Lamāšanās televizorā /// Cursing on TV

Maza Paula pieredz lamāšanos televizorā un apšauba, ka ir tiešām tik slikti tikt nosauktam par pludmales sauli.

^^^^^
Little Paula witnesses cursing on TV and questions, whether it is really that bad to be called that name.

You, sun of a beach!

Magoņu sēkliņas, plīstoši trauki /// Poppy seeds, breaking dishes

Tētis šovakar atbrauca no laukiem un atveda lielu maisu svaigu piparmētru, maisiņu kartupeļu un vecāsmammas ceptu kanēļmaizi un magoņu sēkliņu maizi. Mēs ar Lāsmu gājām lejā pēc mantām, bija jau tumšs un vēss, šaubīgais agra rudens vējš, bet bija patīkami, ka kājas bija plikas. Es negaidīju, ka tētis būs lidostas izskatā, lavandas kreklā un pelēkā žaketē, viņš līdzīgos toņos un apģērba gabalos reiz atgriezās no lidostas, un man šķita tik ļoti labi, tieši tā, kā vajadzētu izskatīties lidojumu laikā.

Piparmētras sparīgi smaržoja, un es sapriecājos. Aizvakar es gribēju, kaut būtu pašlasīta piparmētru tēja, ko dzert. Piparmētras un arbūzs vislabākie ir tad, kad ir tumšs.

Es dzēru piparmētru tēju, un vēlāk es gribēju pienu pie vecāsmammas maizēm, bet drusciņ, un es sameklēju mazo trauciņu. Man ir vairākas mazītiņas pialiņas, kurās ietilpst apmēram 50 ml, tieši tādām reizēm, kad gribas tikai drusciņ vai arī no maziem traukiem. Man patīk mazi trauki. Es paņēmu rokās balto trauciņu ar rozā rozēm, bet zibenīgā ātrumā viņš man izslīdēja no rokām, virzījās taisni uz priekšu, ietriecās sienā, pārplīsa uz pusēm un nokrita uz grīdas. Es nesaprotu, kā tas varēja atgadīties. Atkal man saplīsa trauks. Esmu ievērojusi, ka parasti plīst mani trauki, un plēšam mēs viņus uz maiņām ar kaķiem. Ēriks tikai tāpēc, ka viņš ir neveikls vai arī mūsu trajektorijas krustojas. Likijam reizēm ļoti patīk ar savu ķepiņu nogrūst zemē traukus un noskatīties to daiļajā kritienā. Karotes daudz necieš arī no 12 lidojumiem, bet dažas krūzes nespēj paciest pat vienu. Man trauki plīst, kad es viņus kaut kur muļķīgi atsitu, vai arī viņi, kā šajā reizē, skrien sienā. Man īstenībā ir ļoti žēl, jo man visvairāk patīk glīti trauki, bet diemžēl mani trauki plīst visbiežāk.

Vēl palikušas tādi paši 3 trauciņi. Tas nozīmē, ka tētim vairs neviens tāds nepienākas. Viņam jau nemaz nepatīk tik mazi trauki. Viņš vienreiz, meklēdams kādu pierasta izmēra bļodu, pukojās, kas te par visādiem maziem trauciņiem ir.

