Opt. 3

Earlier this week in, "Reprobation (dude, Rovinj is super dobro)," I offered an invitation to co-create with me, and gave some options. The following, in a paraphrased form, is the winner:

Opt. 3:


We could explore the suicide scene in beautiful Plitvice National Park, it could be funny to see what happens if I just continue to publicly display suicidal musings.



I hear that refrain coming:

"Daniel. I, actually, we, are worried sick about you."

I must, worried friend, respond to the demands of my readers. They would not forgive me for giving in to the pressures of guilt-enforced social norms or someone's idea of what constitutes 'good taste.'

In addition to your choice of Option Three, there was a call to see Sangre the Costa Rican Spider monkey, currently of the Kiev Zoo. There was also a request for Drama, last seen in either the performance of his life or severe possession by a malignant spirit. There was a suggestion to place a Moroccan vendor in the context of Croatia, and there was the demand for something related to the old television series, "The Brady Bunch."

Looking at all of this, I realized I may have taken on too much. Soon, though, I was back under the spell of Medica and suddenly all of these disparate ideas seemed to form integral parts of a unified and cohesive story.

It all fit real nice. 

In fact, I like this new thing. I don't want to risk delivering this baby prematurely, risking SIDS, weak and unmoving limbs, a lifetime susceptibility to disease, or whatever happens if you put a baby in the sun too soon.

Though I have never before baked or used an oven for anything besides the reaheating of frozen pizzas, I envision a story taken out of the metaphorical oven too early, to be the way that I would imagine bread that is not ready. You open the oven door, and set the pan on the stovetop, and soon, removed from its' life-giving heatsource, it collapses into itself and is a mess of hot, uncooked, pungent, and unedible dough.

In short,

I do not like to waste bread, ideas or babies.

We will be back at the hospital on Tuesday, to see if the baby is ready to take her first breaths.  The only thing that could prevent this is Medica.

"Daniel, what in the hell is this Medica thing you keep talking about?"

I mentioned on Tuesday, April 6, 2010 something of the origins of Medica.  I know that I discussed the origins of the word in great detail, employing many flowery descriptors. To avoid rewarding any innatentive readers, I won't bother to repeat myself here.

Medica is pronounced: meh-deets-ah, with the emphasis on the 'deets.'
Always emphasize the 'deets.'


Okay.

One of my favorite things about this concoction is that the best stuff doesn't come from the stores. It is locally made, and gifted to friends or bartered for. It comes in recycled bottles, for example, you may be drinking Medica out of an Irish Whiskey bottle.

Finally, I like that the word, when read in English carries an obvious association with the word, "medical."  This added layer of meaning lends the drink an immediacy, a necessity and a vitality that is just not there with the monosyllabic gin, rum, beer and others.

So come to Rovinj and drink Medica!

I did. And look at me now!