Just a Normal Saturday, Chez Beet

I sort of over slept this morning and didn't wake up until 7:45. So by the time I made coffee for The Spouse and sort of tidied up the kitchen, I didn't get out the door to the gym until after 8:00.

Swam my 40 laps, came home, grabbed three slices of bacon The Spouse saved for me, and we all went out to look at the May 9/Victory Day festivities.

The Spouse and the girls had been watching the action on the teevee. I especially love it when the guys get to stand up in the convertibles and zoom around Red Square. Which is closed to commoners today. You gotta have connections or be some sort of VIP to get tickets.

We did catch the end of the air show just outside our door.

Then we walked over to Tverskaya to see the last of the heavy armaments returning from Red Square. Last year we got there early and watched the whole thing. It wasn't much different this year (I heard they added a few more of each item), and frankly, I don't find the parade all that exciting. (Where ARE the Shriners with their tiny clown cars?) But the people watching was first rate.

Skittles got a good seat. I focused on the building across the street.

It has some incredible detail, complete with hammers and sickles and stars.

I gave Baboo the camera for a while since she squirmed her way to the front. Here's a picture she took.

I liked Dude here. Like a Good Russian Husband, he's holding his wife's pink jacket. Probably her purse, too. (Really. They do that.) Notice the orange and black ribbon of Saint George on his flag.

Everyone was taking pictures.


Okay, now I'm going to be catty. This pretty girl was wearing a white halter top with green stars. Like all halter tops, it was backless. But because she felt she needed some support, she also wore a white bra with little red hearts. It was cleverly disguised by her black sweater. Meow.

Lots of people had Russian flags.

Here you can get an idea of the crowd. The parade was over, and people started crossing the street. But the police kept asking them not to.

But they did it anyhow.

Including the police! Or maybe he was a military guy from the parade. Looks like Green T-Shirt Dude might be carrying a beer.

Pretty soon it was chaos. The cops just gave up.

So we walked home. Look how green it is in front of our building now. There are several beds of tulips over by the grocery store.

Since all I had for breakfast was my few slices of bacon, we decided to go to our favorite Ukrainian place for some vodka. I mean lunch.

That's when it all got sort of weird. First, Skittles began to suffer from one of her debilitating headaches. She confessed that she had been feeling bad earlier and had taken some medicine (one adult Advil, which is the dose I usually take for minor issues). But it wasn't working. She began to look more and more pained. I had finished eating, so I gave The Spouse some money and took her home. I gave her something stronger, closed the curtains, and put her in our bed.

The Spouse and Baboo returned shortly, but later than I expected. Baboo scampered immediately to the shower. The Spouse stuck his head in our room.

"It went down hill suddenly," he said.

"Huh?"

"Baboo suddenly declared she was going to vomit, so she put her hand over her mouth and ran from the restaurant," he said. "I don't know what happened exactly, or where, but I found her on the street in front of our building covered in pink puke."

Oh. Yeah. We had raspberry mors at lunch.

So next thing I know, both girls are sacked out in our bed.

Baboo said, "I felt remorse." Groan.

I got shoved out.

Crooky found a paper bag.

The Spouse had a little nap on the sofa.

Cat-O decided to catch 40 winks under the laundry rack.

Yeah, you heard me right. And this photo IS from today. Ladies and gentlemen, that is clean laundry drying in my living room. I've done three loads now.

May 9 really is Victory Day.

Now, in that mysterious way kids have, both girls have made a complete recovery. I thought they were eating Kit-Kat bars in their room. Cuz, like, they're hungry. But it seems they have finished their snacks and moved on to playing with my makeup in the bathroom.

Make up and chocolate.

Good thing the washer seems to be working.

Hot Fudge Brownies

By popular demand. Just this once. I am not The Pioneer Woman.

My non-Pioneer Woman pictures are here. Also the credit.

For those of you who have been following the saga of my washing machine, if I understand the situation correctly, Washer Repair Dude has been on vacation. As I snarkily put it to The Spouse, "You mean Dude is off to the Seychelles or Sochi or his dacha? While I have spent the entire week sitting in my apartment, afraid to even go see Lenin's tomb for fear I will get a call saying he'll be at my door in 20 minutes? Is this what I am to understand?"

