Latvia: If Hands Could Speak 
By Paula Gamble

I thought she was expecting me; but when I got there, no one answered the door.  I walked around the side of the house, past the wandering chickens and the blossoming jasmine, to the vegetable garden. There Arija was, resting on a footstool in the midst of her crop.  Kartupeli, burkani, kaposti (potatoes, carrots, cabbage) vegetables you won’t find in the stores here; everyone grows their own. 

Her feet were barefoot and gnarly and full of dirt. As she rose from her stool and walked to greet me, she waddled like a bow-legged cowboy from an old western. The years of straddling and squatting in rows of kartupe—weeding, watering, digging—took its toll.  A layer of the rich earth, which bears her winter rations, thinly gloved her bare hands.  She wiped them on her apron, motioned for me to follow her and said something that I only imagined was, “Oh no, I forgot that you were coming.”

Arija seemed a bit embarrassed that I had caught her so.  I don’t know if it was because I found her resting or if she forgot I was coming or because she was “dirty” from her garden work.  I also didn’t know what was appropriate. Should I say, “I’ll come back later” (well I didn’t really know how to say that). Or should I just accept the hospitality that I knew would ensue simply because I was there and she was Latvian. 

This country chimes a common theme: Life’s “interruptions” are never detoured or delayed to another time or place.  I was told that it is more common and accepted to just drop by: “Maybe in the city you can call ahead, but not out here.”  When someone drops by out here, you entertain for next few hours.  It doesn't matter what you were doing before.

I was convinced that I was inconveniencing her; but true to form, Arija came in from the garden, opened her home, and prepared food for our time together: sviestsmaize, gurkini, kafija (bread and butter, cucumbers, coffee) all lovingly prepared.

Arija’s cucumbers were beautifully displayed – with a pinch of coarse salt. She delicately seasoned the slices as if she was on a cooking show. Finally, she placed a small sprig of parsley on the plate to augment the near perfect presentation.

Throughout the summer, I noticed that every time I visited anyone’s home, the open-faced sandwiches, cucumbers and cakes were always a work of art. The homemade honey kuke (cake) that Arija cleverly arranged and served was beautiful. She cut all the pieces in triangles and diamonds and layered them in an ornate octagonal design, almost like a snowflake. As she held out the plate to offer me a piece I hesitated: I could no more spray paint over the Sistine chapel than destroy this organic masterpiece.

On most visits I was served coffee or tea. The hostess would boil the water in a pot that had electric coils in it. In a manner of minutes, the typically loose tea would be brewed. The leaves would eventually sink to the bottom; and if you would sip carefully, you could avoid getting the leaves stuck in your teeth. The coffee was typically instant, and often difficult to swallow.

Arija was the only person in Latvia who ever served me a cold drink. Many Latvians are averse to drinking cold drinks on hot days, fearing that the combination could make you sick.  This would explain why, when I would attempt to convince the shop ladies to put their coke in the fridge for me, they refused. They just didn't want me to catch a cold.

Arija, however, walked to the hallway and opened a creaky closet door. The musty smell of damp, cool earth overwhelmed me, and I watched her descend down steep steps. A minute later she emerged with a two-quart, wide-mouth jar containing a deep red syrup. With a boisterous smile showing a missing tooth, she declared, “meža ogas.”

“Forest berries?” I asked in English.

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