There is this place I stayed one time for a week, The cook had learned cater to people in Romania working with nuns. She had a small garden in her backyard that looked more like a forest path. A larger garden was a short drive away. It seemed she didn't buy anything. Seven days thirty-five different greens just in the salads. Didn't seem possible. Gathered from around the world. Away in the Netherlands.
I had worked in the Balkans a number of years. Both Bosnia and Serbia. Bought a bus ticket from Nis to Bonn. If you live on the Balkans you take busses. Don't miss them. The bus driver asked if I was going exactly, as they say in southern Serbia, to Bonn. Headed to the next country they showed me a better way.
That first day I knew I had never eaten that way. There are many good ways to eat, but not many ever ate this good. Within seven days we all changed. Not in some metaphysical way only that we could not see. We all knew ourselves well enough to know we were physically different. Different things went in and different things came out. Enough of a change that people started to almost complain. You can't complain about perfection is what I told her.
Never did and never will eat so well. A lost continent.
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