The Spouse thought I was taking the narrow view.

But I digress. Note that I tried to accommodate North American and European cooks. This is why I have a scale and a calculator in my kitchen drawer. Also, I rely heavily on page 621 of The Martha Stewart Cookbook (1995) for her conversion chart of "Equivalent Imperial and Metric Measurements." Once, in Vienna, I saw on the fridge of a fellow expat, an imperial/metric conversion chart, courtesy of her local international women's club. Verily I say unto you now: this would be a good club fund-raiser. hint hint

But I digress again. To make these brownies, you will need

2 cups walnut pieces
4 ounces/112 grams unsweetened chocolate
1/2 cup/1 stick/112 grams unsalted butter, room temperature
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract (I used about 5 packets of vanilla sugar and considered it part of the sugar, below.)
2 cups sugar (I used mostly Demerara since I didn't have enough plain old regular white sugar. If you don't know what Demerara sugar is, don't sweat it: just used what you call sugar.)
4 large eggs, room temperature
1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour (I have no idea how to say that in Russian. I just used the normal flour I use for all projects.)

The recipe says to preheat the oven to 350F. My oven has gas marks. I do everything at Gas Mark 5. I have no idea what that means. Also, I was making a Spanish recipe for chicken that required a very low, slow oven. So I turned it down to Gas Mark 3 for the chicken and then turned it up for the brownies (without removing the chicken) and then turned it back down . . .

Now do you see why I am loathe to type in these recipes? It's not so straight forward.

I used a 9-inch square glass baking dish. You metric types are on your own here. I molded aluminum foil around the outside of the baking dish leaving the foil long enough that the sides overhung the edges of the dish (this enables you to remove the brownies later). Then you are supposed to take the foil off the bottom, turn the dish over, and arrange the foil inside the pan. Since all I can get is crap-quality European foil that tears when you look at it, I used two layers. If you are using proper American Reynolds Wrap, one sheet is certainly sufficient.

Gently grease the foil with a little vegetable oil.

Arrange the walnuts in a single layer on a baking sheet. Bake the walnuts 6 to 8 minutes, until lightly toasted. Set aside to cool.

Melt together the chocolate and the butter until just a few lumps remain. I used the microwave. The recipe says to use a double boiler. I'm not getting into techniques here. Stir the chocolate until it finishes melting. Scrape the mixture into a medium bowl, and let it cool about 5 minutes. By hand, stir in the sugar/vanilla, salt, and then the eggs, one at a time. Mix with a minimum of strokes, adding each ingredient just before you have completely incorporated the previous one.

I took a little of the 1 cup of flour and tossed the walnuts with it, a trick I have seen the Barefoot Contessa do to keep nuts from sinking in batters. Stir in the remaining flour, mixing lightly again, followed by the flour-tossed walnuts. Spoon the batter into the prepared pan, and smooth the surface.

Bake for 32 to 35 minutes, until the top looks just slightly set and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out almost but not quite clean. A little chocolate should remain on the toothpick. Do not overcook the brownies--when they really look done, they'll be too dry. I set my timer for 25 minutes and then checked every 5 minutes after that until they reached the right consistency.

Cool the brownies in the pan. Remove them from the pan by pulling on the foil ends, then pull the foil off and cut the brownies to your preferred size. They will be messy to slice.

Dust with powdered sugar if you wish. Serve with ice cream, whipped cream, clotted cream . . . as you prefer.

Now, I have to go because (a different) washing machine guy is here. Really.

Update: As told to me via The Spouse, who talked to Man Friday, who talked to WRDII by phone. The hose was old. WRPII used glue. Don't use the washer before tomorrow. I can't read the receipt and did not hover, so I don't know if he patched the old hose or replaced it with a new one. The adventure continues . . . tomorrow.

When the Going Gets Tough

Heard a ROAR overhead this morning while I was posting my previous whinge-fest. I've seen this show before!



All week there have been rehearsals for the May 9 parades. The ground troops/equipment rehearsed one evening earlier this week. You can see good shots of that here.

