Mall Day

I'm sure you already know by now that my husband is a government employee. Therefore, all of the fantastic special days are considered paid holidays. These include Washington's Birthday (thanks George) and this week's "Defender of the Fatherland Day", somewhat equivalent to our Memorial Day.

Since he was supposed to have two days off, we decided we should at least give the kids one day off of school and have some fun. For my amazing man, this meant the mall. He loves that place. I only wanted to go because of the stuff I needed at IKEA and because the kids had some Christmas money to blow. Plus, I knew it would include lunch which means slightly less time in the kitchen for me.

It was a seemingly normal Monday and the roads were moving well and freely. We arrived at the mall in very good time. IKEA was fun, as usual, and lunch was delicious and reasonably priced. Then we went into the mall to grab a couple of other things. When we passed a play area, we couldn't resist letting the kids run around for a little while. My hubby sat in a bench to supervise and I went to the OBI, the Russian version of Home Depot, for some blue painter's tape, a personal vice of mine. When I returned, we switched places so he could go check something out at another store.

While I was sitting there, a Russian couple came up to me and started talking. I could tell by their hand gestures that they were asking me to watch their stuff, and presumably, their kids. I explained kindly that I didn't speak very good Russian. They apologized and repeated, in English, "Vill you vatch our theengs? We need smoke?" What else could I say? I nodded and chuckled to myself. Their kids played around in the area and didn't even notice the absent parents. I grew up in California in the 90s when kidnapping was a really big deal. This was against everything in me to watch parents walk away from a public setting and leave their kids. But, this is Russia.

Next, we went into a store called Dyetski Mir, Children's World, which is like Toys R Us. Our kids were looking everywhere, eying the possibilities to spend their money. Four excited kids headed in four different directions. This always causes me a little bit of panic. Reasonably so. Over the loud speaker, in Russian, I could tell they were saying my name and the word for daughter. I started rushing around the store trying to find where the heck I was supposed to retrieve my daughter and which one had been found doing what? I bumped into my hubby on the way and he struggled to understand my peril. Just then, announcement number two came over and my family began to pop out of Lego and Barbie aisles. We eventually left the store, all six of us.

Manic Monday

I hope at the sight of this title you are humming a nice little 80s diddy by the Bangles. I know I am. For a scheduled, organized person like me, Mondays are great. I get to start a whole week over again. No mistakes. No limitations. Just seven days waiting to be filled with excitement. I forget sometimes that I live in Russia and in Russia, all plans are tentative, but certainly not concrete.

So I woke up on this particularly cold Monday and grabbed my grocery list because I was taking a friend to the store. Next time I will remember that if I wake up and it's -25F, stay home. The vehicle did not comply with the cold. Even though it was parked in a garage all night, that wasn't enough. I did what we always do in this situation; plug in a heater and turn on a shop light under the engine. It's amazing what 100 watts can do.

End result: No grocery store, which equals no bread, no produce, and no beer. No biggie though because at noon, we were going to some friends' house to shake things up a bit. The van didn't start then either. My dear friend was anxious to visit as well and so she and her four kids made the trip out to us. Her vehicle which was parked outside all night, started right up. Ridiculous, I know.

After a lovely couple of hours, it was time for them to go to music school where her eldest had a competitive exam of sorts. They were off and on their way with plenty of time to spare. Just moments after they left, a huddled group of five appeared in my doorway. They had only made it out of the driveway when their car started leaking gasoline all over the pavement. I ran out to the garage and my van started right up! Literally, a complete miracle. I drove them into town to get a taxi and went back home.

I'm sure I've mentioned we live in a gated community. Not just anybody can come right in. Therefore, I learned the word for tow-truck so I could call security and let them know who was coming. Mission accomplished. School was done for the day and I was ready to teach my Monday piano lessons a few houses down. Just as I headed out to teach, the tow-truck arrived. I had the key to the broken down vehicle and my friend told me how much to pay him. This was the easy part. It was when he asked for the registration to the vehicle and more money that made it complicated. He didn't speak English and my Russian is limited to grocery store terms.

So I called my friend and he called his friend. Simultaneously, we handed each other our cell phones. His friend on the phone is my friend's friend too so he says, "Hello, this is Sergei!" I was so happy to hear his voice. He explained I needed to give the driver more money. Well, geesh, that was easy.

