The blue carpet

Overture

The blue carpet. Not much has changed, truth be told. Depending on who you are, I should say. For some the routines have stayed the same, while others have been swept into that round dance of tomorrow whose way out costs two dinars.

But we salaš folk have always known what awaits us and what comes next. Once we have picked the maize and stowed it in the čardak, the slatted corn crib, threshed the wheat and handed it over to the mills, the real magic begins. Preserves for my good lady, and for the true revellers, the shearing of the blue carpet. That blue carpet is usually spread out under the plum trees, and the method of shearing is by hand. It sounds like a metaphor and so it is, which translated, as our elders would say, means that the company gathers so that the plums may be gathered too.

These are only hints of what is to follow. When the blue carpet has been cleared away, well mashed and stored in barrels, it rests a while, and then after some time the company gathers once more around that merry machine we all hold dear. Now that is a proper poselo, an evening gathering. While the komina, the fruit mash, gently simmers, everyone is already at their post.

Preparation

We usually put the neighbour in charge of feeding the fire and watching the temperature. It is a responsible job after all, and you cannot leave just anybody to it.

At the stirrer there must always be somebody younger and hardier, because it is manual work after all. However, the young ones have to learn in good time how the still is set up, so let them watch and learn. It happens often enough that the mash catches and burns if it has not been stirred regularly and without a break. Given the punishment that follows, it is somehow easier to take a younger generation by the ear than your own, that will not do.

And the captain of the crew, with his two assistants, circles that little tap and waits for it to run. The moment it starts, the strength is measured and the colour examined, and once a little has run, the taste and the smell. That is when the real parliament sits and opinions clash. The debate about flavour goes on for ever, everyone with his own recollection of how at a good friend’s or a distant cousin’s he tasted the finest prepečenica, twice-distilled brandy, which had been run through three, no, four times over to gain in quality.

Development

And so it goes on deep into the night. Of course nobody is only waiting for what runs from the still, not a chance! That is still young rakija, fruit brandy, which has yet to rest and mature. There is always some proud bottle brought out that has lain for several years, cobwebbed and covered in dust. That delicacy carries the maker’s mark and the year of production, with a cork sealed in wax bearing the maker’s stamp.

After a short speech, good fortune is wished to all those gathered, to this splendid business and to everyone taking part in it. May the next be better than the one now being poured into the glasses raised in the air. As the bottle of that prototype of a successful rakija slowly empties, a wooden board and a wicker basket covered with a cloth are brought to the table. That cloth in fact conceals the stars of the evening, which will come out onto the board one by one and delight everyone present.

Finale

The ice will of course be broken by slanina, the cured pork belly, with its three streaks of lean and a whiteness that blushes pink, well dried and ready to take its place on the table, because one has to grease the works before the main course. It is followed by kobasica, the sausage, gently hot and finely smoked, and after that ham as soft as a soul and as salty as the devil. And at the end kulen, the paprika sausage without which there is neither discussion nor merriment. That is the cue for the delight of everyone present, who eat and seem to draw a little breath before they finish the mouthful. On the side there are tomatoes from the garden, the ones they call ox heart, and onion. Put all that together and you get this small traditional feast held on the salaš every year.

As for my good lady’s winter preserves, that is for another time…

– Isailov.