Then it was time to get some serious mood-altering done. Skittles helped me make these:



I used a recipe from this book. A wonderful gorgeous friend sent me this when we lived in Argentina. It is a great sampler of classic American dishes. The kind Mom used to make.


Take that Dr. Atkins! Chocolate is a vegetable, you know.

I Am So Sick of This Topic

Really I am. But it is consuming me.

A few weeks ago, I put the bathroom rug into the washing machine and set it off on its merry journey.

When I returned and opened the washer door (as the "I'M LOCKED!" light was off), a sea of soapy water splashed out on the bathroom floor.

WTF?

I slammed the door and turned the dial to what should have been "SPIN ME," but the washer simply commenced to fill (with more water) and agitate.

Sort of like how I'm agitated now.

A call was placed to the landlords' Man Friday. (Our landlords live in Shanghai, so the fact they are Americans and speak English doesn't really help me at times like these.) Man Friday arranged for Washer Repair Dude to come the following day.

In the interest of not wasting WRD's time, I drained, teacup by drippy teacup, the water that was in the washer. This involves opening a little valve on the front of the machine and right at floor level, a design that makes it impossible to put any reasonably-sized container underneath in which to collect the water that seeps out. The polar ice caps are melting faster, I swear.

Tired of squatting on the floor like some indigenous woman, I opted to hunker on my children's red, plastic IKEA kid chair between the washer and the bathroom sink, crying because I was so annoyed with my life.

Yes, I know the world has deeper levels of suffering. The big problems I can cope with. Swine flu? The economic crisis . . . which caused me to elect to forgo a trip this school break and spend more time getting to know Moscow? Bring it on.

But a malfunctioning washing machine is my Achilles heel.

I could only fit about a third of a cup of water into the little plastic IKEA faux-Tupperware container I was using and even then twice that amount of water would leak down the sides of the machine and onto the bathroom floor.

It took about 45 minutes and three bath towels to drain the water.

Now I had a sopping wet IKEA bathroom rug and matching towels. I put the rug in the bathtub and hung the towels so they would not drip on the floor.

WRD arrives as scheduled the following day. The Spouse returns home for the appointment so I do not have to try to mime concepts like "It won't drain" or "I think the dial no longer matches the function it claims to perform." He diagnoses a defunct pump, replaces the pump, and leaves.

I wash the bathroom rug.

I wash the towels that had been on the floor.

I wash a load of children's underwear.

The Spouse, stepping into the bathroom to brush his teeth says, "HEY! Why's the bathroom floor all wet?"

And so it is. Soaking wet and running out into the hall onto the wooden parquet floors.

This is late on Friday. He leaves a message for Man Friday. On Sunday, Man Friday calls The Spouse to inform him that WRD will come Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday of this week.

Meanwhile, a cat poos on the newly cleaned bathroom rug. I clean it best I can with a combination of paper towels and the detachable shower head. I put the damp rug on our balcony to await the return of my functioning washer.

Monday comes and goes. No WRD.

Every time I walk into my bathroom, I am struck by the lack of a rug. Showers now involve setting a small, not-so-liked towel on the floor so whomever is in the shower does not have to step out onto a cold tile floor peppered with scoopable cat litter. In desperation, I even price bathroom rugs at a home store at my closest mall. At Evrodom, I can have an ordinary polyester bathroom floor rug starting at about 3,000 rubles (33 rubles = $1US these days). Yup. Something that would cost me $15 at Target, and be a designer piece to boot, will cost me nearly $100 here.

I opt to suck it up.

Tuesday comes and goes. No WRD.

Yesterday, Wednesday, around noon, when I still had not seen WRD, The Spouse called Man Friday who told him, via a bad phone connection, "Balaka balaka balalaika by five o'clock."

We interpreted this to mean that WRD would be at our door yesterday by 5:00 p.m.

But, alas, it was not meant to be.

It is now Thursday. Monday is a holiday in Russia (although my kids have school Monday). If WRD does not come today or tomorrow, my children, who have patiently spent the second week of their already underwhelming school vacation at home watching SpongeBob reruns on TV while I stay close to home in case WRD says he's on his way, will return to school in dirty clothes and underwear I will have been forced to wash out in the bathtub.