Atkal magones. It kā es tikpat labi varētu teikt, atkal tie kartupeļi, bet, nē, noteikti nē, magonēm ir cita nozīmīguma pakāpe.
Gandrīz pirms nedēļas mēs ar Katrīnu staigājām pa Stockmann, mums tur patīk pastaigāties, glīti trauki, dažreiz arī neiedomājami derdzīgi govju dekori parūkās, bet parasti jau tikai servīzes ar rozēm, un, ja paveicas, bez taureņiem. Mēs noklīdām gar kafejnīcu un mazliet apcerējām to, cik tur reizēm ir patīkami sēdēt, stiklotas sienas un nepārprotama pilsētvide aiz loga. Un iekšā koši ēdieni uz interjera baltā fona, tā tur izskatās. Vairāk ziema un vēls rudens nekā pavasarīgs gaišums, un ir skaidrs, ka ļoti daudz kas nav kārtībā, bet tajā kafejnīcā tās lietas zaudē savas bezcerības neizturamību.
Mēs nolēmām ieiet iekšā, tāds piemērots brīdis, kad ārā lietains un nokavēta filma par karalieni. Katrīna stāstīja par to, cik tur lieliskas kūkas, un viņai bija taisnība, kūkas izskatījās rosinoši. Arī citi deserti bija burvīgi, krāsaini augļu trauciņi iemūrēti ledus lauskās, glīti pārlocītas pankūkas un dažādu nokrāsu ievārījumi, patiešām patīkami. Man liekas, viena pati es nebūtu nonākusi līdz kūkai, es bieži domāju, cik tas ir vareni, kad kāds ietekmē patīkamā veidā. Tas varbūt nav nemaz slikti, ka es tik ļoti ietekmējos no Katrīnas; ja es kādu satieku, tad jau es gribu just ietekmi un pārmaiņas.
Kūku stendā bija mājīga ābolu kūka, iespaidīga šokolādes kūka ("ES ESMU ŠOKOLĀDES KŪKA, JA!" tipa kūka), toņos patīkamas siera un ogu kūkas un vēl dažas citas. Un tur bija magoņu kūka, es nekad nebiju tādu redzējusi. Nu tā, ka vispār nekur.
Mēs sēdējām pie stiklotas loga sienas, tā ir riktīgi forša vieta, kur dzert kafiju, un mums bija karsti dzērieni, un man bija magoņu kūka. Tāda kūka, kurai ir apmēram 4 cm biezs magoņu pildījums. Maģiski, es zinu. Mēs ar Katrīnu ļoti daudz viena otrai piekritām (bet tā noteikti nav, ka mēs tikai piekrītam viena otrai un jūsmojam par vienām un tām pašām lietām; Katrīna mezglo un viņai patīk batikojumi, piemēram), mūsu sarunām pat bija tēma, mēs runājām par draudzību, un Katrīna izmeta apzināti mulsinošas piezīmes, vairākas pēc kārtas. Pēc kārtas ir visgrūtāk.
Tā, kūka, ak, viņa bija lieliska. Man garšoja, bet es arī novirzīju daudz no savas agrākās magoņu ēšanas pieredzes. Prustam ir pilnīga taisnība, un es nezinu, cik bieži ir iespējams tvert kādu jaunu, foršu lietu pašu par sevi, bez atmiņu šķaidījuma. Man kādreiz patika ēst no burciņas magoņu sēkliņas ar karoti, un magoņu smalkmaizītes ar šokolādi man šķita visu smalkmaizīšu esence.

Vissabiezinātākie mirkļi par magonēm un paši par sevi ir tie, kad es apmēram 5 gadu vecumā laukos stāvu uz lauka un ēdu magoņu sēkliņas. Ir vasaras beigas, varbūt jau sākas rudens, un es stāvu starp vagām rudens drēbēs. Ir viegla, izbijusi spilgta saule, kuras spožums tagad ir matēts un reizēm pagaist pavisam, un tas ir pareizi. Es eju gar vagām un apstājos pie pelēkbrūnām, sažuvušām magoņu galviņām, kuras uz savu roku aug starp zirnīšiem, burkāniem un pētersīļiem. Vasarā viņas bija violetām, plānām ziedlapiņām, un katram ziedam bija vismaz divu nokrāsu violetums. Es noplūcu magones galviņu, attaisu vaļā, viņa ir sausa un asa, un ieberu visas magones mutē. Kamēr mutē birst magones, es redzu debesis, lai gan pārāk uz tām neskatos, un vēl ir tā īsā, klusā birstošu magoņu skaņa. Viņas ir tik sīciņas, un ir diezgan nomierinoši dzirdēt, kā viņas saskaras un pārvietojas. Ja pirms magones iztukšošanas pakratīja galviņu, skaņa bija uzstājīgāka. Un tad es stāvēju uz lauka ar tukšu magoni rokās, skatījos ceļa vizienā, un bija pilnīgi skaidrs, ka būs rudens.
Un magoņu kūka vasaras beigās, tas bija par to pašu.

^^^^^

Tonight dad got back from the countryside and took a huge bag full of fresh peppermint, bag of potatoes, and cinnamon and poppy seed rolls made by grandma with him. Lasma and I went down to pick up some things, it was dark already and chilly, the dubious wind of early autumn, it felt pleasantly to be barefoot though. I didn't expect dad to have airport look, lavender shirt and grey jacket. Once a while back he came back from airport in similar shades and pieces of clothing, and I found that outfit greatly looking, that was the way one should to look like at airport.
Peppermint's scent was strong, I was delighted by it. The day before yesterday I wished I had self picked peppermint tea to drink. Peppermint and watermelon are the best when it's dark outside.

