Albania Winter 2000

February 4

     I could smell her bread as I turned the corner on the mountain trail. Ismet, my translator, was walking before me in the three inches of mud. One of his jobs was to find the stones strategically placed by the villagers to keep travelers feet from sticking in the mud. My job was to carry the 40 pounds of seed, Bibles, gifts, and to bring up the rear guard. 
    She must have seen our coming because she quickly ran to her gate to welcome us but really to get us off the soft trail and to keep us from her guard dog. We went through the quick recipe of greetings. Her gray hair blew in the mountain breeze and her tattered scarf told me much about her difficult life. She was a good cook, and I would imagine her years of baking bread in an open oven had paid off. She reached in with a bare hand, quickly raked the charcoal left and right and presented her audience with steaming fresh baked corn bread. The smell was out of this world...at least out of Albania. This is when she posed for the picture, between the smell and the offer to try the cornbread. I knew it to be a gracious offer but we declined knowing there were too many other mouths to feed. She was too busy for long goodbyes, and so we left to walk further down the path lined with short sharp sticks.

    Winter 2000 Index