Moving Day

Diary!

My mid-morning festivities have been ruined! I was curled up under a mountain of blankets, with only my dainty nose protruding, watching Cary Elwes videos when Father came bursting in the room and told me, "for the love of whatever slight degree of manliness you posses, get your clothes on and get to work!"



It was moving day dear Diary! And just for the record, all exclamation points from here on out are not motivated by my customary jubilant glee but a most poignant angst. Father was receiving a new shipment of Slavs and forced me to help them move their stuff. Ugh. Why do we have to keep Slavs in the first place? It's not like the historic rosemary bush takes much looking after!



They come with all their babushkas and sad, shuffling dirges, their hand-made marbles and their borsht. I don't want to be racialist dear Diary, but what are they doing here? Father says that they are "hired workers," but they never seem to leave! Normally when one does a job, one goes home at the end of the day...right? But they NEVER LEAVE!



I believe they may be a bad influence on me! They drink funny tasting water out by the shed (it doesn't really smell like anything, looks like water, but it tastes like skinning your knee!) They gamble with their homemade marbles, and try to get me to eat their strange cuisine. They do have one dish I enjoy, however, "rolled burek." I don't know what a burek is or why they roll it, but Diary, it tastes unbelieveable (*FYI dearest Diary, my exclamation points have now become marks connotating succulant delight*)! Oh diary, I salivate at the thought of their supple baked bread mounds enveloping such tender, seasoned meats! Sometimes they come in pairs; sometimes there are scallions, Dear Diary, SCALLIONS! I am suddenly reminded of Lady MacD. Hm...odd. Perhaps I have solved my previous entry's delimma?

"rolled burek?"

Yours,
Y.P.M.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Motani_burek_1.gif