Amy has a question and needless to say, she looks to me for wisdom and inspiration. As usual. Because apparently it’s not enough that I dispense life-enhancing advice on The Mouthy Housewives, now people expect me to turn over my personal space into solving their problems.
Whatever.
My daughter is moving to New Orleans where her boyfriend and his parents live. (And yes, there’s a shitload of angsty posts in there for me. Fun.) Here’s where you come in – they are RUSSIAN. He lived in effing Siberia until he was in 1st grade then they came here. His mom is a ballerina – effing kid-you-not. His grandparents are still in Siberia and they own a vodka — um – farm? distillery? factory? (I love vodka.)- and also a potato farm. It’s like I’m being dragged into the fringes of a fucking Tolstoy novel.
What advice do you have for me?
My advice, like my coffee, is bold:
Do everything in your power to forbid this horror. Best of luck! love, Marinka
Ok, so I have never dated a Russian man, although many have tried.
Another lie. I blind dated a Russian guy for approximately twenty minutes before I remembered that I was married. To a possessive murderer. Recently released from prison, but still filled with rage. And also that I was a lesbian.
Here’s what I know about Russian men, in gross stereotype form: They are nostalgic, a disproportionate number of them dabble in poetry and Yakov Smirnoff is one of them. There are many women who are married to Russian men and they claim to be happy.
Those are the women whose husbands live in a different time zone from their families. Oh, yes, Russian in-laws are lovely (just ask Husbandrinka! Right after he stops weeping and muttering “why didn’t I read Russians: Avoid at All Costs before marrying into this nightmare?”) but once you’re in their grip, you have to say good bye to fresh fruit and vegetables and prepare yourself for Russian cuisine.
Disclaimer: if you are prone to fainting spells or have a strong gag reflex, hit the back button now.
I am scared of the food. Scared scared. It’s the fear of the endless beet salads, the pickled foods. Because if you are in a Russian household, you and pickled food will be on a first name basis.
I present, the herring:
image from MyChoYce.com.
Why you averting eyes? That hurts feelings. The herring is friend. Possibly your only friend, because you will smell like herring. No more milk breath and margaritas, Amy. Herring breath and vodka.
And sweet (or pickled) lord, do not tell a Russian that you don’t like herring. Because they will convince you that you do and that the reason that you think that you do not like herring is because some Enemy of the People has fed you inferior herring and poisoned your mind against a perfectly beautiful meal. You will eat herring.
Then we have beets:
image from http://www.catering-boston.com. And your worst nightmare.
I think the stuff in the middle is carrots and the white dollops are sour cream. But I wish the color was less unhealthy looking.
and last but not least, there is the Salat Shuba (jovially translated on the website as “Fish in Fur Coat Salad” because I don’t know about you, but I personally can’t think of a more appetizing image!)
The salad consists of herring and beets and you’ll be having that with your morning coffee in no time!
Oh, don’t worry, there’s vodka. But you know what you have vodka with, right? What? No, not nuts and little munchies. Lard. Yes, LARD.
Mouth-watering, isn’t it?
All this and more, Amy, will be yours if your daughter plays her cards right. Congratulations.
And for a slightly different take, visit Vicki who is married to a real Russian guy. And apparently she likes it. Go read her response to Amy’s question. She wrote it over a morning bowl of Lard Krispies.
