In Which Things Get Animated

Friends, family, and esteemed colleagues;

Welcome to another action-packed blog post by yours truly. Currently, it is a blustery night in Putin-Land, and I have just finished watching Lord of the Rings po-russki (Властелин Колец, or Vlastelin Kolets,) on Mama Masha’s 64-inch flat screen TV equipped with surround sound and shirtless men who feed you popcorn and jelly beans. (Naw, just kidding—it’s 10 inches and looks like it could have been made by Prince. It’s also located on the top shelf of the cupboard, which can be very painful to the neck and spine when watching a movie such as Lord of the Rings po-russki.)

Anyway, onto the topic du jour. For those of you who don’t know me, I probably seem like a pretty cool cat whose milkshakes bring at least 87% of the boys to the yard. For those of you who do have the pleasure of knowing me, however, you will know that on any given Friday, Saturday, or Sunday night (as well as any weeknight,) you can inevitably find me curled up under a blanket in my sweatpants and moose sweater with a block of cheese or salami whilst watching cartoons.

Cartoons are, in my opinion, one of the greatest joys in life. They’ve served as integral parts of our childhoods—any kid born from 1985-1995 knows that no get-to-know-you session is complete without a nostalgic look at some of the greatest 90’s cartoons (Rocket Power, Rugrats, Wild Thornberries, Doug, Hey Arnold…the list never ends. At least until about 2001.) In addition, I think that people watching cartoons are a lot less judgmental in terms of the overall weird-ness of it. Face it- what hasn't been done in cartoons? You can pretty much portray anything that your little heart desires. As some people (mainly I,) like to say, the only thing holding you back is your imagination, and your imagination has no limits. I can’t remember if I’ve used that on this blog before, but I’m particularly proud of this sub-par quote, so I probably have. 

Admit it--when you were six, there was absolutely nothing abnormal about this.

And let’s be real—there are some things in cartoons that you just can’t do with real people. I mean, there are some pretty good actors and directors and whatnot out there, but come on—Futurama? South Park? Spongebob Squarepants? There’s just no way you could have a man in Dr. Zoidberg makeup or a gang of eight year-olds screaming obscenities at each other on public television without giving heart attacks to the entire population of TV-watching 65-80 age group (which, realistically, is pretty much all of them.)

Now, I could go on and on about cartoons and their places in society and how I am someday going to reinvent the cartoon culture (okay, that’s probably assuming a bit much of myself,) but as this blog is probably boring enough without my ramblings, I’m going to get on to what I actually came here to talk about: Russian cartoons.

Like I said--just kind of unsettling.

If you know anything about Russian stereotypes and/or have read any of the cultural updates I’ve posted on this blog, you would probably guess that Russian cartoons (мультфильмы, or multfilmi,) are some of the strangest phenomena on Earth that seem like they could have been created by a bearded man named Muroslav who lives in a basement with his cat Igor and Igor’s toy mouse Boris. Well, I am here to tell you that you are 100% correct. And in my opinion, they are the greatest things to have happened to me since the invention of push-up toilet seats. There’s no way I could even begin to cover the frightening and slightly unsettling concept of Russian ‘toons in just one blog post, so I’ll cover the ones I consider to be the most important. Because I, of course, am the judge of all things important.

Let’s start with one that defines the life of every Russian student. If someone has studied Russian at all, I guarantee you that he or she has heard of Cheburashka. It's like Russia's national animal if the bear were to go extinct. In case you don’t know, which you probably don’t, Cheburashka (whose name literally means ‘tumbler,’) is a strange mouse-bear-I-don’t-even-know-what-they-were-on-when-they-drew-it animal that was found in a box of oranges by a scamming Russian man who sells—you guessed it—oranges. He takes li’l Cheb to the zoo, where he finds out that it is an animal “unknown to science.” Cheburashka is then offered a job as a kind of circus attraction (because really, what else could a creepy talking unknown animal found in a box of fruit do?) where he sits and waits for his prince to come.

And that, kids, is why you always buy local.