The tow truck drove away and I went to my piano lesson. I was already running very late and so I gave lessons, ran home, and whipped up some eggs. Oh yeah, hubby had to work late. I shoveled some food into the kids' mouths and remembered that I told my earlier friend I would take her to the store tonight if the van started. I also remembered that I forgot to give Number 1 money for her gymnastics class that she was in right that minute. I started up the van again, went to the sports center and paid for class, and then on to the store. No big adventure there except when my overly-nice American friend tipped the grocery cart guy 500 rubles for helping with our bags.

Last week a friend who is stationed in Colombia sent us some chocolates and coffee. Somewhere during this crazy afternoon, I ate a couple chocolate covered coffee beans. I definitely got a good kick of energy but man, did I pay for that. I usually fall asleep instantaneously when my head hits the pillow. Not that day. I laid in bed and talked to myself until midnight when I knew there was a new day coming.

Beer Bread

I have made a decision. I'm going to post a recipe. I don't think it's a coincidence that my subtitle is a Russian saying about food. Before I lived here, I used dried garlic and onions. I cooked with things like canned chicken stock and frozen vegetables. I'm not saying that it wasn't okay. It's just different now.

The other day we went to church in -10 and sat through a 2.5 hour service. When we came home, I fell asleep in front of the fireplace and lost my whole afternoon. When I woke up at 5pm, I panicked because, of course, the small people still need to eat on Sundays. In some ways, I despise weekends because everybody in this family gets to kick back, do something fun, and relax. I suppose this is what working moms feel like. I revel in the joy of being so involved with my family, but sometimes I just want to punch out.

So I ran to the kitchen to get started. Usually in the evening when I'm cooking dinner, I wind down with a beer and some good music. Why should this day be any different? I popped the top of my favorite Czech beer and took a sip before analyzing the situation. Since it's pay-day this week, the fixins were pretty scarce. I looked it over and whipped up a savory beef and cheese soup with plenty of fresh cut vegetables. As I stirred the colorful mixture, I knew it needed something else.

Eureka! Beer bread. I grabbed another Staropramen and magic happened. Here's the recipe:

12 oz beer
3 c. flour
3 3/4 tsp. baking powder
3 TBSP. white sugar

Here's the tough part. Mix the dry stuff, add the beer, mix with a spoon, then your hands. Put it in a greased loaf pan in a 350 oven for 50 minutes. I was just kidding about tough. This bread smells amazing and tastes even better. The first time I cooked it I used 1664, a famous French beer, thinking that French bread is so good, of course French beer bread would be good. It was, but the kids didn't love it. This time, they asked for seconds.

I like cooking now. In fact, it's also part of my winding down. We still have our hot-dog and chip nights, but I've noticed they're fewer and farther between. Nothing brings a family meal together like some fresh bread. Try it, you'll be surprised.

Winter has finally arrived in Moscow. Last year at this time, we did not have the luxury of a vehicle so we stood at bus stops and waited in the subzero. We are more pampered now and accustomed to hopping in our warm shuttle to get where we want to go.

Earlier this week, my husband worked late and so he parked the van near the metro station. On his way home, the van began to overheat because the coolant had frozen inside the engine. It's hard for me to imagine anything overheating when it's 10 below, but whatever. Anyway, he ran a heater in the garage overnight, put a light underneath the engine, and covered the hood with a blanket to try to help it thaw. This worked successfully as I was able to start it easily and drive the next morning. However, when I whipped the blanket off the hood, remnants of the blue luxe remained in little clumps of frozen, fuzzy pockmarks which made the front of our van appear to have some type of venereal disease.

Our van is already easy to spot in public because we have a special colored license plate and we only wash it once in a while. This is because the local car washes charge 20 bucks and it's prohibited to wash your own car. Also, we were given a beater because our contract didn't allow us to bring an automobile with us.

