the skinflint philosopher

Attempting to thrift our way to a better life, with a toddler in tow!


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Initiation into a Bulgarian Christmas

Having now lived through our take on a Bulgarian Christmas, here’s a little update on our celebrations- I’ve been giving Digger the Bulgarian Inquisition and have tried to make sense of it all!
We started early with indulgent food right at the beginning of the month on December 6th, which is the feast day of Saint Nicholas. Now in the UK we tend to know the story of St. Nicholas leaving (or throwing over a wall) a purse of coins for a poor family, and hence the legend of Santa Claus began, even though he didn’t end up as the bearded, red and white figure of today until marketing and consumerism really got involved, although this image of him looks like he pretty much had his style down pat.
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Here in Bulgaria he is known as Saint Nikola, and the day is Nikulden. He is venerated as a the protector of fisherman, sailors, travelers and hunters, the master of the underwater world, and folklore includes a tale of how he plugged the bottom of a storm-broken boat with fish from the ocean, and thus saved the lives of everyone on board. Dinner on the 6th must include carp, (sometimes baked in dough to form a ribnik), and bogovitsa bread (bog=god).

(credit for bread images from zanus.eu, snimka.bg, moreto.net)

Traditionally, the bones of the carp must be thrown back into flowing water to allow continuing fertility and prosperity, apart from the head bone which was sewn into children’s clothing to protect them from the evil eye. Now we certainly didn’t go that far, as I personally was not that keen to have Tiddler walking around smelling of fish and acting as a street cat magnet!

This feast day is especially important to us though, as is it also the name-day of Digger’s brother in Canada. Name-days (imen den) are a curious phenomena, and anyone who is named after Nikola, or a derivation e.g. Nikolai, Nikolay, Kolyo, Nikolina, Neno, Nenka, Nikolina, Nina gets to have a day of celebration. Digger actually gets more phone calls and messages on his name-day than he does on his actual birthday. So we drank a toast of rakia (Diado’s eye-wateringly strong homemade fruit brandy) to Digger’s brother, and then ate plenty of cake on his behalf while we chatted over Skype.
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Christmas itself though, while clearly celebrated in Bulgaria, is less ‘in your face’ than Christmas back home. We did see Christmas lights on houses and a tree and sledge display in town, baubles on trees in peoples gardens, shops selling tinsel and reindeer deely bobbers, but there was not the ever present Christmas tunes in the shops, the constant stuffing our faces with mince pies, and the endless craft fairs and Santa’s grottos.

Let me revise that, I tried to find a Santa grotto or a fair to take Tiddler to, but in our provincial town Christmas entertainment was limited. Fortunately, her nursery school organised a party with a visit from Santa (one of the dads) so she got the experience. The system here was parents provided a gift in advance for their own child to be handed out by Santa, and my only comment on that was clearly when Bulgarians give gifts in public, bigger is most certainly the better. Thankfully, Tiddler didn’t clock on to this, and was more than happy with her reasonably sized gift of a board game from us.
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In general, I would say the whole build up to Christmas by Bulgarians was very refined and calm. Snow fell, and people did their shopping without any chaos or upset (as far as I could observe). Not so the British ex-pats living in the area. Panic stations!
From as early as November, ex-pats on Bulgarian facebook groups have been advertising ‘man and van’ runs to the UK, where people can place orders for food or other items. This clearly happens throughout the year anyway if someone is making the journey, but the Christmas orders were coming in thick and fast if the comments were anything to go by. People were requesting mince pies, quality streets, chocolate oranges, jars of cranberry sauce, christmas crackers and so much more. Familiar food from home was clearly an essential luxury, and the ex-pats are willing to pay the shop prices, plus the added purchase/delivery charge for the service that was being provided. Others were busy arranging pick up and drop off points for the van drivers to send and collect presents from family back home. There was a flurry of posts. Nearer to the big day, the concern took a worrying shift closer to home as the perishable goods needed to be sourced.

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I’ve decided the way for Bulgaria to boost its flailing economy is clearly to go into sprout production. Unfortunately for us, we couldn’t track any down in our smaller town, so I had to resign myself to a sprout-less Christmas dinner. Digger seems ever so slightly happy at that prospect.