Moscow does not believe in laundromats.

I have received several kind offers from fellow expats to bring over a load. I have turned them down each time thinking "relief arrives tomorrow." Now I have so much that needs to be washed, I cannot winnow it down to one emergency load. Plus, do you really want me over at your house for the three to four hours needed to wash and dry a load of laundry? In my current mood?

I think not.

And ANOTHER Thing!

Could not, for the life of us, figure out why The Spouse's mother had not thanked us for her Mother's Day Tribute yet. I mean, c'mon. Surely her flowers were delivered on Saturday!

Sunday: nothing.

Monday: still nothing.

Maybe Grandma has died, we start to wonder. She's dealing with the funeral. But surely, someone else in the family would have called.

Internet issues? Possibly.

Maybe the lousy florist lost the order. Unlikely, however, as it's a small town, and they know us.

The Spouse finally calls her yesterday afternoon. Did you get your flowers, he asks.

His mother informs him that, no, she did not receive any flowers. But since he ordered them for Mother's Day, they'll probably come in time for Mother's Day. Which, in the US, is NEXT Sunday.

Oops.

We'll this is what happens when you live in the Twilight Zone. Russian Women's Day is in March. UK Mother's Day, which we would see ads for on TV, is in the fall sometime, I think.

I swear, I thought Mother's Day was the first Sunday in May.

I had been cursing the nerve of FTD as they kept sending me email reminders about ordering flowers for Mother's Day.

"Good God, people!" I kept thinking every time I saw another email. "It's over. OVER! Move on."

My mother, to her credit, said "Thank you so much," and never batted an eye about my being a week early.

No Cookies for Me

The new little cat is in heat. It's made her very chatty. Thankfully, she's not yowling, minx-like or shouting the feline equivalents of "Fuck meeeeeeeeee!" It's more like the patter of a Patpong hostess: "Hey G.I. Five dollar, five dollar?"

The kids are getting fed up.

The Spouse, Cat-O, and I all slept with our hands over our ears last night, huddled in our bedroom as she did cat antics all around the house, commencing around 0300. She had a bead or some little piece-of-plastic-kid-toy and moused it all around the apartment, stopping now and then to chirp, "Five dollar? Five dollar?"

My own gynecological adventures took an interesting turn this morning when I arrived at the clinic across the street for my Annual Look-See.

While I never embrace this event as something great fun, I had as good a time as can be had when I used to visit my doctor in Vienna. That office was feng shui-ed and aromatherapy-ed within an inch of its life. Smelled of oranges. There were always cookies, GOOD cookies, in the waiting room. And the nurse/receptionist, a pretty young woman who embodied all the characteristics of a Great Girlfriend, would offer you tea.

The first time I went there, it was so unexpectedly nice that I cried.

My office of choice here is okay. Mostly it is okay because it is across the street, and they offer not only an OB/GYN, but dentists, an orthodontist, a general practitioner, and now they even have a shrink. It's a French office, although they speak Russian and English there, too.

The GYN I saw there last year was a man, one of the owners. He was professional and competent. But he lacked charm and humor. Charm and humor are qualities I require of people to whom I am about to show my goodies. But maybe that's just me.

So when I called last week to schedule a visit, I was not at all sorry when the receptionist on the phone scheduled me with what sounded like a woman. Although I had had a very Soviet encounter with a woman GYN at another clinic shortly after arriving in Moscow, I was willing to take my chances with this roll of the dice.

Long story short: she was very nice. Sweet. Kind and gentle. My age even (always a plus lately . . . I prefer someone who understands the hormonal roller coaster ride that is the late 40s).

But she doesn't speak a word of English.

She speaks French and Russian.

So I had to mentally thrash around trying to find the words I needed in French. I can do the OB/GYN in Spanish. Skittles was born in Argentina, and my doctor there spoke no English. But I hadn't ever done this in French.

She spoke slowly and clearly. But I couldn't remember how to say things like "worse." (I could only remember "better.") And I got all tangled up in numbers.

Her: "How many days since your last period?"

Me: "FORTY-EIGHT! I mean TWENTY-EIGHT. I mean TWO WEEKS. Merde."