At the same time, we meet a homely and very disturbing crocodile named Gena (Гена) working at the zoo as a…crocodile. (I think the show wore out its creativity stipend in creating Cheburashka himself.) Anyways, Crocodile Gena is feelin’ somethin’ lonesome--probably due to his homeliness and overall disturbingness--so he makes a collection of fliers advertising himself as a “young crocodile who wants to find himself new friends.” Which, as you all know, is the third most successful and non-creepy way to meet people. Although he lacks the ability to read, Cheburashka somehow senses this, and he toddles on over to Crocodile Gena's home, where the two become best of friends and have a series of Soviet adventures. 

Along the way, they meet a series of crazy characters, the most prominently featured of whom is an old woman named Shapoklyak. Although she more resembles a senior citizen escaped from her nursing home, she is portrayed as a flamboyant and cunning babushka who likes to play tricks on people with a pet rat who lives in her purse.

Like I said before, I would bet my six-disc Lord of the Rings Collectors Edition set that every Russian student has heard of Cheburashka in some form. I am telling you, it's a cult that has transcended even to the government, as it has officially been announced as Russia's Olympic symbol for the 2014 Sochi Olympics. A few weeks ago, there was even a (hopefully satirical) article equating the Cheburashka characters to terrorists. And, of course, there's nothing I love more than some crazy cartoon fan theories that people like good old Muroslav and his pet cat Boris take way too much time to put together.

I was going to try and put together a picture of Putin with Cheburashka ears, but this one is much better.

For featuring one of the national symbols of Russia, the Cheburashka DVD is outstandingly jank, so there aren't really any episodes with English subtitles available. However, I will give you this fan-translated video of the pilot, as well as one of the greatest and distinctively Russian-nest birthday songs in existence. In case you're wondering, I've provided the literal translation. I promise that this is really as much sense as it'll ever make. The only reason I didn't make this a link to a page with the translation is because I think everyone should see this.

Let the pedestrians run
Awkwardly through puddles
And the water-- as a river on the asphalt
And it's not clear to passersby
On this unspecial day
Why I'm so cheerful

Chorus:
I play on the harmonica
For the people in view
It's unfortunate that birthdays
Only come once a year

A magician suddenly flies in
In a blue helicopter
And freely plays movies
He will wish a happy birthday
And will surely leave me
Five hundred Popsicles as a gift

Chorus

Now it's time to move onto what is really the cream of the crop: Hedgehog in the Fog (Ёжик в Тумане, or Yozhik v Tumanye.) I've provided you the link to a subtitled version of it, but in case you don't want to devote thirteen minutes of your life to it, this tummy-tickling children's tale goes something like this: a hedgehog, or yozhik, sets out at dusk to meet his friend Bear (медведь, or medved.) Apparently, this is a nightly tradition: Yozhik brings the jam while Medved provides a campfire and his bear-y goodness, and together, they watch the stars. You know how boys' nights out go. Anyway, we can see from the start that it's just not little Yozhik's night--judging by the look on his face, he is experiencing some sort of spiritual turmoil. Either that or indigestion--it's hard to tell with Russians sometimes. During his stroll through the meadow dividing his house from Bear's, he meets a white horse shrouded in fog. As any normal person would do, he begins to wonder how the horse is able to live in the fog without choking to death. So, of course, the next logical step is to go into the fog to find out.

Along the way, it becomes clear that he is indeed experiencing spiritual turmoil and not indigestion. In a flurry of action, he is chased by an owl, a dog, and an assortment of unidentifiable birds until he falls into a river. Instead of scurrying to make his way out, he thinks to himself (and these are his actual words:,) "Well, I'm might as well let the river carry me along...I'm totally soaked. I'll drown soon." During this time, his indigestion-spiritual-turmoil expression never leaves his face--he literally does not give a flying wombat that he's drowning. However, a mysterious creature saves him, and from this he somehow figures out the meaning of life and goes to Bear's house to eat jam and watch the stars.

A snapshot of pretty much every date I've ever been on. Hopefully you can guess who the bear is.

Normally, I try to dig a little more deeply into seemingly depressing works to find a happy meaning, but truth be told, I really can't piece this one together. Oh, well; it does seem to explain a lot about why Russians turn out the way they do.