Christmas proper then starts in Bulgaria not on the 25th, but on Christmas Eve. This is a time the family to cook a special evening meal, which has very specific requirements. Firstly, plan wisely, as you need an odd number of people to sit down at your table. We ended up with seven at the table at Diado’s house, as Digger’s aunt, uncle, cousin and wife arrived from Sofia for the holidays, piling out of the car laden down with bags and boxes of food. It was like a vehicular cornucopia exploding into rural V_L_.
The meal is strictly vegetarian (following the Orthodox 40 day advent fast, though we have not kept that of course), and also must include an odd number of dishes often up to thirteen in number, traditionally salads, bean soup, walnuts, unleavened bread (with a coin baked inside) and sarmi (stuffed vine and cabbage leaves), fruit compote and baklava. Straw is pushed under the table cloth to guarantee a good harvest next year, and the dishes and table at the end of the meal was left as it was overnight, in order for any ancestors to come and share any of the remaining food. It sounded slightly creepy to me, and clearly adds extra work to the christmas morning kitchen chores, but we were back in the apartment by that time so no ghostly visits at all. Just Santa, and of course that is perfectly normal.

Following this, Midnight mass is usual, but we settled for a christmas morning service instead with Tiddler, and even then she didn’t last the whole time. She managed to mistake the three priests for the three wise men as they went in procession, spent some time holding a random lady’s hand a few pews ahead of us, and then faked a coughing fit when the incense was swung from the censer. On her way out she bumped into the devotional candle stands and nearly took that out too.
For our first visit to a Bulgarian Orthodox service, I understood the confusion. People were wandering around, coming in late, and then kissing things. Other people were taking photographs of the priests. Things were going on behind the iconostasis and she wanted to see. Other people were chanting and singing up high up in the eaves and she thought the angels had arrived. Digger didn’t help by muttering how miserable everyone looked, and grumbling that I’d made us all come in the first place. ‘I can’t understand the point of a service that is just all chanting and formulaic fancy words’ he says in a stage whisper. Old grannies turn and look at us.

Back to the kitchen quickly then, as we needed to prepare for dinner for twelve. Although I had explained I was doing the dinner, everyone ignored that and turned up with enough food to keep Digger and I in leftovers for the next two weeks. We sat down to start eating at 12.30, and finally cleared away at 5pm. Bulgarians NEED rakia to start a meal, and they need salad to go with that, so they’d munched their way through three enormous enamel serving bowls of cucumber and fennel salad, crab and apple salad, and pasta and pickled gherkin salad before we even got to their main course. Turkey (first time ever cooking by me), lemon and thyme stuffing, pigs in blankets (that created much amusement of the funny English ways), parsnips, roasted potatoes, carrots, broccoli (no sprouts to be found near us!) and sauces and trimmings. Diado didn’t think was sufficient so had brought a huge earthern pot filled with pork stew, the usual Bulgarian Christmas day main, so everyone ate some of that too. After this, plates of salami and banitsa on the table. After this, nuts and raisins and fruit. After this, finally, gin trifle and yule log (from me) and gifted cream cake and baklava that we really didn’t need but ate anyway. Followed by wine and whiskey.

Our little rotund tummies eventually breathed a sigh of relief. Thankfully, with so many visitors, there was plenty of help with washing up at least. Digger and I, stupefied by food and exhaustion, silently surveyed the remains after everyone had gone home. I ask him the general verdict, having missed most of the conversation as it was predominantly in Bulgarian. ‘All good’, he says, ‘they’ll be back for breakfast’.

Link to list of Bulgarian name-days.
Nikulden recipes
Link for more information on Bulgarian Orthodox churches

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Diado and Baba vs Tom and Barbara

I’m aware this blog has changed focus a bit in recent months, what with all the travelogues, and now we have arrived in Bulgaria I clearly need to update the Home page that details us trying to live a thrifty life back in the British Isles so we could try and save enough money to stop working and get over here! So this post is a little nod back at the original thriftiness and skinflintery ideas, while continuing to update on our life here.

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Lured here by the low land prices that allow many to achieve the ‘Englishman’s castle’ idea that is nigh impossible back home on our cramped and increasingly expensive Sceptred Isle, most ex-pats in Bulgaria will turn up with all their worldly possession on the back of a lorry, but not necessarily have the necessities for the Bulgarian way of doing things, or the language skills to facilitate accessing life here. They may be retiring here, or have simply chosen to sell up and move out and try their hand and luck. Some come with practical skills, much in demand of others in the ex-pat community all trying to improve and renovate their old houses and land, and others seek online work teaching Japanese school children English to help pay their way. What is clear however, is that many may have felt that the land and property prices at a pittance were a true reflection of the cost of living, which it is definitely not.  Land is cheap because so many Bulgarians have gone, spreading out across the rest of Europe and further afield. So the ex-pats cannot rely on their incomes here, or their savings. They must, as the remaining Bulgarians do as a fact of daily life, start to become partially self-sufficient.
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We are far more fortunate as we have my in-laws here. We have turned up with little in the way of our own possessions (our household goods and Digger’s tools are all in storage at my parent’s house in the Westcountry) but have been able to move straight into a fully furnished and equipped flat, and therefore while paying bills will have no rent. We also this winter are saving a considerable amount of money on food purchases because Diado and Baba (Tiddler’s grandparents) have a huge stockpile of preserved garden produce that we are dipping into. I worry to Digger that we will limit what they themselves can eat, but he assures me they have far more than they can possible get through. In the early days at their house and in the flat, I keep finding secret stashes of food. It is like treasure troves of epic proportions, of peaches and apricots, tomatoes and cherries. There are chutneys and syrups, cordials and purees, compotes and sauces. There is no space in the freezer for the few purchases we wish to make.


