My grandfather's health has taken a marked decline. Being that everyone in our family is a busy adult, and taking care of a strong dude with advanced Parkinson's really makes one understand just how ill-equipped they are for taking care of a strong dude with advanced Parkinson's, he has consented to go into an elder care home. Thankfully, he seems to be a big hit. "We could have a hundred of these guys!" said the head nurse.
That move marked an undoubtedly sad day, with grown men and women shedding powerful tears, but I have faith that he's receiving professional care. My family is just a numpty bunch of people who are interesting, but not doctors or nurses. Fingers crossed that he is in much better hands.
I'm a bit wistful at the moment. I never really got to truly prod him about his childhood in the former Yugoslavia, or about his time in Paris, as a very young father who had just fathered my father, or San Franmcisco in the 1960s. I have but a few stories, merely the select, unguarded ones he felt comfortable sharing. And even now, I can't really ask him to fact-check those tales. Deda was always such a quiet man, thus I'm not sure what I would have gotten out of him if I did take the initiative to thoroughly interrogate him.
So, for now, here's a repost. A brief snippet of my experiences of the region he came from, nearly 50 years after his rowboat departure. For now.
When I can pull myself together, I'll braise some rabbit. Easily the best thing he ever made, and one of my fonder childhood food memories. And I shall post, right here. In the meantime, enjoy my sophomoric attempt to make Istria sound worth an expensive plane ticket.
On Istria -- February 2015
That's where I was for most of September last year. It's the northernmost part of the Croatian coast, and it looks like this:
So. Yeah. That? Oh, that's Draguch, some dinky little hilltown. There's a small chapel with a fresco in there. Not really worth it (Worth it. The road past Draguch makes the Sierras look like a toxic waste dump).
The streets of such towns look like this:
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| Motovun, Istria, Croatia. |
And everything is really pleasant. For the most part. When the curator of a local museum hisses at you, hoping you don't "learn too much" about Istria, then maybe that suspicious Slavic character rears its ugly head, the mark of a people under someone else's thumb(s) for too long. But let's not wash history in brushstrokes too broad. This is a lovely region, known for truffles and mushrooms that look like this:
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| Chantrelles foraged in the forests surround Tinjan, Istria, Croatia. |
But yes, Istrians have been under everyone's thumbs. And by "everyone" I mean the Venetians, the French, the Italians, the Austro-Hungarians... So mushrooms like this might make an amazing sauce for your gnocchi, which you will follow up with strudel and Turkish coffee.
It's a cook's dream. A place where many people have their own gardens and produce the best that nature has to offer; where you'll trip over foragers combing the woods around small towns; where you'll trip over truffles; where you'll find some of the best seafood in the Adriatic, because, apparently, the currents wash all of Croatia's garbage to Italy.
I'll get to all of these nuances in separate entries. I just wanted to show the four people who read this blog what's it's like, generally. And only generally.