Now, when I see a page full of fifteen-minute cartoon videos, my first thought is, "Why wouldn't anyone want to devote their entire nights to watching these?" However, as I know that most people have lives, I would understand if you grow tired of my cartoon ramblings and want to leave. You now have my permission to leave the page. If you are one of the two who want to read on (aka Mom and Dad,) here are some more for you.

Ну, погоди! (Nu, pogodi! or 'Just you wait!'): the Russian version of America's "Tom and Jerry." In it, a chain-smoking wolf chases a cross-dressing hare in the hopes of making it his meal. A lot of people (particularly government officials of the time) believed that the creator was supporting struggles between the working class and the intelligentsia (the wolf being the 'working class' and the hare being 'the intelligentsia'), as well as the promotion of gay rights (occasionally, the wolf would give the hare flowers, and, as the Russians say, "Menly men do not give of flowers to menly men friends."

Okay, I don't really count this as Russian animation, but it's only two minutes long and strangely riveting. I guess when you live in a practically sun-less place and continuously bottle up all feelings of happiness, you get...this. Enjoy.

To the creator's credit, this probably only cost about $2.00 to make.

Okay, last one, I promise. One genre of animation that particularly fascinates me is animation used as propaganda; it's one of the phenomena that sparked my interest in the subject in the first place. Caricature versions of famous figures are always interesting to see in paper mediums, but when you give them movement and voice, it adds a whole new depth, and, in my opinion, is much more influential to the crowd. It's my belief that we connect more with cartoon characters than we do with, for instance, characters or actors in films, especially when it comes to children. The USA itself (mostly through Disney and Warner Brothers,) has created well over fifty propaganda cartoons--most having debuted during the Second World War--using some of the world's most beloved and well-known animated figures. For instance, did you know that before working with Michael Jordan in one of the 90's most beloved movies, Bugs Bunny sold exploding ice cream bars to unsuspecting Japanese soldiers nicknamed "Slanty-Eyes" and "Monkey-Face?" 

Face it, Golden Age Bugs Bunny cartoons are enough to give brain hemorrhaging to pretty much every conservative suburban mother that ever sat in on a Parent-Teacher Association meeting.

Or, for that matter, would you have guessed that Donald Duck laid down after a long day of making Disney magic happen to dream of working as a Nazi in one of Hitler's bomb factories? (Actually, a lot of people took this cartoon (In Der Fuehrer's Face,) as a declaration of Walt Disney's anti-antisemitism and Nazi views; while he did hold these opinions, the segment itself was actually commissioned by the government as a WWII propaganda piece. True, the image of Donald screaming "Heil, Hitler!" for the first nine minutes may be a tad misleading, but he vindicates himself in the end by waking up in a pair of stars-and-spangles pajamas, hugging a miniature Statue of Liberty, and saying, "I'm so glad to be a citizen of the United States of America!" Or, as it sounded in his voice, "AhhshhoglatbeeashitishenahthUnaht'dShtatshhofAmair'ca!") 

You can probably see why some people took this the wrong way.

AMURR'CA

Now, I could write at least five other blog posts on American cartoons, but sadly, that is not what I am here to talk about. The Soviet Union produced significantly fewer WWII propaganda animation pieces than the US, but this was mostly due to the extreme hardships faced by Russians during the war that were not present in America. In fact, from 1941-1943, союзмультфильм, or soyuzmultfilm-the company that produced most Russian animation- was relocated to Uzbekistan. After the war, they began to more actively produce propaganda cartoons, this time directed at the evils of American capitalism. I'll include a link to one, since it's beautiful and incredibly-done, but as I don't want to stir up no hard feelings, I'll just post some of their greatest WWII pieces. 

This one, Кино-Цирк, or Kino-Tsirk (Kino Circus,) depicts a rather flamboyant Hitler in three different situations. I really hope you can figure out the meaning yourself.

This one is perhaps even more obnoxious than the previous, but I still think it's well-done. Anyway, the title sounds pretty boss when read in a Russian accent.

Well, I think I've said far enough for now. Only nine days until I come back to the true Motherland, or until the end of the world. Perhaps the two are correlated. 

