get some cake. Surely some cake shop must be open, even on Constitution Day. After all, Kraków has a booming tourist trade. Tourists don't care about Constitution Day. Tourists care about cake. And shouldn't there be Constitution Day cake? Or is cake for every occasion sort of a North American thing?

But first I took my seat in the parish hall for Alicja's talk. This was delayed, however, by the sudden entrance of a bishop. The bishop! Father Paweł, naturally very time-conscious, cheerfully gave up any attachment to the schedule. Bishop! Bishop!

The bishop was officially visiting the Redemptorists and joked that he had found their cloister full of us women. (In Canada, everyone would have got very defensive, but in the Krakowian parish hall, everyone thought this was hilarious.) He gave a good ex tempore talk on Women in the Bible, particularly Our Lady and the Annunciation, and then took questions. Boldly, one of the women asked him about the vocation to the Single Life. I was rapt. The bishop said that vocation was an event, and that although you may have an inclination to be married or to the priesthood, you do not have a vocation to it until you actually take your vows. True enough; I agreed with him completely. But this leads to the questions: What event determines that you have a Single vocation? If vocation is determined by an "event", why does the post-Vatican II church list Single Life, a state into which everyone is born, as a "vocation? I wish someone had asked these questions; I didn't have the Polish and it didn't occur to me to ask Father Paweł, helpfully translating, to ask the bishop. I was a bit in awe of the bishop, to tell you the truth. He left us a stack of holy cards.

Alicja's talk was on "To Be Pearls", a meditation on biblical texts that talk about pearls, especially in the context of good women. She had very kindly given me a copy of her notes, so I could follow along. Polish is hard. Have I mentioned this?

Then there was supper, and an hour or so before Holy Mass in the beautiful Basilica of Our Lady of Perpetual Help. I put on my rain boots and went in search of cake. My plan was to walk towards the touristy "Jewish Quarter" for half an hour, and then walk back. And lo, after 25 minutes I found an open cake shop. Victory! I carefully explained in Polish which cake and how big a piece, opened my handbag and discovered that I did not have any money with me. I walked 25 minutes back to the Redemptorists' house, offering up my disappointment in reparation for my sins, etc. I still longed for cake. Alas, I never got any cake. I went to sleep thinking "Cake!" It was really very sad. Okay, it was really very pathetic. I was sad.

On Sunday I woke up no longer obsessed with cake. However, there was still the coffee problem. Instead of going to morning prayer, I went to the Calvary Street coffee shop, but lo, it was closed for Sunday. However, thoughtful Father Paweł made me a proper coffee, and it was waiting for me in the guest dining room. I was delighted.

My first lecture was "On the Theology of Women", and it was all about St Edith Stein (Teresa Benedicta of the Cross) and her theology of women, and then about St. John Paul II and his additions to her theology. (I have promised to translate this one into Polish for Alicja, which will take me a few weeks.) My final lecture was called "Warnings from the West" and was very bitter about hip-hop culture, the sexual revolution, how much North American men and women distrust each other and what the Poles call "gender theory."

My lecture, which I thought rather depressing, ended with a lot of suggestions, which unfortunately I had couched as commands, i.e. "You must... You must..." I heard my translator inexorably repeating the bossy "musicie", and I felt that I had made a grave rhetorical error. Nobody, least of all the Poles, likes bossy foreigners telling them what to do. So I added to the end an explanation of what I admire so much in Poland, aspects that have been lost in my own country and, to my horror, I began to cry.

But this actually was very lucky and appropriate for a Polish audience, perhaps especially one of women. Poles are rather less afraid of expressing tender emotions than Canadians, especially British Canadians, are. (Sudden memory of myself weeping in a crowd before a library television, live broadcasting on 9/11 and a fellow Canadian lady with an artificial smile asking me if I was all right. Of course not, you silly cow. I've just seen a tower containing perhaps thousands of people collapse before my very eyes.) In Poland, it's alright to cry. In fact, if a woman doesn't cry, other women might think that there is something wrong with her.

Father Pawel made a speech thanking me and presented me with a copy of his latest book and a pillar candle commemorating the commemoration of St. John Paul 2. And then there was lunch.

