28.10.2018. A Trip to the Supermarket

America. The land of plenty.
Is plenty too much, and more - never enough?

It seems so. This entry can be regarded as part of a food rant, an introduction - because a meal nowadays inevitably starts at the supermarket. The first time I went grocery shopping here, I was overwhelmed. To give you an insight, I've made a few charts comparing the packaging size of everyday items, the smallest and largest available in a regular supermarket (Fred Meyer vs Maxima). These do NOT include snack-size or single-serve items.

As one can see, the size of small bread loaf is twice the size in Alaska.

The huge difference here is with the large size - again, twice as big. Same goes for cheese: the smallest size in Latvia is 100g vs 170g in Alaska, whereas the largest: 500g vs 1020g. Again, twice the size.
The shocker, however, comes with the 'unhealthy' food department. Let's see what happens with potato chips.

Not only is the large size twice as big (again), the small size here is actually the large size in Latvia. This is bad, guys. It's rather alarming. Obviously, buying a large pack tempts one to finish it quicker, chips being an addictive food item. This is where it's going wrong.
I also compared the count of available items labeled 'snacks' (including chips, cookies, crackers, popcorn, snack nuts and similar):

Like, this is not even funny. 271 versus 3041. This is not a matter of smaller/larger store; the other departments are relatively similar in terms of variety of items. These foods take up a huge space in the supermarket, and, inevitably, in household cupboards.

As a Latvian, I am surely missing some good, dark, dense rye bread. Now, it is no secret that rye bread is more beneficial to the human body, simply because it releases carbohydrates slower and contains more fiber. So, I compared the proportion of white/wheat, dark, and seeded breads available in supermarkets:

In Alaska, there is no variety in bread whatsoever - the brand and the additives maybe, but all in all, it's all white, processed, and tasteless. The Latvian situation looks much, much better in terms of variety, white bread taking up the smallest amount of space.

Convenience is another huge thing. There is a ready-made or baking-mix version for EVERYTHING. I never knew it was so difficult to mix some damn eggs and flour and milk but there we are, otherwise there wouldn't be a need for 109 varieties of baking mixes (vs 27 in Latvia).

(Ok. I admit. I bought pre-shredded cabbage this week. I wouldn't if it were not for a broken elbow. Makes it a pain (literally) to cut stuff.)

Me sliding towards a broken arm and shredded cabbage.

I'll just leave this comparison here to let everyone figure out for themselves what to do about it. Conclusion? Stuff is huge, quick, and unhealthy. People load their carts with the stuff. But hey, 'I'm big-boned. It runs in my family.'

*nopes out*

(references: fredmeyer.com / barbora.lv)

21.10.2018. Native Experiences

(introductory apology for still not ranting) the demands keep coming and I don't obey.
There are so many positive things going on that I can't bring myself to chew on something negative.
I thought I'd share with you the experience I've had trying to infiltrate into the native community.
Many of you don't know, but I'm studying basics of the Tlingit language while I'm here. Many of you probably don't know (I didn't before I applied) - the Tlingit are indigenous peoples, one of many, in Alaska. Now, I will not go into history and everything - I'm way too ignorant still - I'll keep this on my experience side.
The Tlingit language is unlike any of the 7 languages I have studied so far. Their way of thinking is different, and so is the language system. It is an agglutinative language - meaning that one sticks bits of morphemes together to form words, word-phrases, word-sentences. It is absolutely fascinating. For instance, the word for a porcupine - xhalak'ách' - means 'pokey hair all around', according to my professor. It's quite funny at times. I've also acquired a Tlingit name, Kanat'á, meaning blueberry.
Another thing I do is wooch.een. It's a student club I and my exchange friends joined back in September, intended for native and rural Alaska students, organising events, sharing experiences and just making friends. Led by Daxkilatch/Kolene - props to her, this is an amazing thing happening here.
There was a celebration on October 8 - Indigenous Peoples' day. As wooch.een, we participated in organising the event, wore nice t-shirts,

cooked and distributed salmon, potatoes, and blueberries,

went canoeing,

and just had a darn good time in our Raptor.

This Friday, we hosted the Gathering of the Drums. It was an experience unlike anything I've experienced. Of course, the wooch.een has to feed people, so it started with a workout preparing some deer spaghetti,

and ended with..what did it end with? Hours of drumming,  singing and dancing around the bonfire. I can't explain the experience. It's something like..something like a Latvian experiences in Dziesmu svētki. Or something like a yogi experiences with the flow. It's such a deep, deep reconnection with nature, with people, with oneself. When I took that drumstick, it radiated heat - or so I thought. It was the people around me the heat came from, in the form of pure energy and power, and it went through me and bounced back. Best I can attempt in description.

