Babushka

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all. I realized today that trying to teach the kids school after Christmas is like trying to spoon-feed a baby on a trampoline. Unusual metaphor, I know, but you get the idea. I have declared tomorrow a day off so we are all free to enjoy our new gadgets, sip some cocoa, and watch holiday classics.

That being said, I am taking some time to blog and I want to talk about somebody special. The Babushka. This is pronounced "Bah-boosh-ka". Contrary to popular opinion, it is not a scarf. It is a grandmother. Not my grandmother or yours, but somebody's. Something I have come to realize while living in Russia is that the place is teeming with Babushkas. They lurk in corners, they strut on buses, and they hit your feet with their cane on the metro.

When I go anywhere in this city with my children, we are like a parade. We hog the sidewalk and if somebody has a tune in their head (this is very common) they may gallop or skip to the beat. Babushkas are not impressed. They are looking at me with hawkeyes to make sure that my children are covered properly. Are their scarves wrapped well enough? Are they wearing tights under their jeans? In the Spring when it gets warmer, I still make sure my kids are wearing hats because out of some dark alley, a Babushka will hop out and yell at me. Not them. Me.

When I was a child my father used to yell out, "Close the door! Are you paying the bills?" In similar manner, I tell my kids each time we walk out of the door, "Cover your head! DO you want me to get yelled at by a Babushka?"

The other day I was on the metro escalator without my children. As we ascended, my hands crossed in front of me and brushed the Babushka's coat. She turned around and slapped my hands. I apologized in Russian and put my hands at my side. A minute later, she turned around, put her hands on my shoulders and pushed me down one step. Apparently, this particular Babushka did not want me to stand so close. I can't imagine why she cared. If you're not shoved up against somebody here then you're doing something wrong. It's the way of life.

One last thing about Babushkas. They are always right. It doesn't matter where or when. They know all. One particular Babushka in the 1970s wanted an Orthodox church to be re-opened. Of course this was the time of Communism and it wasn't permitted. She sent so many letters, so aggressively, that the government agreed and opened her little church. They were so tired of her endless complaints. Perhaps the Communists should have hired her. She may have made their regime last longer.

(The photo at the top is of Number 4 dressed for -10F on a bus. We rode this bus for 45 minutes dressed this way. It wasn't worth the risk of a Babushka getting on the bus.)

Things Can Change

I feel like the senior in the freshmen hallway. We've been here for almost two and a half years. Most people are braving their very first Russian winter while I am entering my third.

Today it is 12 degrees. That's right-twelve. When I suited up to go outside, I smiled and said to myself, "It's kinda nice out today." When I lived in the States, I wouldn't shop for the necessities in 12 degrees, much less go out. But today I volunteered to walk to my friend's apartment to pick up my son from a sleepover. It wasn't far. Only a 15 minute walk one way. My smiling boy echoed my thoughts. "It's pretty warm out today, isn't it?"

My mistake was wearing my boots. These are Sorel boots from Canada. Russians say, "there's no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing." We've found this to be mostly true so I paid $200 for boots from Canada. I wore them all last winter, but today they chafed the back of my Achilles and I returned home with bloody feet. "Geesh," I thought to myself. "I should have worn my heels." For this typical comfort-over-fashion girl, things sure have changed.

This is, however, my first winter living in the city. It's beautiful. All the shining Christmas trees and traffic sounds a little bit more like "Silver Bells." Well....maybe not. When we got out the Christmas decorations, my four small people decorated everything while I sat down and drank a fresh cup of coffee. I didn't have to police their arrangement of the ornaments or remind them not to break anything. They did it all perfectly by themselves.

This morning I woke up with a sore throat, a headache, and sore joints. My kids dutifully took care of the dishes, worked on their school assignments, and tidied up the house. I laid on the couch and tried to feel better. There was a time when these little ones ran circles around me. Now they are waiting on me and telling me to take it easy. What a difference.

I know this post is random. At least I had five minutes to write it. I just wanted to stop and recognize that things can change and they often do; right in front of your very eyes.

And we're back

Wow. I read my own stats of when I posted last and I was ashamed. I've been dealing with lots of things I haven't done that I need/want to do, but that is just uncalled for. I apologize.