After lunch, Alicja gathered together some women from the "Brave Women" society, and we all went to a meeting room to chat with a journalist. Eventually Father Paweł sat beside me and began muttering an English translation in my ear, for which I was very grateful. In short, the women meet one Saturday a month for prayer, testimony and workshops of different kinds. There was one on personal style, and what colours look good on you. They talked about the importance of women from different states and stages of life coming together in fellowship and about spiritual motherhood. Afterwards, the journalist interviewed me, and with Alicja's help we muddled along happily in English and Polish.

Then I went for a proper walk in "the Jewish Quarter" before going to a pizza supper with Fr. Paweł, Alicja and Katarzyna, the flamenco teacher. And then we all walked, in the unseasonably bitter cold, across a bridge over the Vistula to "the Jewish Quarter" where at last I had some cake. It was chocolate with raspberry puree and whipped cream. When the others chatted in Polish I listened very hard. There is so much vocabulary I don't know.

And that was the retreat! The next day I made a beeline for the French cafe near the beautifully baroque Main Market, but as it was packed with students, I went next to "Tribeca u Szołayskich", which is in the same building as the principal collection of "Młoda Polska" art. (I visited the latter on Friday morning and loved it.) There I had a beautiful cup of coffee with milk and a chocolate croissant, which is to say, kawa z mlekiem i czekoladowy croissant.

I am very grateful to all the women who bought books and asked me to sign them, and who asked me questions, and for my prayers, and those who promised to pray for me, too. I am especially grateful to Alicja, who as always was very supportive and kind to me, and of course to Father Paweł, who was an excellent and generous host. And I must also mention the delightful counter service of Kraków, the waiters, waitresses and cashiers, all of whom listened to my Polish, spoke to me in Polish, and switched to English only as a last resort. Nothing is more helpful to my acquisition of Polish than being forced to speak it.

Update: Alicja's report, with more photos! Alicja mentions that I am going to send her two of my talks translated into Polish--one fully, and one just notes. I am just going to my dictionary and, like the heroic Oates, may be some time.

The Brave Women Retreat, Krakow, May 2-4 (Part 1)

Poppets! I have returned to dear Scotland from beautiful Poland with cherry vodka, rogaliki z różą (rose jam cookies) and 81 pages of notes. Upon arrival, I discovered my big new-to-me desk set up with a huge monitor and ergonomic keyboard (set up thanks to B.A., equipment thanks to my brother Nulli), so this will take longer to write. My neck hurts already. I have to look at the keys. Argh!

I was in Kraków for the canonisations of SS. John Paul II and John XXIII. If you subscribe to it, see my report in the Toronto Catholic Register. Otherwise, see another in the Catholic World Report blog. The CWR report includes descriptions of Wrocław, where consciousness of the OTHER papal saint was more obvious.

Meanwhile, in Wrocław I went to the house that was the family home of Saint Edith Stein from c. 1910 until the Nazis confiscated it in 1939. The address is now 38 ulica (street) Nowowiejska, and although the interior was much messed with before a Saint Edith Stein society saved it, you can get a good idea of what it was once like. And I think St. Edith and her family must have known and loved the big chestnut tree in the back garden. Seeing the salon in which St. Edith wrote her doctoral thesis and met with friends was a moving experience. The handsomely patterned floor is the original. For some reason, it hadn't really dawned on me that the Steins were not just comfortable, but rich.

I returned to Kraków in good time for the retreat. There were a maximum of 65 ladies, at least two of whom I recognized from the first Brave Women retreat two years ago. The retreat was led by Father Paweł Drobot, helped by Alicja Jewula, who writes the Brave Women blog and co-ordinates the Brave Women society, which was founded at the first retreat and now meets every month in three cities: Kraków, Wrocław and Warsaw. Alicja says I am the mother of the Brave Women society, which is very satisfying, even if I understand only 20% of what they say!

Friday's events began with supper, Holy Mass in our hosts' (the Redemptorists') chapel, and then prayers and songs of praise before the first lecture, "Do you recall that you were created for joy?" This was by Katarzyna Dziurdzik, who owns a flamenco dance academy. The lecture was in part about her adventures in flamenco, and afterwards she and a few of her students put on a performance.

To be continued tomorrow as I get used to this keyboard!

