3.31.2005
From Russia With Love
The boy is having a party. I'm making Borscht for the first time. The recipe is a carryover from my time in Boston, when I lived with a young Russian named Dimitri, or Dima.
I was madly in love with Dima. I didn't worry about ruining our easy living arrangement, didn't mind that he was gay, or that I was happily dating someone else. Dima was never home though, and that concerned me. Occasionally the place would smell of some food he made, falafel? Deep fried doughy balls from a boxed mix. I knew he cooked in the afternoons; otherwise he worked long hours modeling DNA replication, and practicing for an international piano competition.
Weekends were the only time to see him. When he woke, he'd play music, loud. As the piano concerto ended, he'd dash to the bathroom from his room with a blue beach towel about his shoulders. From the kitchen, you'd glimpse a skinny russian superman, little hairy behind peeking out from under his cape. The first time this happened, I turned and stared wide-eyed at our third housemate. She smirked and said, 'what, you haven't seen that yet?'
In the spring, I set up my chess board on the kitchen table and made my the first move. The next day, black responded. We continued this way for a month. One weekend, he knocked on my door and insisted we finish the game. I didn't have the presence of mind to lose. On checkmate he told me, 'I already have two addictions, mathematics and piano. I do not have the time to sustain another.' New house rule: no chess. Ever. I tried later, again, with NYTimes crosswords, but to no avail.
Dima's mother visited from Moscow for a week. She spoke no English and produced a steady stream of borscht. Beet red, carrot sweet, chilled and topped with dill and sour cream. She left us the recipe, in russian, and when I left Boston Dima translated it for me.
So, I will be making it for the first time for passover this year. Wish me luck.
I was madly in love with Dima. I didn't worry about ruining our easy living arrangement, didn't mind that he was gay, or that I was happily dating someone else. Dima was never home though, and that concerned me. Occasionally the place would smell of some food he made, falafel? Deep fried doughy balls from a boxed mix. I knew he cooked in the afternoons; otherwise he worked long hours modeling DNA replication, and practicing for an international piano competition.
Weekends were the only time to see him. When he woke, he'd play music, loud. As the piano concerto ended, he'd dash to the bathroom from his room with a blue beach towel about his shoulders. From the kitchen, you'd glimpse a skinny russian superman, little hairy behind peeking out from under his cape. The first time this happened, I turned and stared wide-eyed at our third housemate. She smirked and said, 'what, you haven't seen that yet?'
In the spring, I set up my chess board on the kitchen table and made my the first move. The next day, black responded. We continued this way for a month. One weekend, he knocked on my door and insisted we finish the game. I didn't have the presence of mind to lose. On checkmate he told me, 'I already have two addictions, mathematics and piano. I do not have the time to sustain another.' New house rule: no chess. Ever. I tried later, again, with NYTimes crosswords, but to no avail.
Dima's mother visited from Moscow for a week. She spoke no English and produced a steady stream of borscht. Beet red, carrot sweet, chilled and topped with dill and sour cream. She left us the recipe, in russian, and when I left Boston Dima translated it for me.
So, I will be making it for the first time for passover this year. Wish me luck.
