revolutionaries

I was visiting my parents over the last couple of days. Turned out that they had a bit of a party for friends and family on Saturday. It was the first ‘do’ at their new place and my mum was desperate to steer away from the stiff mechanics of a Polish shindig, whereby people sit rigidly at the table, places set, three course dinner served and a relaxed atmosphere anticipated with the third shot of vodka. Instead, Basia was keen to introduce some laid-backness in entertaining the guests, ala Oz style. So they had a bbq (which was quickly dubbed by the guests as a ‘garten pardi’). There was a table set with salads, dips, bread etc at one end of the patio, my dad in his cook’s apron frying up meat at the other end, no official table set for guests to sit at, and a bunch of bewildered faces not knowing what to do with themselves. It was hilarious. People showed up in suits. They sat on garden chairs expecting to be served instead of loading up their own plates themselves. Because the meat was slow coming, people were forced to sample salads, pasta and rice dishes first and to their carnivorous alarm, were surprised at actually liking food that didn’t contain protein. Unfortunately three shots of vodka had to be drunk before people relaxed. The end result was a mixed reaction. Some of the guests loved the idea and commented how much better and easy-going an official ‘do’ could turn out with a bit of fresh air and fried onion, whilst others looked at the Krzywicki clan with scorn and ‘how uncivilised’ expressions on their faces. Fuck ‘em, I said to my mum, as we emptied the last nibbled bits of shish kebabs into the compost bin. Bring on the next garten pardi!

Apologies for lack of photos from the shindig. Instead have a look at the fresh strawberries my dad got from his next door neighbour.