I am in awe of the labour that has gone in, matter of course, to ensuring thrift and zero food waste. Sweetcorn has been planted, and grown, and cut, and shucked, and par-boiled, and bagged and frozen, just so Tiddler can turn her nose up at it at our dinner table. Herbs have been gathered and chopped and dried, plum and cherry halves have been laid out in the summer sun, and now stored in a twisted pillow case. This is a generation, and a culture who understand the value of the bounty of a harvest. They have so much that they can teach us.

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(Any non-British readers trying to make sense of the title- please see here)


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Lost in translation

Coming home from the corner shop and dumping my bags on the table, I show Digger my latest find. “Look at these, so cute! Little biscuits shaped like hearts. Let’s treat ourselves and make proper coffee to have with them”

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Digger watches me bustle round our little kitchen getting things ready. The favourite Bulgarian staple of the elevenses or teatime treat seems to be a wafer biscuit with layers of flavoured chocolate or fruit and nuts in between. British readers might be thinking to themselves this must be like eating a Kit Kat in disguise, and therefore great for the palate, but seeing as there is definitely more dry papery wafer than chocolate they have quickly been nicknamed ‘The Communist biscuits’ in our little household.

So finding what look like beautiful buttery sugary heart biscuits has made my morning.
That is when Digger tells me that the name of my ‘hearts’ actually translates as ‘ears’.
Thanks for that.
Er…..yum?

 

 

Other post Lost in translation #2


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A glass less?: Welcome to Bulgaria

All the way on the long road to Bulgaria, Digger has been creating a mental list of things he doesn’t like about his country of birth. In a mode of negativity he details them as we approach the Greece-Bulgaria border.


My visits to Bulgaria previously have been always in the sultry hot summer months, where we stay in a little village with his parents, Diado (grandfather) and Baba (Granny). Their house and garden is a well-ordered model of self-sufficiency, with beautiful purple and white flowers adorning the pathways, and succulent red grapes hanging down above the swinging chair.
Although fully agreeing that Digger has a far greater knowledge, and perhaps allowance, to point out the faults, I do suggest he stops being so pessimistic. “Harrumph” he says “Bulgaria is a country with a glass less than half full”.
We follow a bus for a little while, and he laughs, ” That bus knows what I am talking about”.
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He says,
“One. The roads will be rubbish. It will take us far longer to get anywhere than it looks on the map.
Two. The police will stop us. They’ll spot the UK plates, and pull us over, and want to see all our paperwork and try and get a bribe out of us. They’ll think we are stupid foreigners that can be tricked into paying something”. He continues,
“Three. Did you know that Bulgaria has the worst air pollution in all of Europe? I read a report on it. People can’t afford to pay the electricity prices so everyone burns wood and coal. Everything is filthy dirty.
Four. Litter! People don’t care”, he shakes his head “there will be crap everywhere. And street dogs.
Five. You’ll spot the prostitutes out at the sides of the roads. In the lay-bys.
Six. And the gypsies will be going through the bins to see what they can find to recycle and sell on. Or steal from the empty houses”
He takes a break in his monologue of disaster to hand our passport over at the border. A long conversation through the window of the van follows.
“See?” he shakes his head sadly as we are finally waved through, “They think it is wrong we are all travelling on different forms of ID’s. They want to know why Tiddler has my surname but doesn’t have a Bulgarian passport. They are stuck in the past, stuck in the red tape legacy of communism. Nobody wants to be here, and do these jobs, and get no money for it. Don’t expect any sort of customer service”.
“Why are you being so grumpy?” I ask. “I thought you wanted us all to come to Bulgaria?”
“I came because I thought you wanted us all to come to Bulgaria?”
And with that slightly ominous note of a possible mis-communication of our grand plan, we cross the border.


We travel through to the capital city Sofia, passing into the shadow of the massive Vitosha mountains that prevents the warm Mediterranean air travelling northwards. The temperature drops immediately and there is frost on the ground. We spend a couple of days there with Digger’s aunt, uncle and cousin.