I finally had to just point at her calendar. I was hopeless.

Everything under the hood checked out, but I didn't even try to cover topics like
"Am I slowly losing my mind?"
"Is it normal to burst into tears without provocation?"
"Is it me? Or is sex not quite as much fun anymore? I'm not doing anything differently."
"Why can't I stop scratching?"

Actually, I did venture into the itchy skin discussion, and we determined that it is not hormonal as I still have plenty of those. But the best we could come up with is maybe I should check with the GP about that. Or just bear with Moscow's famously hard water. Or moisturize more.

The bill for my morning's entertainment? I thought they said "2,000 rubles" at the front desk, so I started to pull out cash. The receptionist, sensing she had not communicated, turned the receipt around for me.

12,375 rubles. That's $375 at today's rate of exchange. Itemized it was as follows:

Consultation: 5,400 rubles/$166
Gynecological ultrasound: 3,600 rubles/$109
Pap test: 2,700 rubles/$82
Some other culture I don't recognize: 675 rubles (and a bargain at that $20.50)

I know it's not fair to compare markets, but I used to pay my Austrian guy 80 euros plus another 12 euros or so for the lab work.

Cookies included.

Not for the Sake of Glory

Weather: 25C/70F, cloudless blue skies, warm and slightly breezy. Very nice.

Movies: Last night I saw (actually, "stumbled upon" is a better description) I'm Not There, the Bob Dylan bio-pic, which, while enjoyable, was very confusing. I had to read about it today, and then it made more sense. But, wow . . . Cate Blanchett is something else in it. Also saw Sleuth, with Michael Caine and Jude Law. The reviews are lukewarm, but I liked it a lot. But maybe I just liked looking at Jude Law for 86 minutes.

Washer/Dryer Repair Update: Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday. My money is on Tuesday morning at 10:30 a.m. because that's when I have a doctor's appointment. This is starting to get critical, and not just because I am running out of socks and underwear. Baboo decided to shake up a bottle of Skittles' Coke today while we were out in the detsky (children's) park behind our building. Sticky Coke all over. Oh, and this morning, as I toddled into the bathroom, I discovered a cat had pooed on the bathroom throw rug. I cleaned it up as best I could (and then put the rug out on the balcony to await Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday). But ew. . .

Some seasonal photos of Moscow for you. The following four photos are of posters celebrating the May 1 and May 9 holidays.

Below is one for May 9 (obviously). Sorry about the shadow on the left, but there was a tree . . .

May 9 is Victory Day (День Победы or Den Pobedy) in Russia, and celebrates the defeat of Nazi Germany. I finally learned the significance of the orange and black ribbons, which I noticed all over during the holiday last year (I even have one, although I have no idea where I got it).

On our trip to Dmitrov, I asked the tour guide about the ribbon, and she explained that it symbolizes the Ribbon of Saint George, a medal originally given to those who participated in battles by Catherine the Great. The orange and black symbolize the fire and ashes of battle.

The poster above was displayed next to the one below, which is for May 1. The rest of Europe, probably the world, celebrates May 1 as International Workers' Day. But in Russia, it is Spring and Labor Day. The poster says Happy Holidays of Spring and Labor.

Bonus points for the Beet-nik who can answer "Where did the May 1 Labor Day holiday originate?" If you answer "USA," you are correct and have won the people's admiration forever. And, for our non-American Beet-niks, note that in the US, we celebrate Labor Day on the first Monday in September, far removed from any pesky associations of labor activism and the radical left.

Another May 9 poster. The one I have not gotten a photo of, and really is my favorite, is one where the ribbon is shaped like a dove. I see that one in the Metro, but haven't seen it on the street.
But this is my very favorite poster for May 9. The text reads, "VICTORY . . . not for the sake of glory, but for the sake of life on earth."

"For the sake of hyperbole," muttered The Spouse as he translated these for me.

Since I was out and about, I finally got some pictures of a "mall beneath the street." This is the closest one to us. Now there is a pet supply store there, which is handy. I also buy nuts from a little shop down there. On a Sunday, most of these businesses are closed but in other parts of the city, that might not be the case (near my gym there's one, and more shops were open this morning as I walked by).

