Kids leave.
10 minutes later:
Man feeds duck.
Man slowly leads duck up the hill with bread.
Man catches duck.
Man kills duck.
MMM. dinner.
Man goes for duck number 2.
I don't think you understand how traumatized I am from the death of animals that I've seen in a span of a week. I have discovered one way in which I am ignorant: I DON'T EVER want to know where my food comes from.
Mom and I traveled to Tábor: the home of our ancestors. If you remember, Beth and I made the first trip to the town when she visited in November. Mom and I revisited Klokoty this time around. This is the church that my great-great-grandparents were married in. In addition, we were also able to find the house that they raised their daughter in before moving to the states. The history that we were stepping on was beyond words. We got lucky, by picking one of the nicest days in weeks. The weather wasn't cold, and it wasn't icy or snowy. Thank god, since Klokoty is a pilgrimage church. One bad ice patch and you'd find yourself at the bottom of a mountain that you don't want to be at the bottom of...
The only "falter" of the day was our attempt to order from a Czech menu when none of the food was recognizable. Normally, we are able to recognize at least three quarters of a menu. Things like Svíčková, kuřeci, šunka, etc. are all recognizable foods. Yet in our attempt to appear Czech (and due to the fact that we didn't see the English menu on the table..) we tried to order things we weren't completely sure about. Joke was on us.
I ended up with spicy chicken wings. Mom ended up with fried pork knuckles.
Thank goodness the food was good.
Lucky people that you are, I will now force you to look at 80 bazillion pictures I took in Tábor.
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