I was drinking peppermint tea, and then later when I was about to taste grandma's poppy seed rolls, I wanted to have a little of milk, but just a little. Therefore I had to find a tiny cup. I've got several like tiny phials, I don't think I can pour more than 50 ml in them. They're perfect for occasions when you wish just a little, or from small cups. I like small dishes. I took the small phial-like cup with pink rose print, I was holding it in my hand until it slipped out of my fingers at lightning speed, heading straight forward the blush wall. It collided, broke into two pieces and fell on the ground. I don't get how could it possibly happen. A dish of mine broke again. I've noticed that usually they are my dishes that break, and it's either me or cats who helps out. Eriks does this only because of his clumsiness, or our trajectories cross. Likijs sometimes adores to push down a mug with his elegant paw and watch its beautiful fall. Spoons don't suffer much even from 12 landings, while some mugs and cups can't endure even one. I break dishes, when I beat them somehow in a silly way, or as this time, when they fly into walls. It's a pity actually, as I appreciate pretty crockery the most, but they are my dishes that break the most.
There are still 3 more identical phials left. Which means dad has no more right to one of them. He doesn't appreciate tiny dishes anyways. Once, whilst looking for a habitual sized bowl, he grumbled, what are all those petty dishes for.

Poppy seeds again. I might say, oh, there come potatoes again, but I certainly can't, no, poppy seeds have a whole different level of importance.
Almost a week ago Katrina and I were strolling in Stockmann shopping mall. We like to stroll there, beautiful crockery, sometimes unbelievably hideous decors of cows in wigs, still usually it's just rose printed sets, if you get lucky - with no butterflies on them. We passed the café and reflected a little on how pleasantly it was to sit there, glass walls and unmistakable city scene behind the windows. And inside bright food on white interior, that's what it looks like there. More winter and late autumn than springy brightness, and although it's clear that a lot of things aren't right, in that cafe they lose some of their desperate unbearableness.
We decided to step in. The moment when it was raining on the street and movie about a queen was missed, was right for it. Katrina was telling what great cakes they used to have, and she was right, the cakes looked promising. Also other desserts were adorable, colorful fruit desserts on ice, carefully folded pancakes and jams in different shades, nice indeed. I don't think I would have chosen to have a cake by myself. I often think how great is that, when someone else influences in a pleasant way. Katrina's influence on me couldn't be any harm; if I meet someone, then I do want to feel some difference and modifications in states I am in.
On the cake stand there were homey apple cake, impressive chocolate cake ("I AM CHOCOLATE CAKE, SEE!" kind of cake), cheese and berry cakes, agreeable in colours, and some more. And there was poppy seed cake, I had never seen one like this before. Like, nowhere at all.
We were sitting next to a glass wall, that's an awesome place to drink coffee, and we were having hot drinks, and I had my poppy seed cake. It had around 4 cm thick poppy seed filling. Magic, I know. Katrina and me, we agreed on heaps of things (for all that it's completely wrong to deem that Katrina and I agree on everything and that we admire the same things; Katrina has lately been into macramé and finds tie-dying pretty, for example), there was even a topic in our conversation, we were talking about friendship, and Katrina consciously threw away confusing remarks, one after another. One after another is the most difficult.
That cake, oh, it was awesome. I liked its taste, but I also channeled quite a lot of past experiences of eating poppy seeds. Proust is absolutely right, and I'm not sure how often is it possible at all to capture a new, fresh thing by itself, without any dilution of memories. I used to like eating poppy seeds from jar with spoon, and poppy seed rolls with chocolate were the very essence of pastry for me.

The most dense moments about poppies and moments per se are those, when at the age of 5 I stand on the field in the countryside and eat poppy seeds. It's the end of summer, maybe the autumn is already there, and I stand between furrows in autumn clothes. The sunlight is light, it's the former bright sun, whose brilliance is now mat and occasionally vanishes entirely, and it's right. I walk along the furrows and pause at greyish brown, wizened poppy-heads, which grow among the peas, carrots and parsley by their own choice. In summer their petals were violet and gauzy, and every flower had at least two different shades, violet, lilac, purple. I pick the poppy-head, open it, it's dry and sharp, and I pour all the seeds into my mouth. While poppy-seeds are filling my mouth, I see the sky, although I don't watch them too much, and then there is the brief, quiet sound of pouring seeds. They're so teeny weeny, and it feels quite sedative to hear them touch and move. If I shook the poppy-head before emptying it, the sound was more persistent and stronger. And I was standing there on the field holding an empty poppy-head, looking towards the road, and it was absolutely clear that autumn was coming.
Poppy seed cake in the end of summer, it's also about the same.

Mazās Mijas acis un ābolītis /// Red apple and Little My's eyes

Tas bija tiešām ļoti sen. Izskatās pēc Mazās Mijas acīm, manuprāt. (Tā dusmīgā no Trollīša Mumina. Viņa nebija gluži dusmīga, bet uzskatīja, ka neviens cits bez viņas tajā mājā neprot dusmoties.)

