In the old days, we would know when it was time to pick those grape leaves . . . Mommy would simply say, I'm going to make sarma today. Could you go out and gather some yaprak for me? just had to walk out into our back yard and there they were.
And then there were 20 acres on the top of Wilbraham Mountain, with not a grape leaf in sight! But all one had to do was bop down to the Wilbraham Public Library parking lot, and there along the border were yards of grape leaves! There were, that is, until the landscaping bug of Wilbraham fame destroyed all of the "wild growth" along the border.
It's been years since Marash Girl has picked grape leaves, but last week, walking along the Charles River, and certainly very late in the season (grape leaves should be gathered in June, NOT late July when they toughen up), there were the perfect grape leaves -- young and tender, NOT white backed, perfect size for making sarma or yalanchi. A big thank you to whoever planted those grapevines -- man or bird -- a thank you for that gift from the past.
I used the pipe drawn grape arbor as my chin up bar. I would first do the requires chin-ups for the day, then land on the earth like Burt Lancaster in 'Trapeze', flip on to my hands, balancing myself with the wall of the house supporting my feet, and proceed to do the required hand stand push-ups for the day, then spring to my feet, jog down to the high school field, do wind sprints on the track, or the adjacent grid iron, or forego the proximate value of the track, and drive to the Weston Reservoir, lope around it twice, never jog, always with the image of a panther's smooth gait, or of peter Snell, the australian world record holder in the mile running beside me. Yep, those grape leaves, that grape arbor was a real workout.
ReplyDeleteMy russian Jewish neighbor, mrs. curelop, born in Kiev, and child of Stalin's starvation of Ukrainian farmers, became alarmed, as my weight dropped, and my muscle/fat ratio increased, leaving me with the look of a New York model, cheeks concaved, and eyes bright. We children, the six of us, were the drama for her day, as she watched us, daily, from her bedroom window, growing up with love, without fear, fully fed, and filled with the joy of life, an adolescence stolen from her by one who would be king.
DeleteMother also made the best yogurt, so perfect that it bordered on being sweet. We would bury the piping hot sarma in a bed of cold yogurt. The heat and the cold were bedfellows for the palate, with the juice of the lamb running through it like a brook trickling through the green coverlet of a leaf bursting spring.
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