In Which I Have Titillating Adventures

My beloved people;

I would first like to apologize to all of you avid readers whose thirst for Russian knowledge has gone un-quenched during the past month or so. It turns out that the crazy party atmosphere of Rovaniemi, Finland was just too much for my body to handle, and I have thus spent the past week with an ear infection somethin’ fierce and screaming in an elderly fashion at the young Russian hooligans to speak louder so that I could attempt to understand their mockery.

So, here’s the down-low: as you would probably rather work a bake sale with Nicholas Cage than read about every excruciating detail of my travel week, I’m going to pick out a highlight or two from each of the places which has had the opportunity to be blessed with my presence. I will also include some fun and colorful pictures for all the visual learners who are overwhelmed by the sheer amount of text.

The first destination was the magical city of Kiev, Ukraine. Unfortunately, as I am the last to know about anything ever, and also due to some technical difficulties in the life of Alyssa Lindley, I was too late to sign up for the evening flight and was thus put on the “God’s not even awake yet” plane (aka 7:30 am on what is possibly the most questionable airline of all the questionable airlines there are in Russia.)

It's a good day to die.

 Nevertheless, the Little Russian Plane that Could struggled on, and we made it to Kiev to find ourselves greeted by boxed lunches of hamburgers, Coke, apple pastries, and hard boiled eggs. I may have swallowed a small Ukrainian child in my ferocious eating frenzy.

Unfortunately, we were only given about 22 hours in the city before boarding an overnight train to Moscow, so although it was quite beautiful, it kind of passed in one tired, borscht-filled blur. Churches (many churches) were explored. A hill was climbed. Delicious food was consumed. In general, merriment was had. Here are some pictures.

In which I try to get artsy but fail as I suck at all things photography-related.

Probably one of the most interesting experiences we had was in the catacombs, which are still active and open to worshipers  We and what seemed like about two hundred others were lead underground into small tunnels containing the dead bodies of saints and monks. While it was a struggle to make my way through hallways that are not specially designed for the horizontally-challenged, I managed to endure without injury to myself or others. Most people carried candles to light the way; I don’t think they trusted us Americans to hold anything with a flame on it, so we simply relied on others’ firelight and our imaginations. Apparently an American girl’s hair caught on fire, so perhaps it was good we weren't given candles.

Add 20 pounds and a bigger block of cheese and this would probably be the most accurate picture of my time in the Catacombs.

On another, more serious  note, my group and I had the privilege of visiting Kiev’s amazing Museum of the Great Patriotic War (WWII.) Growing up in America, we've always kind of learned that it was the good ole’ U.S. of A. who won World War II. In Russia, though, people think differently; I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been asked during random encounters with Russians, “So, we hear that in America, you think you won World War II!” (Okay, I probably can tell you—it’s around four. Maybe a few more since my comprehension abilities at the beginning of the semester resembled those of a cow with a concussion.) Now, I’m not saying that’s not true, but I’m also not saying that it is true—in the end, I think it was a combination of the efforts of all the Allies. Except for France, maybe; France was kind of like that alternate on the basketball team who sits on a bench the whole time but still gets to go to awards ceremony when the team wins the championship. At least, that’s my humble opinion expressed through my professional analogy-writing abilities. In any case, the museum did allow us to see one of the world’s most devastating wars through the eyes of someone else; a change of perspective can be helpful sometimes. However, I'll hop on off the soap box, as some would say.

At about 5 pm, we boarded our overnight train to Moscow. As I said before, my body is somewhat sensitive and would probably be the first to go in the case of a world epidemic, so I was almost immediately hit with motion sickness. The conductor, who didn’t seem to actually be conducting anything, seemed to take a special interest in our group and attempted to entertain us with a teething ring whose origins are still unclear. At one point he tried to put it on my ring finger. The wedding is occurring next month; save-the-dates will be sent out posthaste.

Me and my future husband. Sorry about the calves/thighs.