Vai arī! Man tikko ienāca prātā, ka mazlietiņ atgādina arī Brūnīša acis. Brūnītis bija mans bērnības sabiedrotais kopš 3 gadu vecuma. Kā jau gorillas pērtiķītim pieklājas, viņa skatiens nebija pats saulainākais, kāds jebkad redzēts šaipus Urāliem, un man diezgan bieži bija jāatbild uz jautājumu: "Kāpēc viņš ir tik dusmīgs?" un es vienmēr teicu: "Viņš nav dusmīgs, viņš ir domīgs!" un, visticamāk, paskatījos nedaudz pikti.

^^^^^

Looks like Little My's eyes I think. (The angry one from The Moomins/ Mumintroll. She might not be exactly angry though, she found the other habitants of the house unable to be angry properly.)

Or! It just popped into my mind that this also resembles the eyes of Brunitis a little ("Brunitis" - "The little brown one" in translation from Latvian, however strange that might sound. He was brown, okay?). Brunitis was my loyal companion since the age of 3. As it becomes for a young gorilla gentleman, his look was not the most sunny shiny one that has been seen on this side of the Urals, and pretty often I had to answer to such  a question: "Was is he so angry?" I always said: "He is not angry, he's thoughtful!" and most possibly threw a slightly irritated look.

Bērnu Ziemassvētku koris /// Children Christmas choir

Katru gadu no jauna mūsu skolas korītis, kas, protams, nebija nekāds dižulis, un pirmā balss skanēja īpaši pīkstulīgi, pēdējā skolas dienā pirms Ziemassvētkiem dziedāja Mārtiņa baznīcā. Tas bija tāds ļoti paredzams notikums, kuru katru gadu gribējās. Tā jau tur nebija nekas sevišķi foršs, agri jāceļas, jāsēž aukstā baznīcā un vēl uz kādu mēģinājumu jāaiziet, un ne-koristiem kopā ar klases audzinātāju apmeklēt Ziemassvētku koncertu šķita gatavā bezjēdzība, taču apstākļu kopums radīja zināmu tīksmi.

Uz baznīcu mēs vienmēr gājām pa vienu un to pašu ceļu - taisnu ielu, kas veda no skolas līdz baznīcas. Tas kādreiz noteikti bija paredzēts kā oficiālais ceļš uz baznīcu. Reizēm nešpetni puteņoja, skolnieciņu ģīmīšos pūta sniega vērpetes, un brišana bija pagalam lēna. Citreiz bija diezgan nožēlojams slapjdraņķis, vai arī putni vīteroja pavasarīgās noskaņās un sauļojās, uz koku zariem izlaidušies. Pie ielas, kas koristu baru šķīra no baznīcas, vienmēr bija noorganizēts policists (vai arī vairāki), uz brīdi apturēja satiksmi, un visi pārtuntoļoja pāri.

Tā kā vītņu kāpnes uz ērģeļu un kora balkonu bija šauras, un vispār vietas maz, diriģents lejā pie baznīcas ieejas izrādīja neremdināmu centību sadalīt visus pa balsīm pirms kāpšanas augšā, un kaut kas jau viņam arī izdevās. Pulciņi sāka mazliet vairāk čalot savas balss ietvaros. Ja ļoti gribējās aizvadīt koncertu kopā ar klasesbiedriņiem no citas balss, varēja mēģināt izlikties par citu balsi. Es kaut kad iefiltrējos 3. balsī, neviens nelikās ne zinis, es sēdēju blakus draudzenēm, un mēs mainījāmies ar saldumiem, ko, ļoti iespējams, bijām tikko viena otrai uzdāvinājušas.
Vienu gadu, kad es biju kādā 6. klasē, es nekur neiefīrējos, un mēģinājumu pavadīju stūrītī pie ērģelēm un kaut kādiem koristu soliņiem Harija Potera sabiedrībā. Mazliet pirms Ziemassvētkiem biju sākusi lasīt, un atrauties nebija tik viegli, Poters taču. Pašā koncertā es gluži braši treļļoju un vīteroju "Ak Tu, priecīga!", "Es skaistu rozīt' zinu" un citas dziesmas, kas katru gadu bija gandrīz vienas un tās pašas. Koncertos pa vidam parunāja mācītājs, reizēm visu runu gandrīz vienā tonī, ērģelnieks paspēlēja gabaliņus (vēlāk mūsu korim uzradās koncertmeistars, kas pats prata spēlēt ērģēles, un to viņš arī darīja).