My life in Moscow is new and different. Lots of my friends left and we moved to a whole new part of the city. Now I am struggling with where to find groceries, how to say no to activities, and where or when it is appropriate to sneak out of my house in my pajamas to take the trash out. These are real concerns.

Anyway, I felt like the material I had to work with was somewhat mundane. Until this weekend. We attended a fancy-pants fundraiser at the Ritz Carlton for our church. There was a silent auction and a live auction (which featured a good friend's unique, inspiring piece) as well as dancing, food, and music. The music is where I will begin the fun.

The Emcee introduced a Russian pianist who looked directly out of a stereotypical cartoon: frizzy hair, black tails, tall, thin, and generally unattractive. His musical ability certainly compensated for his fair looks. As he pounded away at Rachmaninov, I was very impressed and struggled to look anywhere in the room but at the black and white keys. After two songs played from memory, he put on his glasses and pulled out sheet music. A few measures in, I heard an operatic voice entering the room and heading toward the stage.

It sounded like the range I would sing, so I expected to see a woman. He wasn't. Despite the ponytail, he was extremely masculine, well dressed, and expertly trained by the late Pavarotti. He beautifully sang "Ava Maria" and then moved into a jazzier genre. This is where it got interesting. I immediately recognized the music as "Summertime" made so popular by Porgy and Bess. Then I realized, he wasn't actually singing any words. He was sort of humming and blowing the tune through his nasal passages. I started to eat my meal until I was forced to look up to see his new talent.

My husband leaned over to me and says, "He's playing the harmonica." Somebody else at the table leaned in and said, "No, he's not. He's playing his hand." I kid you not. He was wah-wahing his hand over his mouth like it was a makeshift coronet. I wonder if Luciano taught him this. We all expected him to beat-box next. Quite possibly the best entertainment ever at a fundraiser.

I promise to get back to regularly posting. This stuff is just too good not to share.

What I thought I wanted

It's three o'clock in the morning. I wish I was suffering from jet lag, but I'm not. I've been in the States for six weeks, with two more to go before I return to my home in Russia. The doctors visits are almost wrapped up, the shopping list is almost complete, and my kids are thoroughly ready to return.

I apologize for the absence. I wanted to "vacate" while I was here and just enjoy the moments. There have been plenty of good ones to cherish. While I was visiting with some friends this weekend, one commented to me, "you probably haven't written because you don't want to hurt anybody's feelings or say something that questions your loyalty to your home." WOW! After hearing it said out loud, I determined that was perhaps the very reason.

So back to the title. One of my favorite songs has the lyrics "what I thought I wanted, what I got instead..."

I feel this way because I had an idea of how this trip was going to turn out and it seems so completely opposite, yet good. Things with the kids came up, things with family came up, and friends often went above and beyond to help me out. I thought I wanted a working vacation, but instead I haven't touched the schoolbooks at all. There's just been no time. I thought I wanted time and space for myself, but it's been a challenge to be alone.

I am just writing this to tell you all that I'm still out here. I'm okay. Each day has its joys and disappointments, but this will soon be a memory. I've got pictures to prove I was here and yet I don't feel my own presence. I guess this is what you get at 3am. Stop by in a few weeks and I'll give you the real scoop.

Crazy Dinner

We are packing boxes and suitcases getting ready to move and go on vacation for two months. Although I am an organized, scheduled, calendar-loving doobie, I'm a little overwhelmed. So my good friend invited us over for dinner. Not just any dinner. A crazy dinner.
The food was normal. In fact, it was delicious! So what made it crazy? The tableware. Instead of using plates, forks, spoons, and cups we used random utensils and containers. Each person drew numbers and letters out of a hat and then chose the corresponding item. It was an absolute riot! Here are some pics to help you out. This is Number 2 eating on a diaper wipe container with a potato-masher and drinking from a dosage cup. I was surprised at how well he managed to scoop up pudding and pasta with that thing.

There were challenges involved. I felt like a big winner because I got a 9x13 cake pan, a rice paddle, and a baby teacup. None of my food was touching and I could fit quite a lot into my mouth at once. Unlike the hostess who got corn cob holders, a small lid, and a teapot.