In all seriousness, though, Moscow was actually pretty incredible. I say “actually” because, to tell the truth, pretty much everyone I talked to about it beforehand said it was big, gray, kind of grim, and incredibly Russian. But you know what? I think it’s time to bring back a little segment that hasn’t been seen by the likes of this blog in a while. That’s right—it’s FUNformation Time! In case you aren’t familiar with Russia’s geographical history, Moscow was first referenced in 1147 by a little man named Yuri Dolgorukie. This, as you hopefully know, was the country’s capital until an even littler man by the name of Peter the First (Пётр Первый, or Pyotr Pervii,) came along. If you remember one of my earlier blog posts, he was the very same rapscallion who collected fetuses in jars and hammered out sticks of iron. Along with his unhealthy obsession with pickling, Peter had a certain liking for European culture and, when he became tsar, completely reinvented the Russian capital (which he immediately moved to St. Petersburg.)  Consequently, St. Petersburg is now known as the “Venice of the North,” and decidedly “European” (or at least, it wants to be. It can talk to me when it does something about the hordes of old women in head scarves trying to sell me strings of dried fish off the back of a truck.) While it was helpful for Russia to change up the routine a bit, it meant that a kind of cultural division formed between the two cities; those who like the European style tend to prefer St. Petersburg, while the people who do things the Russian way enjoy Moscow.

Perhaps what I was expecting.

Now that that’s done, or now that you’ve gotten bored and started to look up videos of adorable chinchillas doing tricks, let’s move on to some descriptions of Alyssa’s Titillating (Moscow) Adventures. The Red Square, which was the setting of Soviet and soldier parades and is the home of St. Basil’s Cathedral, was absolutely beautiful. Naturally, we talked loudly in English and took the most touristy pictures possible. These touristy pictures follow.

At one point, my friends and I were unknowingly pulled into a National Unity Day ceremony in which we laid red carnations on the steps of St. Basil’s. While we are not actually Russian, I hope the all-seeing Putin forgives us and smiles upon us for being culturally appreciative.  Pictures follow.

Aside from that, we visited churches (surprise, surprise,) parks, monuments, a few too many souvenir stands, some museums, and, of course, the all-powerful Kremlin. In case you don’t know, the Kremlin is like Russia’s Great Wall of China, except a tad smaller and occupied by Rootin’ Tootin Putin and his band of merry men (aka Prime Minister Medvedev.) Much to my sadness, we did not get to meet the world’s most unsmiling president (he was probably nursing his back back to health after flying with the cranes,) but we did get to see a museum with dresses and glass eggs and carriages and weapons. Also, in case you’recurious, here’s a link to 50 pictures of Putin being a badass. Don’t get me wrong, I’d take Barack over Vladimir any day, but I bet you’ve never seen a shirtless Obama riding a horse or posing next to a tiger in camouflage. However, Barack does get some brownie points by being able to take family pictures in which he doesn’t look like he wants to jump off a cliff.

Here's one for the Christmas card, Svetlana!

I won’t spend a long time talking about Finland, but I would like to let you know that I met the real Santa Claus. Our conversation went something like this:

Us: Hello!

Santa: *silence*

Us: So, how are you, Santa?

Santa: *more silence* Where are you from?

Us: Oh, we’re from America. You have a lot of presents here! Any of them for us?

Santa: Do you know who’s going to be the next president?

One of the last remaining parts of my childhood died that day. I also fulfilled my life-long dream of riding a sled pulled by the majestic beasts we call huskies. As my friends thought it was too cold, I trucked it out solo and spent the afternoon rolling euphorically on the ground with a kennel full of puppies. I think even the woman in the crocheted dog sweater pitied me a bit. Also, on a side note, I discovered Finnish cheese. This photo depicts how I spent the remainder of the trip:

Other than that, my vacation in the party capital of the world was pretty calm. We visited an awesome museum, went on a day-long hike, drank some of the most delicious hot chocolate ever made, ate at what is supposedly the Northern-most McDonald’s, watched Balto, and saw the Northern lights. Pictures follow.

Well, I suppose that about sums up my travel week. Sorry about taking so long to put it up; I know all of you were checking the internet at least seven times a day to find out what’s going on in my oh-so-exciting life. I promise the next one will be more exciting and more prompt—thanks for reading! And to all my American friends/family, see you in a few weeks!

PS—on a side note, it’s been snowing here like the Abominable Snowman in a dandruff commercial. 

My walk to school.

PPS-- 

What is love?