Tad mēs visi, šoreiz klases audzinātāju pavadīti un izņēmuma gadījumā kāda zēna - nekorista papildināti, soļojām atpakaļ uz skolu pēc liecībām. Tur viss notika samērā ātri, liecības, īpatnēji atzinības raksti, mandarīni un piparkūkas. Ziemassvētku koncerts baznīcā bija savā ziņā Ziemassvēcības garants. Pat tad, kad pēc skolas braucām mājās, un drīzāk izskatījās, ka nākamajā dienā mēs svinēsim Lieldienas, nevis pušķosim eglīti, banzīcā bija izskatījies tāpat kā vienmēr, dziesmas biju akurāt tās pašas, un mēs sēdējām tieši tikpat satuntuļojušies, jo pavasarīgums gaisā nelika baznīcas telpām būt siltākām.

^^^^^

Every year again our little School Choir, which obviously was far from spectacular, and the Sopranos were particularly squeaky, on the last day before Christmas holidays sang in the St. Martins Church. It was such a predictable event which I was kind of looking forward to every year. There wasn't anything that would count as obviously enjoyable; we had to sit in a chilly church, wake up early and attend at least some rehearsals. Non-singers found the attending of Christmas concert quite useless, and it actually pretty much was, still all the circumstances made it quite enjoyable.

We always took the same way to the church - there was a straight street between our school and the church. Long time ago it served as the official way to the church, no doubt about that. Sometimes there happened to be a snowstorm, school kids faces were covered by snowflakes, and the walking tended to be quite slow. Another time there was a miserable slush, or birds were twittering in spring-like spirits, sunbathing on the branches. At the street which separated the singers pack from the church, a policeman (or several ones) always awaited the kids to stop the traffic and let them paddle over the street.

Since the winding stair to the organ and choir balcony (or whatever is its proper name) was narrow, and there was little place, down at the entrance the conductor demonstrated unquenchable diligence to divide everyone into the types of voices, and one cannot say he had no success at all, he did succeed a little. The cluster started to chat slightly more within group of their voice type pals. If you were eager to pass the concert next to your classmates for another voice group, you could try to pretend to be Mezzo Soprano instead of Soprano, for instance. Once I mixed with Altos, no one cared about it, I was sitting next to my girl friends and we were exchanging candies, which we highly possibly had just given each other as Christmas gifts.
Once when I might have been in the 6th year, I didn't join anyone else and spent the rehearsal in the corner next to the organ and some benches for choristers in the dear company of Harry Potter. Shortly before Christmas I had just started to read it, and it wasn't that easy to draw myself away, it was Harry Potter after all. During the concert I was warbling as a birdie and twittered "Oh How Joyfully", "Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming" and other Christmas corals which were quite the same year after year. In between all that singing the minister said something, sometimes keeping all his speech almost in the same pitch, the organist played some pieces (at some point of time our choir got an accompanist who knew to play organ, and that is what he did in the church concerts).

Then all of us, on the way back accompanied by our teacher and occasionally increased in numbers by some non-singing boys, marched back to the school to pick up our school-reports. It went quick - reports, bizarre diplomas, mandarins and gingerbread. The Christmas concert in the church used to be some sort of a guarantee for Christmas. Even when after the school we were riding home and it looked like we would rather celebrate Easter the very next day instead of decorating the Christmas-tree, in the church it was always the same. The corals were exactly the same, and we were sitting there as wrapped into clothes as always, since the springlyness in the air didn't warm up the church.

kad Ēriks slēpjas kastē zem cepures, viņš izskatās pēc Runča zābakos /// when Eriks is hiding in a box under a hat, he makes me think of Puss in Boots

Ziemassvētku kūka ar pār sniegotu lauku brienoša rūķa dekoru /// Christmas fruit cake with a 'Christmas dwarf or Santa Claus wading through snow-covered field' decor

eglīšu mantiņas sēne un kurpes /// Christmas decorations - a mushroom and shoes

neglīti salabots mīļš zaķītis /// ugly fixed beloved hare

egļu mantiņa pūce /// tree decoration owl

manas dāvanas portrets /// the potrait of a gift of mine

vienīgie āmuļi mājā /// the only mistletoe in the house

balts krēsls /// white chair

gani un viņu aitas no karuseļa, 2. stāvs /// shepherds and their sheep from Christmas Carousel, 1st floor

ķēniņi ar dāvanām, Marija un Jēzus no 1. stāva /// kings with gifts, Mary and Jesus from ground floor

viesības Pirmajos Ziemassvētkos /// Christmas Day Party

dāvana /// gift