That being said, the next morning I went to Bible Study. I just started attending with this group of wonderful ladies and I thoroughly enjoy their company and the study. But most of their husbands work for corporations who hire them drivers and cars for their goings-about. So as I was leaving I started up the growling, freezing engine of my mid-nineties vanmobile and made a three point turn. As I drove down the narrow driveway, I passed five, sleek, black, luxury cars, all with drivers waiting for the ladies to exit. But it was okay. I felt proud that I have the privilege of driving myself around this crazy city. I also felt proud that my friends are my friends because of me, obviously not my housing or my vehicle. I feel the same way about them.

Game Changer

I've had some recent requests for a refresher on the state of grocery shopping in Moscow. I have, during phone conversations, referred to the big box store Auchan as Wal-mart on crack, until I realized, I have no idea the effects of crack and if that parallel even applies. Well anyway. Here's the long and short of it.

My favorite day to grocery shop is Tuesday. This is not something new, I've always had favorite days. When I was a waitress it was Thursday. When I was in college it was Monday. Now that I'm a homeschooling, June Cleaver, it's Tuesday. I have my reasons. Traffic is less on that day (usually) and the store shelves are stocked better.

Anyway, I load up the kids at 9am into our van-mobile. We recently discovered there is a plug that comes out of the engine and if this is plugged into the garage wall, the heat takes about 60 seconds to blow hot into the interior. Russian winter has been very disappointing this year and has barely dropped below 30. I can't even believe I wrote that...

So we're in the van and we drive 19 kilometers which could take anywhere from 25 minutes to 1 1/2 hours. I pack snacks. When we arrive at the store, we have to pull two carts, both with four swivel wheels, and brave the jam packed aisles of food stuffs, pallets, and zambonis. There is no respect for rush hour and entire aisles are closed for forklift restocking. The air smells of fish. Not the good kind. We push, shove, grab, and forge our way to one of the 120 checkouts, each staffed, each with about 3 people in line. Whenever I check out--anywhere--the security guard comes over to stand at the end of the lane and observe. I'm so used to it, I don't even notice anymore. Now I just nod my head at him and load my stuff.

After loading, bagging, and reloading my monthly groceries on a belt the size of a yardstick and paying thousands of rubles, I sweat my way back to the van to load it some more. Sometimes the exit security guards search my kids. We return home, 4 hours later, after losing a whole day of school, and try to calm our frazzled, overstimulated nerves.

Obviously the title of this entry implies something exciting. There's a new grocery store in town. It's called O'KEY. I timed the trip. It takes 5 and a half minutes to get there, with only one stop light. There is ample parking, well lit, wide aisles, a children's play area, 60 cashiers, and all the products I prefer. To me, it is the difference of being at a private spa compared to a public squatty-potty.

When we used to shop at Auchan, we would lose a whole day of school and precocious Number 3 would moan and whine the whole trip. Today she said, "Can we go back to the store again tomorrow?" Today as I headed to my filthy mode of transportation, a cart guy helped me load my groceries into the trunk and then closed the hatch. I may have bat my eyelashes. I'm not sure if my life in Russia will ever be the same.

New Year in Moscow

A wise person once told me that whatever you love about your spouse while you’re dating tends to make you nuts later. For my husband and me this is true regarding his spontaneity. So this year, I got ahead of the game and pulled the sudden scheme of going to downtown on New Year’s Eve. Of course, I had been pondering this for weeks before I was ready to jump on it. He was geeked. We secured childcare and left the house at 6pm.

First we went to our friends’ house to share in some traditional food, fireworks, and festivities. The host had purchased a small arsenal of fireworks (no license needed) that were marked “Victory Day” which was celebrated back in May. Yikes! We burned a two-foot sparkler inside the apartment. Fire alarms didn’t go off. Come to think of it, I’m not sure they even have fire alarms.

Then we ate too much food. If it was an American New Year’s there would have been pizza, chips, sodas, and other greasy or food. For Russian New Year, we ate traditional salads made with dried fish, carrots, beets, and of course, mayonnaise. They sure love their mayonnaise! We also had an abundance of orange Fanta.

After desserts and coffee, we did something unlike any New Year I’ve ever celebrated. We watched TV together. This wasn’t any Times Square ball drop. This was 15 channels, each with fancy costumes, dancing, and famous performers lip-syncing, while words run along the bottom of the screen so you can sing along. The song, “Let it Snow” somehow isn’t the same in Russian, though I enjoyed listening to our friends sing it anyway. I’m told that even if you never do anything on New Year’s, you can sit in your living room with the television on and celebrate all night long.