In Which Things Get Creepy

Howdy ho, y'all! And for that matter, HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Hope you enjoyed the fancy colors. Anyway, this is gonna be a wee bit short since I still have to pack for my 12-day adventure to Moscow, Kiev, and Finland, but I figured that I'd get in the spirit with one last post before I embark on my snowy journey through one of the most questionable Russian airlines of all time. So let's get this party started with one of the strangest and most disturbing concepts of the Russian culture:

Baba Yaga (баба яга)

Now, don't go thinking that this is just some old lady in a pink track suit who can throw a really crazy party, cause this is what she looks like:

Also resembles my flirty face

Now that I've got your attention (maybe,) let me tell you a little bit about this looker. I like to believe that we all have a little bit of Baba Yaga in us, but maybe that's just my bitterness about life acting up. Basically, Baba Yaga is a very old woman who lives in a house with hen feet in the middle of the woods. When it's not doing some sort of special chicken dance, the house is surrounded by a fence made of human bones, poles with skulls on them, servants, and men riding on horses. If a passer-by asks about the riders, she will gladly explain them; if the passer-by asks about the servants, she kills him. No explanation exists as to why this is. When she's not in her chicken house, she's flying around on a giant mortar (yes, as in mortar and pestle. Because who wouldn't choose that as their primary source of transportation,) kidnapping and eating bad children. In the past (and maybe even now,) Baba Yaga was used by Russian parents to prevent their children from becoming little hooligans. So in other words, she's like the Russian Santa Claus, except your reward for being on the nice list is that you get to live.

She's climbin' in your windows, she's snatchin' your people up

If you would like to learn more, you can find the poorly-translated legend here. 

Happy Halloween, everyone! Sorry again about the pitiful length.

In Which I Eat Everything

Dearest Readers;

Well, here I am again, sipping away at some Russian "coffee" at a cafe where the lights have just been dimmed and a mullet-clad waiter is setting romantic candles on the table. It's okay. Who needs romance when you have Mama Masha waiting for you in the nude?

Let me tell you a little bit about how that came to be. So, the other day, I waddled in the door after a day of Russian Adventures. As I am a growing girl, I was famished, so I decided to go and ask Mama Masha if she could start dinner.

So, I go into the family room where she's watching TV, thinking that nothing would be especially out of the norm. Because it's the family room, right? And unless you're a nudist clan, you'd probably be inclined to keep your clothes on in the family room. At least, that was my thought process.

Nope.

I walk into the family room to see Mama Masha spread out starfish-style on the sofa, staring at the ceiling with a contemplative look on her face, like she's really thinking about something. Also, there is not a single piece of clothing on that woman--she might as well have been one of Jack's French girls. Hearing me come in, she turned her head, and we made eye contact. After several very uncomfortable seconds in which no words were exchanged, I booked it out of that room as fast as my small feet could take me. And that was my Saturday night.

In case you don’t know what Mama Masha looks like, just picture your grandmother in a wig plus twenty pounds. Also without clothes. Anyway, now that I have placed that image in your head, let’s move onto a subject that has remained very near and dear to my heart since my first days out of the womb:

FOOD!!!!!!

I know this has already been used, but I figured that it could pretty easily be applied.

Before I got here, I was planning to let the creativity pour and do “A Week in the (Russian Food) Life of Alyssa Lindley,” but that dream was quickly snuffed out when I discovered that most of Mama Masha’s meals consist of nothing but cabbage and hot dogs. So instead, I will create a blog post dedicated to “An (Imaginary) Week in the (Russian Food) Life of Alyssa Lindley,” in which I can fulfill my long-running fantasies concerning an all-you-can-eat blini buffet and dancing men in tights. So, without any further ado, let’s get this party started.

Monday

Breakfast: We will kick the week off with some kasha (каша,) which is basically like oatmeal but better. As my eating habits resemble those of Paula Dean, I tend to (and by ‘tend to’ I mean ‘only’) eat it with butter and sugar. (On a side note, Russians LOVE butter. Aside from the happiness and diabetes, Paula Dean has everything it takes to be a top-notch Russian.) If you’re one of those crazy kids who’s too cool to stay in one place for too long, you better make kasha your new BFF, because there are about nine varieties. And I’m not talking flavors—I mean varieties. The oatmeal-like consistency of kasha has proved to be optimal for me, as it slides easily down my throat and allows for me to eat it with two spoons at once while Mama Masha continues to pour more into my bowl.

