How a Sunday photography club spawned a friendship with photographer Šarūnė Kajietė that led to a book editing opportunity that blossomed to an article in Lithuanian Heritage about a farm-to-table restaurant in Užupis.
How a Sunday photography club spawned a friendship with photographer Šarūnė Kajietė that led to a book editing opportunity that blossomed to an article in Lithuanian Heritage about a farm-to-table restaurant in Užupis.
My friends Agnė Alenovič and Jura Radzevič opened Valgomasis, a tiny lunch spot around the corner from the flower market in Vilnius, in December 2015. I had the pleasure of visiting for the first time last September while on a heritage trip with my entire family.
So many of our memories are rooted not in sights and experiences, but in smells and tastes—especially around the holidays. When I think of my Grandma Klara, I immediately think of koldūnai stuffed with blueberries, the combined joy and dread of eating greasy potato pancakes on a hot Florida day, and the smell of day-old kugelis frying in butter. The only thing my grandmother was more enthusiastic about than cooking was getting us to eat.
But when I think of Teta Marija, my grandmother’s older sister, there’s only one food that comes to mind: angel wings. While she made them year round, a special treat whenever we came to visit, they were available in abundance around the holidays.
Six months after packing up my apartment in Colorado, I was finally on my way to my new home in Vilnius. I was moving on a hunch. I had no apartment, no job, and only a few contacts, but I had a passport and a gut feeling that told me my future was in Lithuania.
“Why?”
It was a question often asked. Why would a nature-loving ski racer want to move to a country with long, dark winters and no mountains? Why would an American want to move to Lithuania? I went through a whole list of responses: I always wanted to live in Europe, Lithuania will soon be part of the European Union, I don’t want to be a nature or sports photographer, I’m tired of cramming my feet into ski boots. Finally, I just answered, “Why not?” And that usually satisfied even the most curious inquisitor.