Then out to the apartment courtyard for fireworks. Imagine a soccer field. Imagine it surrounded by four 22-story buildings. Then put a playground, a walkway, and an enormous pigeon coop in the middle. This is where we lit the fireworks. The men tried to read the directions in the dark while the women and children hid behind the garbage containers. There were Roman Candles and other hazardous materials but nothing more dangerous than our friend, whose occupation is break-dancing, trying to light the end which was covered with a plastic cap. After numerous tries, my husband removed the cap and assisted in the lighting. I felt like we were watching a video on youtube in action when there was a BOOM and several car alarms went off. This would never happen in the States, not without legal intervention anyway.

Then we went to the city center to catch the midnight fireworks. I have no idea how many people were downtown, but it was a lot. We walked around while people chanted “S No-vom Go-dom! S No-vom Go-dom!” It reminded me of the way I would shout for my Alma Mater at a football game. I had smuggled an American flag in my coat and got it out for a picture. This is just about the most scandalous thing I’ve ever done. I felt like singing “God Bless America” when midnight struck.

We walked to the metro and were pleasantly surprised when people were laughing and smiling. We tried on funny glasses and took pictures of each other. This was nothing like the work-a-day city. You could tell everyone was happy. We started encouraging our friend to do some break-dancing on the moving metro. We had a half-empty car and a captive audience. He reluctantly obliged and brought cheers and applause to the car.

We were told by our companions that it is important with whom you greet the New Year and how you are dressed. I was glad I wasn’t at home alone in my sweatpants.

The Unwritten Code

So now that it’s Christmas time and all the private school kids are on break, we seem to have more friends in the neighborhood with which to play. While this is wonderful, and certainly a big change from our usual homeschool group, there are drawbacks. The hard fact is that I that I have felt like the Wicked Witch of the West recently. Here’s why.

On Christmas Eve, we received some boxes from friends and family. Some were packed full of gifts and presents, and some with special treats for the kids. One in particular had some hard-to-come-by edibles that are special at our house. Namely: microwave popcorn, Kraft macaroni and cheese, and fruit snacks with absolutely no nutritional value. These came from a lifelong friend who knows exactly our hankerings on cold, blustery, Russian winter evenings.

My first mistake was to unload said boxes in front of neighborhood children and then display them neatly on the kitchen counters. My second mistake was putting them where little hands could reach them to kindly say, “can I have some?” I like sharing with my neighbors. In fact, it’s a common theme in our home especially among siblings who we should consider “neighbors.” I like bringing friends cookies, treats, breads, and the like. I do not like sharing packaged goods sent all the way from America, full of unintelligible preservatives, and wrapped in brightly colored wrappers. Don’t judge. Just try to understand.

Anyway, the other afternoon we decided to have a box of Macaroni and Cheese. We haven’t had a box of Kraft in 4 months. I just make mac and cheese the good ol’ fashion way; with noodles and cheese. Crazy I know! But this was the day after Christmas and it deserved something special.

At that time there were precisely 8 children in my home, including my own. When I said out loud, “I’m going to make macaroni” 8 hands went up with squeals of delight and “I’ll have some!”

I said no. I looked into their sweet, rosy cheeked faces and said, “I cannot share this with you today. It is a special gift from a friend. If you want macaroni, go home and ask your mother.” They put their hands down and said gloomily, “we understand.” Not to mention, all these kids have either been back to visit America for long periods of time or recently arrived in Moscow all together. My kids haven’t been stateside in 13 long months. Geesh, what a Grinch.

Anyway, I have taught my kids to never ask for coveted American items in someone else’s home. However, if another mother offers you some fruit snacks, you are welcome to accept. I’m sure there are all kinds of clauses and exceptions to this rule, but if I could post a sign on my door it would read:

Please don’t send your kids over here during the hours of when they are hungry and when they will be eating at your house.

I am trying to rectify the situation immediately. I ordered a case of mac and cheese and 64 fruit snacks from walmart online. Maybe next time the mail truck comes I can invite the kids over for an American food festival. Then again, maybe not.