Here are the machines where one can pay bills. I use them to put credit on my mobile phone and to pay for the cable/Internet service.


Angels and Demons, in theaters starting May 14. Can you see where it says "Tom Hanks"?

Spring/May holidays mark the beginning of the flower season in Moscow. Everywhere you turn, the City is making every effort to beautify.


I don't know what these little birds are, but they are cheeky and very fun to watch.


This is the vegetable truck near us. It is right in front of our grocery store. Even it got a fresh coat of paint. Honestly, I saw a guy slathering black paint on the wheels. The truck never moves; I doubt if it even can anymore. The Coke cooler in front has a May 9 poster on it, too.

How Many Summers? How Many Winters?

Temperature: 15C/60F, but cloudless, blue skies.
Currently Reading: Russell Brand's autobiography, My Booky Wook. He's an enfant terrible, but very charming. I loved his character in Forgetting Sarah Marshall. The book is voyeuristic, addictive, mind candy. I'm loving it.
Functioning Washer/Dryers in My House: None.

I now have a gym membership and said gym has a pool. Yesterday morning I went and swam 30 laps (40 = 1 km). I would have done more, but it was my first day doing anything active since, oh, last August? And I was sort of on the clock because I had arranged for us to take a day trip with a tour agency to a little town called Dmitrov, which is 40 miles/65 km north of Moscow.

The tour consisted of the four of us; a nice lady from Switzerland; Lena, the guide; and Viktor, the driver.

Lena and Viktor's argument/discussions were perhaps the best part of the adventure.

When we all got in the van at the beginning of the day, Lena told Viktor to pull over at the first "magazinchik" (little magasin or store . . . like in French) to get some water for the journey. Moscow streets are lined with little kiosks selling various things. Viktor complies.

Lena: "It's a flower shop!"

Later, he seemed unclear about where we were heading. She said, "I beg you. Don't be difficult. We're going to Dmitrov!"

Ah, Dmitrov.

Originally, I had planned to spend this three-day weekend on a whirlwind tour of Tver-Torzhok-Novgorod. In the end, however, I balked at the $1900 price tag. Yes, it was basically all-inclusive and for four people. But I wasn't convinced I would get $1900 worth of fun out of the project. Perhaps if Viktor drove . . .

In addition, while I haven't done much traveling outside Moscow (indeed, other than a short jaunt to Star City, I have done NO traveling outside Moscow. Unless you count trips screaming to the airport . . .), part of me has always darkly suspected that I have already experienced the world outside Moscow when I explored the world outside Bratislava.

Which, at least in terms of Dmitrov, turned out to be the case.

There's no infrastructure in Russia. Seriously. There are no real highways connecting cities. In fairness, Slovakia also lacked a complete cross-country highway. And even England does not have highways all the way from Winchester to Cornwall. But England does have proper highways connecting its major cities. Correct me if I'm wrong, but Russia does not have a decent highway connecting Moscow and St. Petersburg.

Oh, the weather is lousy, people say. You can't build decent roads when winter lasts 14 months a year. The ground's always freezing and thawing. Rivers of mud. Even if there were proper roads, it's not safe to be out there in the middle of nowhere in Russian winter weather: a breakdown could be lethal.

But somehow Canada manages.

Okay, that was snarky.

My point is that Dmitrov reminded me of Piestany or Pesinok or even Banska Bystrica. Places I've seen in Slovakia.

Dmitrov dates from 1154. Insert my favorite joke here: "I know, because I was in 1155, and the noise kept me up all night." My children just roll their eyes when I do this, but I can't help myself.

Here's the main square. You can see the statue of Yuri Dolgoruki (Yuri, the Long-Armed), founder of Moscow (in Moscow there is a statue of him on a horse on Tverskaya ulica). Yuri's son was born here, and the child's patron saint was St. Demetrius, hence the name. You can also see the earth ramparts that surround Dmitrov's kremlin.

The Spouse and Yuri.


Another shot of the ramparts. The church is the Cathedral of the Assumption (1509-1523).


