Moschna? Or today I’m cooking horse!
N 51°08'01.6'' E 071°28'44.6''
Day: 83
Sunrise:
05:50 h
Sunset:
8:40 pm
Total kilometers:
9285.89 Km
Temperature – Day (maximum):
38 °C
Temperature – day (minimum):
20 °C
Latitude:
51°08’01.6”
Longitude:
071°28’44.6”
Maximum height:
338 m above sea level
Tanja
I find my time at Gafur very pleasant. Imagine that we moved in with him for a whole week, completely unannounced, within 20 minutes of his nephew calling. I can clearly say that Gafur is a very polite and sociable man.
On the first evening I asked him if I could use his kitchen. The word moshna (may I) plays a decisive role here and is ultimately applicable. Due to my lack of knowledge of Russian, I sometimes only use the word and paraphrase everything else I want to express at that moment. Moschna is almost becoming a magic word, that’s how well it works.
We had arranged to have dinner together with Gafur that evening. He wanted to go to a family birthday party and be back by 5 p.m. at the latest. He comes into the kitchen in the morning with a beaming face and the word “Moschna” on his lips. In his hands he holds about 3 kilograms of meat in one piece. “Moschna, Moschna” (May, may) is my answer as he looks at me expectantly.
The only really reliable thing about the time in Kazakhstan is that you can’t rely on it. It’s after 18:00. Gafur seems to have got stuck at the party and Denis is getting hungry. I go into the kitchen and only now do I really start to think. “I wonder what Gafur meant by his moshna? Maybe it should mean, can I prepare horse for you today? Or. Here’s a nice piece of horse. Would you cook it for us tonight?” “Moschna, Moschna”, it goes through my head and I take the piece of meat out of the fridge to have a closer look. Gafur knows that I don’t eat meat. He was also surprised that we don’t look emaciated without eating meat. I think he’s a little worried about Denis. I remember Gafur’s words: “A man needs meat on his plate and horse is the best!”. I’m still holding the hunk of horse corpse in my hand and I’m getting very uncomfortable. In my mind’s eye, I see the headline of a TV cooking studio in big letters. “Today I’m cooking horse!” These cooking shows are just as popular here as they are in Russia and Germany and probably all over the world. I continue my thoughts and ask myself what the problem is, whether it’s beef or poultry or even horse? Dead is dead and it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve prepared meat. I briefly consider calling my mother-in-law in Germany: “Brigitte, how do you actually cook horse?” But I abandon this idea and call Denis for advice instead. “You definitely have to cut away the fat,” he says expertly. “I think that would be a bad mistake,” I reply, as Kazakhs love fat. When I ask Denis if he would like to cut the meat, he doesn’t really seem enthusiastic and full of zest for action and then disappears from the kitchen relatively quickly and inconspicuously. By now it’s 6:30 pm and somehow I come up with a great excuse. Gafur probably won’t be hungry when he gets home from the birthday party. If he is, he can prepare his own horse. In the meantime, I make a pot of potatoes and vegetables and prepare a salad. No sooner said than done, the bag of horse meat goes back in the fridge.