In the second picture, Number 1 overcame the challenge of how to fit a spatula into a muffin tin, but she just used the handle. Using a sippy cup was kind of a blow for this young lady, but she was thankful anyway. With adults at one table and kids at the other, I couldn't tell who was having more fun. When we had to correct or discipline the kids, it was hard to take my host seriously as he ate with a slotted spoon out of a Bundt pan drinking from a pink baby bottle.

Although Number 3 was devastated she did not get to drink out of the honey bear, she made good use of the pitcher, especially sitting next to her brother with the dosage cup. While she filled that thing full of grape soda, he took little shots of carbonated beverages and refilled about 20 times.
On nights like these, I can't imagine my life without Russia. When would I have ever met these wonderful, creative people? When would we have opportunity to share our lives on a daily basis irregardless of schedules and preferences? Please don't mistake me. When I come to your house for a visit, plates and forks will be just fine. I'll just be glad I'm there.

Think like a Russian

So my husband is an epic story-teller. No, I mean it. Apparently something in his Irish roots make his hands flail and his volume increase when there's an event to re-tell. His most recent tale is worth sharing.

I think I mentioned that our car was in the shop. What this meant for us for the last few months was that we rode buses, cabs, and marshrutkas (basically van shuttles; quality varies)and sometimes walked. I don't balk at the tab-I pay the cab. It is a good 45 minute walk from the nearest metro to our "house in the country." He walks. But then he had a good idea. He could ride his bike into the metro in the morning, chain it up, remove the front tire, and ride back home at night. This seemed like it made good sense. Until he arrived that evening to find his bike gone. I'm not talking about a Huffy. This is a bike worth around roughly $600. Kind of a bummer.

He paid the piper (or cabdriver) that evening and came home with smoke fuming out of his ears. I didn't blame him. I didn't see any gaps in his logic. As he mulled it over in his mind, he realized that Russians don't keep trash. They pick it up. In fact, there are thousands of city workers whose exact job is to pick up trash. This is why we can readily litter anywhere in the city because someone will pick it up. For the record, I am not condoning or encouraging this behavior, just simply reporting truth.

Despite the bike chain, he figured if they saw the tire missing, they would assume it was broken. If it was broken, nobody would come back to claim it. If nobody came back to claim it, it was free game or trash.

The next day he took a friend to translate for him and they walked into a shop nearby where the bike was parked. The guards and receptionists were helpful enough and agreed to watch the security footage and call some of the groundskeepers. After several phone calls and explanations, they opened a closet and there was his bike! How crazy is that? Once they returned it to him, they chastised him for removing the wheel. Obviously, a bad idea in Russia. Next time, leave the whole bike so somebody doesn't mistake it for trash.

I thought of this little anecdote because I went grocery shopping yesterday. As I wandered through the aisles, I realized that shopping here has become easier for me because I just think like a Russian. Where are granola bars? By the flour, of course. What about the pretzels? Those aren't crackers so they go in the beer aisle. And my most recent favorite of all; Band-Aids. They aren't by cotton balls or hand sanitizer. I am proud to say I walked right up to them surrounded by condoms and tampons. I'm not sure I'll ever understand why exactly, but at least I found them.

You like it, we make it.

So today I took a new friend shopping at the supermarket. After my car being out of order for three months, I have it back and I was ready to assist a new-comer. We arrived at the store this morning to discover new ways to make old recipes.

As we meandered through the aisles, she would ask me things like, "Where do you get such-and-such?"

"We make it," I would simply say.

A few minutes later she would again repeat, "Where can I get..." and I would again calmly reply, "we make it."

I realized that I sounded like an I've-been-here-two-years-and-know-everything type of person, but it's true. If you like it, we make it. When I first moved here, I homemade chili. That's about it. I have always been a cookie aficionado, but meals were somewhat hard to execute. Now I make things beginning with a roux (that's a French word for butter/flour) including cream soups. I make my own bread, sorbet, and hummus. I don't balk at making Greek, Indian, or Asian food. My heart skips a beat when I think of my food processor, my rice cooker, or my crock-pot. Who knew?

So today, in the spirit of making things from scratch, I tried making soft pretzels. Oh-my-word! They were sooooo delicious. I invited an old friend to come enjoy them with me because she too appreciates the toil of our home cooking.

Though I still prefer things that come fresh from the farm, I found the complimentary side to the pretzels was melted Velveeta, which has no natural origin at all. I guess there are some things that can't be made.