Who wouldn't be able to resist this?

Lunch: It’s time for buterbrod (бутерброд,) y’all! Buterbrod technically means sandwich, but if you have a steady relationship with your triple-deck provolone and roast beef sub with extra mayo and pickles, don’t come to Russia, since a Slavic sandwich generally consists of a slice of bread, cheese, maybe ham, and, of course, dill. In my time here, I have grown to become one with the buterbrods and now eat them on a daily basis. Last Friday, as I was in a bit o’a’funk, I made a trip to the produkti and bought a hunk of cheese and bread, intending to make some buterbrod. I spent about half an hour sitting on my bed in my underwear eating my hunk of cheese. The bread remained untouched. It was not a proud moment.

My general expression when I see buterbrod.

Dinner: IT’S CULETS AND POTATO TIME, CUTLETS AND POTATO TIME! That was to the tune of Peanut Butter Jelly Time, in case you just thought I was going crazy with the caps lock. I can’t think of a good way to describe cutlets, so I will just say that they are like the Russian version of meatloaf. Like meatloaf, it’s hard to tell exactly what the meat is, but I like to think that it’s that of the small trembling Chihuahuas that pretty much run the city of St. Petersburg. Realistically, it’s probably chicken. Or something. Potatoes are potatoes; I don’t think you need an explanation. However, I will leave you with this clip from Everything is Illuminated, which is quite the comical book/movie and comes highly recommended by me.

Tuesday

Breakfast: Omelet. With a lot of butter. As mentioned before, Russians seem to eat a lot of hot dogs, so naturally, my omelets are often filled with them. I usually slurp down some green or black tea, as well. I burn my tongue roughly 9 out of every 10 breakfasts. Perhaps someday I will learn. 

Snack: Although I eat a breakfast too large for any normal human being to finish, I’m usually hungry within an hour. If you are one of the wonderful people in Group 3, then you are probably all too accustomed to the sight of me waddling in (late) to our second class with a cup of hot chocolate or coffee with whipped cream and a yogurt or tvorok (творог)-filled pastry. (Tvorok is a Russian dairy creation that looks like cottage cheese but feels and tastes a little drier. It can be sweet or savory. Naturally, I prefer it sweet.) I’ve done it probably every day since we’ve been here, and I do not plan on stopping. I even heard one of my comrades, while purchasing a (significantly smaller) cup of coffee, say that she was “pulling an Elle” and bringing a drink to class. I’ve never been prouder. I have yet to learn the Russian word for whipped cream, so usually I just say “Coffee with…” and follow it with frantic swirling motions with my hand. I should probably learn the word for it one of these days, but at this point my good friend Nadezhda knows my order by heart (JK LAWLZ Nadezhda actually hates me.)

Dinner: Macaroni and cheese. And by macaroni and cheese, I mean noodles with shredded cheese on top. I’m never truly pleased with the cheese-to-noodle ratio (the perfect one is 17:2,) but hey, cheese is cheese and I will take what I can get. I finish it up with a cup of black tea and some strange gelatinous apple treat.

Wednesday

Breakfast: More kasha and YOGURT! However, this is no ordinary yogurt. This is yogurt made from the tender love and care of Mama Masha and canned strawberries. Also, it’s not actually yogurt. In Russia, there’s this special milk-dairy-yogurt-maybe substance called Kefir (кефир) that I drink pretty much by the gallon. They actually have it in the US; it’s slightly Americanified (and by Americanified I mean that it comes in birthday cake flavor,) but it’s still a pretty decent treat. Mama Masha usually makes mine with strawberries. I don’t exactly know where she finds these strawberries, since I have yet to see any actual strawberries in the house, but I have learned not to question Mama Masha. Or Russia in general. Kefir has the consistency and appearance of thick milk, which is unfortunate when you confuse it for actual milk and pour it on your cornflakes. In my opinion, it tastes kind of like frozen yogurt.