What the Brain Can Do

I love constructive criticism, although rarely at the time. This is a latter development; I used to fly right off the handle, especially if it was about something I wrote. Writing a column in a weekly paper cured this, however. When I get a personal letter from CR readers saying that I am a heretic or I forgot deacons or what would I say about the celebrity of Fulton Sheen, I read it with interest and keep it in a box with the Christmas cards. In six months, I might agree with them, or at least, have come to a more nuanced position. This even worked for Ceremony of Innocence. In that case a writer I really respect suggested I chop out something or other, and some months later I did chop it out because I saw that he was right.

Occasionally I get criticism on the internet, which I won't link to but do enjoy finding, even if it is just outrageous insults or (worst of all) speculation on my sins by so-disant orthodox Catholic men who, if they were really orthodox, Catholic, or men, would not be writing such things about a married Catholic woman. At least once someone American has suggested my artistic failings might be chalked up to my being a Canadian, which perhaps she thought was a charitable assumption. All that did though was ruin any chance that I might take her critique seriously and profit from it.

I do indeed profit from critique of my writing, although don't take this as permission to write any in the combox: just tell me when you think my ideas are out to lunch and why. Here is not the place to tell me my font is horrible or my typos are annoying or my interest in Poland unfathomable. You can do that elsewhere. Someone was once so cleverly cruel on some message board about the pink--which was there to dissuade Eavesdroppers--that I decided to get rid of the pink. The pink had done what it was supposed to do.

Sometimes critique is very amusing, like worries that I am anti-gay, by which I think they mean I do not support the redefinition of marriage, which of course I do not do. I enjoy saying so now, for as yet saying so is not illegal and I don't have a 9-5 job to lose anyway. I may enjoy saying so rather less in ten years, but let's cross the Alec Salm*nd Memorial Bridge when they build it. Meanwhile, it is not the approximately 2% of the population that identifies with their SSAs that I'm worried about, it's the statists, dull but power-hungry nannies that they are.

Sometimes critique encourages me to remember what this blog is for, which is to remind women that the Single Life has many graces, freedoms and opportunities, which is why yesterday I was reminded that women who really have no interest in marrying men and wish they would just sit down and be quiet can wear whatever they like (within community standards) and good luck to them. We can enjoy their flair and freedom without demanding that the kind of men we like prefer women with facial tattoos and pink mohawks or, better yet, women who insist on Elizabethan dress at all times and quote long passages from Shakespeare at the drop of a pomander.

One of the freedoms of a Single woman in Europe is that she can go to Częstochowa for six months and become fluent in Polish. My Polish Pretend Son told me yesterday of a woman who did that, and after expressing envy and delight, I looked at B.A., sitting on the couch chatting happily with someone about something. There is absolutely no way B.A. could or would ever move to Częstochowa for six months, and naturally as a married woman I cannot say, "Just popping off to Częstochowa! Back in June!" You see how it is.

Someone online does not understand about my interest in Poland, so I will explain briefly that when my first book came out, Americans wanted to buy the American rights, which made my publisher (a very good chap) happy, and then Poles wanted to buy the Polish rights, which again made my publisher happy, although that time I think we were both surprised. I believe Novalis books usually get published into Spanish next, or French. But nobody wanted it in Spanish or French; they wanted it in Polish. So my publisher sold off the Polish rights, and I offered to promote the Polish book because life has left me geographically closer to Poland than to either Canada or the USA. Also, I was flattered that Polish people wanted to publish my Canadian book, especially as Poland is still rather Catholic and the land of John Paul 2. I felt I owed them some appropriate thanks and support.

However, I don't like going to countries where I don't speak ANY of the language (except Spain if I am with somewhat Spanish-speaking B.A.), so I declared that I would like to learn Polish. And a very nice Polish girl said something like, "Darling, you cannot learn Polish. It is too hard for English-speakers." So naturally I had to learn Polish after that.

To make a long story short, I have been working at it for over two years, and it really is hard. However, I have not quit, which is the important thing, and eventually I will speak fluent Polish--unless I die first, of course. If the end comes the next time I am in Poland (or on Edinburgh's Leith Walk) at least I can say "Muszę rozmawiać z kapłanem teraz. Szybko! Szybko!" (I need to speak with a priest now. Quick! Quick!) And that fact that almost every Pole alive would understand my concern is a principle reason why I love Poland so much.

