When Pigs Fly: Thoughts on Slavs, Santa, and eating the family pet
I don’t usually reblog my own stuff, but this post is from a long time ago – just a month after I started COLD – and I thought it deserved a second go-around. Happy Holidays, everyone. And may the New Year bring love and bounty.
Let me tell you a little bit about my people…
Slavs are salty. Playful but intense, eccentric. We thrive on poetic double meanings, and can be as dark as we are passionate and sentimental. We believe in curses and we believe in that tiny, niggling feeling – the kind that prophecies are made of. The soul’s equivalent of that barely detectable scratch in your throat just before a debilitating bout with the flu.
We’ve brought the world bawdy intellectuals, literary janitors, scientist priests and philosopher politicians.
And we are warm. We welcome our guests not with a shake of the hand and a cold drink, but a kiss, an embrace, a plate of hot food and a glass of strong liquor that burns as it goes down.
It’s about this time of year that I get sentimental about being a Slav, because, well, I’m an American. I married an American…
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