I’ve always thought lying around in a pine box for all eternity with nothing to read would get kind of boring after a few centuries. If I were dead, I would want visitors to come and see me. And it would be even better if they brought food and drinks.
Enter the Moldovans, those quirky little necro-feeders (Yes, I made that word up) from a tiny country bordering the Ukraine.
I don’t know much about Moldova. I was never good in geometry. (Hopefully, most of you recognize that as a joke. Moving on). But man, does that little democratic republic with a long history of human rights violations sure know how to treat the dead.
For a few days each year, the week following Orthodox Easter (Personally, I celebrate the Unorthodox version of Easter), the living relatives of dead Moldovans head to the cemeteries with picnic baskets and wine bottles in hand. They put down little blankets on top of great-great-great grandma’s grave and have a lovely picnic.
And why not? Rotting corpses need love and attention too.
The cemetery visits are supposed to be a happy time, with intermittent weeping and feasting, while dead relatives watch your every move from above.
I can just hear the conversations now.
“Remember Uncle Oleg? He used to talk incessantly about kids these days, and how people used to keep their noses clean during the Stalin era. What a bore. He’s so much more delightful as a corpse.”
So raise high your mămăligă and pass the brânză.
Let’s go necro-feeding.
The dead shouldn’t rest in peace. The dead should rest with french fry grease.