 

I hope you understand why I'm unable to rant. This is too wonderful to do so.
I also thought a bit about Latvian traditions and all the wonderful things we historically have, the songs and dances and all. Stories. Legends. I cannot help but see them diminish. I just hope our nation doesn't shrink to 200 fluent speakers to start preserving the culture.

14.10.2018. Still Not a Rant

I know, I know - I've been promising a food rant. I was actually ready to do it this week - but realized I don't have pictures to include. I'll make a point of taking them throughout this week and hopefully satisfy the rant-meter soon. (I still have two months here - will do it at some point, don't worry.)
Instead, I've been visited by a feeling this week. It's aquamarine in colour and makes me listen to Latvian songs. Yes, yes, I admit - the traveller misses Latvia.
Let me rephrase. I don't miss Latvia as a country. Not the nature, not the weather, not the economy, not my home, no. I would still move to Alaska in a heartbeat.
I miss...Latvian. Latvianism. Latvianity?
Not anyone else's. My own. Coming here, I was quick to delete my background and build myself anew. Adapt to the way of life, speech mannerisms, behaviour. I was convinced that the cultural identity would stay with me, unexercised, just there. This week I realized... it stays not. It was hard for me to think in Latvian. I wouldn't read in Latvian. I'd write a sentence and then wonder if it is actually Latvian or just an English transcript. Now, ladies and gents, THAT was scary.
I'd never doubted language and culture were inseparable. I'd also never denied that for years, my preferred language has been English. But thinking in English in Latvia is different from adapting to a completely new culture, using exclusively English, and that's that.
So, I got scared. What'd I do about it?
Well, firstly, wrote a poem in Latvian (cleaned up by a good friend) - to test my remaining vocabulary. Poem here.
Secondly, got up this morning to make some traditional sklandrauši. A dish doesn't get more Latvian than this - thought I'd share the recipe.

1. Order rye flour from Amazon, because apparently it's not a thing.

2. Boil carrots, potatoes, make dough (rye flour + flatmate's butter + hot water)

3. Realize you've got no rolling pin. Roll dat dough with your UAS water bottle.

4. Torture a mug to make dem circles.

5. Make smol pie crusts. Discover you've got more dough than filling. Abort mission, freeze remaining dough.




















6. Mash the potat. Grate carrots and mix with sour cream. At this point, the kitchen will look like a doughball itself.



7. Fill the crusts: potato first, carrot on top. I did two versions for the foreigners to try out: a savory one with more potato, and a sweeter one with more carrot + sugar in the carrot mix.

8. Bake at 230 C (450 F) for about 15-17 minutes (might take longer if pies are bigger).

9. Take the pans out with your bare hands and burn yourself (mandatory). Top the sweeter ones with more sour cream, sugar and sprinkle with cinnamon. Can top the savoury ones with caraway seeds (didn't have any this time).












10. Serve to the Alaskan rain while waiting for the people to wake up.












The point of the poem and the rauši? No matter how far from Latvia, I'll still carry it inside. I'll still be Latvian and share my culture. I will not be afraid or ashamed of it. In the end, the emigration part doesn't matter as much. The identity is what matters. And I'm keeping my identity. Even if I decide to move away; Latvia will not have lost another person. I'll still speak, cook and remain.

07.10.2018. The Curse of the Quadrilateral Triangle

The story started last Sunday, when Fred noticed a car on Facebook marketplace for 500 bucks. I was against. The other four were for. We compromised. By Monday noon, we had a car. A 1990 Nissan Raptor for 450 bucks and a full tank. Look at this baby.

The door can't be locked, apart from the passenger door which, in turn, can't be unlocked. There's a hole in the trunk covered by a wooden plank. Exhaust pipe is absent, so the whole of Juneau can hear and smell us approaching. And the door looks as if somebody has burned alive in that car.

Other than that, the Raptor works like a charm. Registered and all legal.
Midterms are approaching this week, so we've mostly been working hectically and not much blogworthy is happening. However, we did go to a shrine on Friday. Don't get me wrong, the place was amazingly beautiful. But we were also certain we'd die the following night. Something in that place was off. Eerie.
It started with a monument for abortion victims, hidden in the woods.

Of course, in our minds, it calculated as a pile of fetuses buried under a tree. The pathway ended by a rocky plateau on the ocean. Everything was dead. Like, completely dead and silent. Imagine standing on the water and not hearing a single splash or hiss.

'The rocks look like quadrilateral triangles.' - Mollie

The clouds were extremely low and pouring out of the mountains not unlike toxic smoke. Something about this place was post-apocalyptic.

Candles were burning inside the church. The door, however, was locked. A raven glides directly above our heads and settles on the very top of a tall spruce. The columbarium? So many October deaths. No thank you. The place was mesmerizing and creepy at the same time. Perfect horror film aesthetic.

Next week, it is probably going to be a rant. Or a supermarket comparison. Something food-related. Now, I gotta finish memoirs and tritinas and ghazals and some garbage readings.