We saw a very nice little museum that had not only artifacts from the region (clothing, tools, and even an entire wooded house), examples of locally produced crafts (tin toys, glass beads, bone handles, gingerbread stamps, and braids and decorative upholstery trims), but also World War II memorabilia (in 1941, the German army was stopped near here in the Battle of Moscow).

Here is the 14th century Borisoglebskiy monastery in Dmitrov. On the side of the church are Boris and Gleb, the first Russian saints.


On the way to the monastery, Viktor seemed unsure, and Lena was giving him directions, "No, not left! Go straight! Park where you parked before."

Viktor: "I've never been here before."

Lena: "You brought us here before."

Viktor: "How many summers? How many winters?"

Lena: "Last year!"

When we got out of the car, Viktor suddenly said, "How long will you be? Save me a sausage!"

Lena: "I don't have any."

We ate lunch beneath this monument to the heroes of the Battle of Moscow. It was on a hill in Peremilovskaya, a small village outside Dmitrov. It overlooks the Moscow Canal, which connects the Moscow and Volga Rivers. This was a Stalin era project, and, like the Metro, was built with the cheap labor or "golden sweat" of the gulags. The Borisoglebskiy monestary housed a local gulag HQ at one point. Very grim stuff.


This little dacha was behind the monument. The words next to Lenin's picture say "He lived. He's alive. Will he live?"


Survival was front and center in my mind as Viktor drove us back to Moscow in true Russian style. This involves roads with only a loose sense of lanes and a certain careening from the left to the right side of our half of the road. Wheee! He also had a tendency to brake before obstacles like railroad tracks and then SLAM on the brakes right before we crossed causing everyone to LURCH forward. This eliminated napping.

So as a result of my swim and the hypnotic swaying of Viktor's minivan, I was tuckered out when we got home. My darling children took this flattering photo of me and my cat.

At least you can't see me drooling.

Locks of Love

Today we went to Tsaritsino. My virtual friend has great photos of it here.

Actually, while I liked it and I will go again, she makes it look better than it was. To me, anyhow.

But, that said, we did notice something . . . Russian-y, as my kids would say. I had never seen this before.

Rather than carving their initials on trees, Dairy Queen picnic tables, or car dashboards, Russian lovers who wish to demonstrate the strength of their relationship purchase a lock, lock it to something, and then throw away the key.

At Tsaritsino we saw locks on the bridge . . . this one is for Svetlana and Sergei.


And on the wire in the photo below . . .


And on a gate in the palace . . .

It's rather popular.

Beets and Boots

I am a hypochondriac. You should know this about me.

My latest ailment, real or imagined, is that my liver is not right. Well, let me rephrase: sometimes I think I am aware of my liver. As an organ.

Hence the spate of online "Am I an Alcoholic?" tests.

Okay, it seems I am not an alcoholic by anyone's definition, although I do look forward to it and am willing to start by myself.*

*I should clarify also that no one else thinks I am either. It's not like I have been taking convoluted routes home so as to avoid interventions or something. And all the expat types I have floated the idea to just laughed and laughed.

What I stumbled upon, though, while googling ways to improve my liver's happiness is the one food that seems to come up tops on everyone's list of Things to Eat for a Healthy Liver.

Beets.

Yeah. You read that right.

Beets.

Isn't that an interesting little bit of culinary trivia?

In a complete change of topic, I figured out something else the other day.

The Spouse has a shoe that needs to be fixed. It's a sewing thing, not a gluing thing or else I and my tube of Handy-Dandy Super Glue would have already come to the rescue.

But he needs something to wear while his shoes go off to some yet-to-be-determined shoe repair place.

He was going to buy himself a new pair of shoes on Monday while he was in Bratislava because he knew where to go. There's a nice, big Bat'a shoe store right by the Tesco in the center of town, and he could just blow in there and buy himself a pair of dress shoes.

Except he didn't. He ran out of time or something.

Oh, and he also broke his shoe lace.

So on Wednesday, the girls and I were on our way to his office (a shirt emergency had arisen). Coincidentally, the street we were on, Nikol'skaya ulitsa, which is just off Red Square and which he walks down every day on his way to the office, is lined with shoe shops.

And shoe repair kiosks.

Which sell shoe accessories.

Like shoe laces.