Anyway, this next bit is not to show off but to prove that your intellect can do what you want it to if you work hard enough and long enough and get help to do whatever intellectual thing you want it to do. I don't include "stopping being Single" in this although with a good dose of humility, your intellect may be able to grasp what it is that is preventing you from winning husbands and influencing children. (Historically, it has been "carnage of World War I", "carnage of World War 2", etc.--circumstances the women could do little about.)

Okay, so I wrote a short story in Polish. It is 3,000 words long. I wrote it in 500 word chunks and sent it to Marta to correct the grammar. Then I sat down with my Edinburgh tutor, so she could explain to me my errors in style. And so it is done. My Polish Pretend Son says it is an amusing random mix of formal and informal language, but I don't care. My first short story in English was only 50 25 words or so.

Here is my first short story in English:

"A Winter Wonderland Tale" (1978)

The little snowflakes. The little snowflakes come lightly down. On a cold winters day. All the little children go to play in the snow. P.S. I bet the children have fun!

Oh how Canadian. Man's relationship to environment. That's so old-school Canadian. Utterly 1970s. Margaret Atwood would be proud.

Here are the first 213 words of my first short story in Polish, presented specially for my Polish-speaking readers. (The vast anglophone majority may wrestle it into Google Translate, if you like.)

"Bajka Edynburska" (2013)

Dawno temu żył na Dolnym Śląsku młody i przystojny student. Na imię miał Gabriel i był najmądrzejszym studentem w Polsce. Niestety nudziło mu się.

—Nie znoszę innych studentów — powiedział. —Oni są głupi. Profesorowie też. Muszę opuścić Polskę i pojechać na Zachód.

—Ach, nie, mój Gabryś, mój kochany syn! —powiedziała jego matka. —Na Zachód? Tak daleko? A do tego tak trudno jest dostać wizę do USA.

—Ależ skąd —powiedział mądry student. —Chciałbym pojechać tylko do Wielkiej Brytanii. Tam nie potrzebuję wizy.

—Ale Anglicy są zdradzieccy — powiedziała płacząca matka. —Czy nie pamiętasz już o Zdradzie Jałtańskiej?

—Ależ skąd —zaprzeczył Gabriel. —Nigdy o tym nie zapomnę! Ale nie pojadę do Anglii; jadę do Szkocji. Tam jest lepiej i taniej, i Edynburg będzie dla mnie dobry. Miasto jest eleganckie, tak jak ja.

Kiedy Gabriel przyjechał do Edynburga, odkrył że język angielski jest trudniejszy w Wielkiej Brytanii niż na jego polskim uniwersytecie. Nie rozumiał szkockiego akcentu. Smutny student pojechał więc do kościoła, gdzie ksiądz był Amerykaninem i Msza Św. była odprawiana po łacinie. Po mszy Gabriel zobaczył z tyłu kościoła bladą Cygankę.

—Dziwna osoba! — pomyślał. —W Polsce Cyganie zawsze mają ciemną skórę. Ta Cyganka ma bladą twarz, ale ma na sobie kolorowe cygańskie ubranie. To chyba szkocka Cyganka. Może mi pomoże.


Naturally, this story involves migration, Romany culture, Catholicism, Polish nationalism, guilt, the tortures of love, suicide, violins, character development, crime, coded political commentary and magic. And football. Naturally.

Women's Retreat in Cracow May 2 -4/Rekolekcje Kobiet w Krakowie 2-4 Maja

I am very happy to tell you all, but especially those of you of Polish nationality or extraction, that I will be giving four lectures at a retreat for women in the Redemptorist retreat house in Kraków, Poland this spring. Behold.

The lectures will be in English and simultaneously translated into Polish by a translator, although I think I will try very hard to write at least part of one of them in Polish, and the translator can switch to English if there are any ladies there who don't speak Polish. The last time I participated in the Redemptorists' ladies' retreat, there was one brave American girl who is fluent in French and hopped over from France. She had a very nice time, I believe, in part because Polish women are very nice and have usually studied English, and at least one lady there was very good in French, and there was a Polish-Canadian girl about her age, and they looked at the sights of Kraków together.

Now one of the exciting things about Kraków, especially this spring, is that Blessed John Paul II lived there for a long time and was its archbishop. There is no big city in Poland that loves błogosławiony Jan Paweł Drugi the way Kraków does. So you can imagine the party that will erupt on Sunday April 27, when he is canonized in Rome. And the retreat is, conveniently, from May 2 to the afternoon of May 4. Thus, it may be well worth your while, if you have ever been tempted by thoughts of visiting Poland, to come to Kraków for a week.