We get fed with rich banitsa and baklava, and buttery trout and stuffed roasted peppers, and the ubiquitous shopska salad, and Tiddler’s cheeks are pinched and her chin chucked. We drive on to Digger’s parents house, in the village of V_ L_ and get more banitsa, and hearty herb-laden bop (bean) soup, and Tiddler gets to dig out old toys that we left there the previous summer and talks ten to the dozen to Diado even though he does not understand a single word.

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Baba is still on an extended visit abroad, helping Digger’s brother and family in Canada. The Bulgaria diaspora is far flung, and the families and the empty houses and the ghost villages left behind are falling into slow but steady disrepair.


We decide to settle for the winter in a little empty apartment owned by Digger’s family (more detail in future blogs) in the nearby town of T_, as that way we have better access to services when the snows do come (ten weeks of metre high snow on the ground last winter) , and can visit the village without having to be exactly living under Diado’s roof. (This means however, he just ends up coming into town to see us every day, to instruct Digger on the best way of doing things, if it was him).
We take a few days to find our feet and unpack Leo properly, and effectively we are now in our new ‘home’ for the time being. So in these early days of Digger’s gloomy predictions, was he really being unfair to his homeland? No, not all. The roads broke Leo’s hydraulic suspension within three days, we got stopped by traffic police twice in one day (and they refused to accept that his island driving licence was real and valid for driving in Europe), and all his other points proved to be true too. In future days (and blogs) we see the problems and the ‘it-could-only-happen-in-Bulgaria’ solutions and the poverty and neglect that this beautiful country is suffering. But we find reasons to love it all the same.

 

 


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You are what you eat

App-solutely can’t get my head around this. In our ‘plunging pound times’ I thought I would investigate a little bit more into grocery shopping skinflintery, and so downloaded a couple of free apps- Shopitize, Shopmium, CheckoutSmrt amongst other little square boxes of delight- to see if even a techniphobe can operate and save with some level of success. The general idea for most of these, if you have not come across them before, is that the app provides details of deals or savings to be made in various shops, you purchase the items, and then take an image of the barcode plus your receipt and get cash back. Others work on a voucher system. Sounds all good so far, if you have time to devote to planning your shopping to the nth degree and will happily doodle up maps of Tesco aisle arrangements in your spare time.
Meanwhile, back in planet reality, who is actually getting the benefit here? Why is the app free, giving away all these deals, literally at the click of the button? You know what they say folks, “If it looks and sounds too good to be true…..”.
Yes of course, non-savvy shoppers who splurge on branded pizza and luxury biscuits and carrot batons, will no doubt get some money back on those type of purchases- the high end, high cost, and high pile up in your trolley kind of shoppers. Because to put it simply, those products are of course what the apps are promoting. These shoppers will of course spend on other dubiously priced (What! Is one of the ingredients shredded gold?) items while in the same store congratulating themselves the whole time on their finger to icon budget mastery. The retailers can see these guys coming a mile off.

So what is the alternative? Do you need electronic ‘help’ to watch your pennies in the supermarket? Consider campaigns like Live below the line
https://www.livebelowtheline.com/uk/thankyou
or personal blogs like Stone soup http://thestonesoup.com/…/how-to-eat-for-2-a-day-5-ingredi…/
about really cutting back, and then find the happy medium that suits you, your family’s eating habits, and your spending power.
Read this to give you a starting point to consider,
https://www.theguardian.com/…/…/feb/04/rise-of-the-own-brand
and then maybe step into the aisles (without your map) and open your mind to what is really there. If it’s cheap but crap, then don’t buy it again. But I’m pretty sure you’ll find some gems without breaking the bank, and of course enjoy the free smug feeling you get as you breeze past a heaving, wheezing trolley being wobbled around one handed by some poor consumer as they struggles to align this barcode or that voucher with a handful of gadgets, all to buy a product that will still be more expensive that what you have in your hand. Eat well for less.


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“As sure as eggs is eggs…”

Sensible skinflintery of the day: Egg purchasing. Eggs are a definite staple in our household. Tiddler has them probably as a main source of protein, and Digger (as yet to be introduced to you formally) has cooking skills that are totally reliant on eggs in a variety of semi-undistinguishable forms. When playing ‘Desert Island’ his one food choice for the unforseeable future is invariably eggs. Even when the rules are clarified. “you can choose anything, whatever luxury meal you’d like!” which to my interpretation of the rules means a lavish plateful of something with lots of variety, he rather steadfastly says ‘I know, but I still think I’d choose eggs”.
So shop-bought eggs are pricey if you are not happy with the cheaper battery version, and of course the moral/ethical issues that go with that are your decision. Fortunately on my route home from work I can stop at the side of the road and buy these lovely named ‘Oddshaped” eggs direct from the farm- wibbly, flimsy shells, veiny-like in appearance, but large and good value. A winner.

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