Another how-can-you-resist it Russian delicacy

Lunch: Borscht (борщ). Lots of borscht. If there were an America’s (Russia’s?) Next Top Soup Model, borscht would take the prize and the six-page 17 Magazine spread, because it’s actually the most beautiful soup I’ve ever laid eyes on. Also, it’s scrum-diddly-umptious. It’s made from beets, beets, meat (beef), assorted vegetables, and beets. A lot of people mix it with sour cream (Smetana, or сметана,) but I prefer to mix sour cream with borscht. Also, bread (khleb, or хлеб.) Russians prefer to eat this dark rye bread that weighs as much as a newborn baby goat. If bread could go to school, Russian khlep would be that kid who took up the whole hallway and pushed America’s wimpy white bread into lockers and gave it wedgies. In other words, it is also scrum-diddly-umptious.

Another half an hour on Paint.

Dinner: Well, I might as well devote a section to cabbage (kapusta, or капуста.) If you recall from one of my earlier blog posts (I assume all of you are loyal followers whose sole purpose of using the internet is to check my blog,) Mama Masha recently bought about ten cabbages which covered the table and windowsill. Well, this week, we ate them. All of them. Just the two of us. This past Tuesday, which was a particularly bad day, I came home from school, put on my pajamas (naturally,) and shuffled on into the kitchen in the hopes of finding solace in a delicious and carb-filled dinner. What did I get instead? Ketchup-soaked cabbage, a cabbage salad, cabbage-filled bread, and two hot dogs. I actually cried. I kid you not. We now only have half a cabbage left. I plan to throw an hors d’oeuvres party when it’s gone.

Thursday

Snack: As Thursday is a pretty tough day to get through (10 am to 5 pm, including 1.5 hours of my literature teacher Vladimir Shatshev and another 1.5 hours with my tsivilisatsiya teacher who hates the world and has a large gap in his teeth,) my friends and I sometimes make a trip to the ever-faithful bar. While I wish to drown my sorrows in vodka, I usually treat myself to an embarrassingly girly cocktail and some garlic-fried bread. The Greeks say that the food of the gods was nectar and ambrosia, but given their “go hard or go home” attitude, I like to think that they finished up their hearty dish of offspring with a plate of this delicious Russian treat. It’s basically strips/short slices of black bread soaked in garlic and fried and covered with more garlic. Health freaks may wrinkle their noses and shake their heads while nibbling on some kale chips and drinking carrot juice, but you know what? I am too busy stuffing my mouth with this fried delicacy to justify myself.

ERMAHGERD BRERDSTICKS

Dinner: Creamy mushroom soup and пелмени, or pelmeni;. It’s kind of like ravioli but smaller and filled with meat (again of the mystery variety.) This isn’t my favorite dish, but unfortunately, it’s Mama Masha’s. She covers it with sour cream, but I prefer mine with butter. She actually scolds me when I ask for her to leave off the Smetana, but whatever, I do what I want!

Friday

BLINI. The crème de la crème of Russian food (I was going to say “the golden goose of Russian food,” but somewhere my instincts were telling me that wasn’t an expression. If it is, then it’s the golden goose of Russian food.) For those of you who have somehow missed my many explanations of blini, it’s basically a bread that’s somewhere between an American pancake and a French crepe. Also, it’s delicious. Mama Masha has promised me a feast of blini at 9:00 am tomorrow, and I get the giggles just thinking about it. It will take me some time to fall asleep tonight. People generally eat breakfast blini with jam and Smetana, but really, you can put pretty much anything you want in blini. The only thing limiting you is your imagination, and your imagination has no limits. (I made that up. I am quite proud.) Sladki (сладкий,) or sweet, blini can include chocolate and bananas, Nutella, condensed milk, jam, or sweet cream, and savory blini can include ham, cheese, mushrooms, cabbage, Smetana, or chicken.

Me every day of my life:

Sorry about the large gap; I couldn't figure out how to change it without removing everything else from the page. Well, that's about it for now. I took a Russian cooking class, so I'm going to put some pictures up from that. We made borscht, blini, and some kind of pie. It was delicious. Most of the other students had two blini and one cup of soup; I had four blini and two cups of soup, plus a blini to go.

 There you go. Goodbye.