The catch is that you would have to think about hotels before the actual retreat (when you could pay the very reasonable fee to stay at the retreat house) now, as the town will be likely to be packed with visiting Poles (as will be Rome). The other catch is that, except for my four lectures, the rest of the retreat will be in Polish. Polish masses, Polish other lectures, Polish-speaking meals, unless you sit next to me or other English-speakers. But, as I said, the Polish ladies will speak English: most of them will just be shy about it, as you are when you are called upon to speak French or Spanish, or whatever. But Poles do seem to like visiting Western female tourists, especially if they are well-behaved, so if you learn a few phrases, you would be likely to have a very good time indeed.

I shall provide you with more information, and the sign-up link, as I get it. Meanwhile, the subject of the conference is the Dignity of Women, so what should I lecture about? The priest leading the retreat wants to know the titles of my talks, so I thought I would ask you. I am especially asking the Polish readers for their opinion, because I will have to fit my lectures into a Polish context. Serdecznie dziękuję!

Glasgow Idyll

A terrible storm swept Scotland from Thursday night to Friday afternoon, and all the trains were cancelled. Fortunately for our plans, the trains were running again by the time my Polish class ended at 8:30 PM. B.A. and I went to Waverley station and caught the 9 PM train for Glasgow.

Edinburgers on the whole are rather suspicious of Glaswegians, and vice versa. It is the done thing in Edinburgh to make rude remarks about Glasgow. However, I have difficulty doing this because I rather like Glasgow. It reminds me of my native Toronto, or of what my native Toronto would look like if all the 19th century buildings were still standing and the population was still largely what is now called "white British." Glaswegians are not aat all like Torontonians, though, for as a people they are very gregarious. Striking up sudden conversations with strangers is not unsual, although suddenly striking conversing strangers is apparently not unusual either. (Gregariousness does have its shadow side.) Torontonians are more like Edinburghers: unless we are drunk, we like our space and we mind our own business.

Nevertheless, I really like Glasgow, which is cosmopolitan and lively, instead of pretty and relatively calm, like Edinburgh (outwith Edinburgh's sink estates, naturally). It is odd that Edinburgh, not Glasgow, is the capital of Scotland, but on the other hand, it is Ottawa, not Toronto, that is the capital of Canada, and Washington, D.C., not New York, that is the captial of the USA. Glasgow is the New York of Scotland. It has tons of good cultural stuff.

Of course, when we went down to breakfast in the dining-room of our Glasgow cheap hotel, we perceived what looked like a bullet hole in one window. Hmm.

We were in Glasgow because B.A. had registered for a one-day conference at Glasgow University, and I had tagged along in my Glasgow-liking way. The day broke fresh and cheerful and B.A. sang "Let Us Haste to Kelvingrove, Bonnie Lassie O" as we crossed over the River Kelvin to Kelvingrove. The university rose up before us, and after admiring the neo-Gothic buildings, we went to the brutalist university library and got me a visitor's pass.

You university women will smile wanly, but I cannot tell you how exciting it was to be in a proper university library again. The thing about the National Library of Scotland is that members have no access to the stacks and have to ask for everything specifically. There is no browsing. But the sheer joy of having a whole day free to be in a good library--not a brain-dead public library stocked with romance novels and DVDS--is browsing.

Not that this was my plan. My plan was to spend the day writing Part 2 of a story I am writing in Polish for a friend's birthday. Part 1 was 470 words, and I guessed it would take me the better part of the day to write Part 2. (When I don't have to look up a word in the dictionary, I have to check its conjugation or declination 2 out of 3 times.)

However, when the guardian of vistors' passes asked me what I wished to consult in his big, brutalist library I remembered that Glasgow University, unlike Edinburgh University, has a Slavonic Studies degree and teaches Polish. Real, university-level Polish with books and cruelly high expectations of students, not inexpensive, easy-going night classes for the masses. So I said I wished to consult the Polish literature collection and wrote this down on a form. Then, having received the sacred card and asked a gregarious Glaswegian security guard "Certainly, dear!") to buzz me in, I kissed B.A. good-bye and headed for the elevator.

