By Isabel Fonseca
Isabel Fonseca describes the 4 years she spent with Gypsies from Albania to Poland, hearing their tales, interpreting their taboos, and befriending their matriarchs, activists, and baby prostitutes. A masterful paintings of non-public reportage, this quantity can also be a colourful portrait of a mysterious humans and a vital rfile of a disappearing tradition. 50 photographs.
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Additional resources for Bury Me Standing: The Gypsies and Their Journey
Maybe instead of just sitting in front of a fireplace in a sweater with Jason Bateman, I could cook something for him. I’d never thought of that before. Something sexy. Like—hmm . . what about Pièce de Boeuf à la Cuillère? That sounded dirty. “Minced Braised Beef Served in a Beef Shell”—it even sounded dirty in English. ” I practically jumped out of the chrome-and-wicker kitchen chair, like I’d gotten caught masturbating at the dinner table—not that I masturbated, of course. I only even knew what the word meant because Isabel had told me.
It wasn’t like Mom could read my mind. I used to think she could, but this last year, I’d realized that if that was true, she’d never have let me watch It’s Your Move again. ” Because it was the holidays, I hadn’t had the chance to look at the book in Dad’s cabinet for weeks. Mom and Dad were home more, for one thing, plus they were on the lookout to make sure I wasn’t poking around searching for presents. I really did try not to do that, because surprises were the whole point of Christmas. Besides, I didn’t want to find anything that would prove once and for all that Santa really didn’t exist.
Real good. ) “You’re such a good cook, Julie. ” I’d started cooking in college, basically to keep Eric in my thrall. In the years since, though, the whole thing had blown a little out of proportion. I don’t know if Eric felt pride that he had introduced me to my consuming passion, or guilt that my urge to satisfy his innocent liking for escargot and rhubarb had metastasized into an unhealthy obsession. Whatever the reason, this thing about cooking school had developed into one of our habitual dead-end alleys of conversation.