Stacks! Stacks! Stacks!

Slavonic Studies shares a floor with a lot of other disciplines, not to mention long rows of computers on which long rows of students type. I have never seen so many computers on an upper floor of a library, nor so many students typing together in complete silence. It was a bit odd, really. And they were all drinking out of bottles, and they were all allowed snacks. Snacks! In a library! However, there were signs everywhere explaining what they were allowed to snack on, and what sort of containers they could drink from, and assuring them that Wi-fi and texting were fine, but talking was not. They could stay on a computer for only four hours at a stretch.

I felt a bit like a time-traveller from the past, so I was glad to leave the typing masses behind and find the annex storing all the Slavic volumes. And lo! After endless rows of Russian stuff, I at last came upon the Polish Literature section. Listen, in Edinburgh I get excited if I see in a charity shop some old deserted Polish translation of Lolita. So imagine my excitement when I saw before me all the riches of 19th and 20th century Polish literature!!!

Hmm. Maybe you can't. Well, it was huge.

I looked at every shelf, and pulled out every book I found interesting, and had to suppress my yelp of joy when I found Antoni Libera's Madame--which Marta gave me in English--in Polish. That was swiftly added to the growing pile on my blissfully isolated desk. And then, when I had reached the end of Polish and the beginning of Czech, I sat down at my desk and, like the hero of Madame, began to copy out striking passages and quotes from the books of my chosen foreign language.

Then, after this warm-up, I worked on my story until 1 PM, when I went across the street to the cafeteria for lunch. The food on offer seemed strangely healthy and inexpensive. I had a smoked salmon wrap and a small bottle of milk--£3.95. The place was cheerfully lit, and a large screen exhibited the time and the weather forecast. Apparently the sun had come up around 8:30 and was expected to set at 3:45 PM. Once again, I had the sensation of being a time traveller from the past.

After my quick lunch, I went for a walk to the Slavonic Studies department and had a look at the Polish bulletin board. Then I returned to the library and Part 2. When Part 2 was done, I went back to copying Polish phrases and came across something extremely creepy.

I had found a English-Polish phrasebook for Poles. It was all about describing people which, as a novelist, I thought very handy. However, as I read, I saw that these descriptions were not about what people looked like or enjoyed as hobbies, but about their characters, their politics, their religious beliefs, their morals and their war records. Sample phrase: "Now that so many things have failed him, religion is his only resourse" (sic), "No woman who respected herself would go out dressed like that", "He is strongly influenced by the social doctrine of the Church" and "He has a British passport."

There was so much creepy Commie stuff about how much "he" or (more rarely) "she" subscribed to the doctrines of "the Party" and felt about the Workers, that I began to feel guilty about copying from this book at all.(I admit, however, that I snickered at "He seems to be a sex maniac, doesn't he?") Before long, I turned to the title page to see when and where: 1984, Warsaw, [School and Pedagogy Publishing House].

This volume could have been written under martial law, and even if not, 1984 was not a happy year for Poland. It occured to me that this was a manual for interrogating Western traitors or captured Western spies about their friends and neighbours, especially their Polish or Polish-British or Polish-American friends and neighbours. And that made me feel a bit sick, honestly, although--my word--from a historian's point of view, what a find. How on earth it ended up in the Glasgow University library I cannot imagine.

When I couldn't stand it any more, I shut the damned thing and picked up a bilingual copy of Polish love stores and read Sienkiewicz's "Lux in Tenebris Lucet". As usual when I read Sienkiewicz's stories, tears sprang to my eyes. Sienkiewicz is a great antidote to anything base or wicked. And then, since the annex was cold, I felt thoroughly chilled and longed for B.A. to hurry up and get out of his conference. But, alas, the conference did not end at 5 but at 6, after a concert, so I put on my gloves and read (in English) about the tensions between Classicism and Romanticism in the art of 19th century Poland.

Then I met B.A. in the lobby and we went together on the funny round subway system to the Royal Exchange area, where we saw that the Catholic bookshop did not have my book in the window and ate a good supper in an Italian restaurant. Then we caught the 8:30 PM train back to Edinburgh and then the train to the station nearest the Historical House.

So that was our Glasgow day. I have never read so much Polish all at once in my life, and the moral of the story is that there is nothing like a good university library as a work space, especially when you don't have a password for the wi-fi.