I found myself standing in front of one such kiosk. The shoe-related items were all displayed on the outside of the structure, which is a small, telephone-booth-sized affair. With a sliding door. While I was selecting my shoe laces (they only come in two lengths, shoe-length and boot-length, although you can choose from a wide assortment of colors), I was aware of the shoe-repair guy (cobbler? shoe smith?) inside his little booth, pounding away at the sole of someone's shoe. It was a sunny day, but cold. He had his door shut.

He realized I was prepared to make my purchase and slid open his door to collect my money (30 rubles for a pair of the shorter, shoe-length laces, in case you are pricing the market).

That was when I realized that the shoe he was fixing belonged to a woman who was sitting, knee-to-knee, in the tiny booth with him.

AH HA! This is how it works!

You don't need a back-up pair of shoes. You go to the shoe repair guy, you sit there in his little booth, making chit-chat, perhaps having a cup of tea or instant coffee, while he fixes your shoe right then and there.

I cannot, for one moment, imagine all 6'6" of The Spouse, folded up in a telephone booth, knees practically to his ears, while he makes idle chit-chat with the nice Tajik shoe repair guy.

The mind reels.

I'll close with a little Paolo Nutini because I've been humming this song lately, and he's just so damned cute.

Back-to-Back Aeroflot Plugs

When The Spouse flew to Bratislava this week, he discovered that The Beet Goes On has been in Aeroflot's in-flight magazine for two months in a row! I tried to upload scans of the magazine pages, but for some reason it didn't work.

If you are interested, the sections they highlighted are below.

In March they included this from here:

"Do you know why there are no stained glass windows in Russian Orthodox churches?" Skittles asked me as we walked home from school this afternoon.

I had never thought about it, actually. But now that she's mentioned it, I don't recall seeing much stained glass here.

She learned in school that the traditional Russian Orthodox churches felt it was inappropriate to create holy images on something breakable. This is partly why icons have so many layers of paints, says she.

In April they featured this quote from here.

The little street that leads to the store is quiet, but suddenly two cars come racing towards one another. They reach each other at a point where cars are parked on both sides, forcing them into a Mexican standoff. As I approach the street, neither one gives to let the other through.

I cross the street, watching to see who will back down.

They are still sitting there, nose-to-nose.

I get to the trash dumpsters at the end of our "driveway." They are still sitting there, staring each other down.

This is one of the many reasons I do not drive in Moscow.

While the magazine is, sadly, not online, an "inside source" tells me their circulation is 500,000. It is distributed to economy class passengers on Aeroflot (and Aeroflot-Nord and Aeroflot-Don . . . ). Still. I'm very pleased.

While in Own-Horn-Blowing-Mode, I might also point out the Blogger's Choice Award badge in the upper-right corner of the page. If you are so inclined, you can click on it (or here) to vote for my blog. You can only vote once, and you must register to do so (sorry), but it is a bigger and better-respected contest than the one I was in before. I'd be much obliged.

Not much else to report. It's still very cold here, but sunny. A Loyal Beet-nik made a comment about how we have gone directly to Sleep-Deprivation-Season as the days are already so freakishly long. It is weird given how wintry it still is.

Oh, and none of the online quizzes I have taken this week think I am an alcoholic. Always good news.

Happy Earth Day

Current Temperature: My thermometer says +3C. But the Internet puts Moscow at -4C. Maybe that's out by the airport. In any case, that's not Practically-the-Merry-Month-of-May Weather. Although, in fairness, and stop me if I've said this before, but I distinctly remember shivering in line at the movies in Pittsburgh one spring (this would be . . . oh, maybe 1993 . . .) waiting to see something with "the incomparable Gong Li," and muttering "Global warming, my ass."

Jour de Cowboy Update: Skittles reports that the hamburgers "had mayonnaise and pickles and vegetables you could not scrape off."

Baboo was only slightly appeased: "Yeah, but you got frites, didn't you."

Skittles, "Oh, yeah. And they were good."

Sharing Is Caring: Do you know about Warren's Sausages? Because if you live here in Moscow, you should. I had the Spicy Thai ones yesterday, and they were, indeed, VERY spicy. But I think my favorites are the Classic Chipolatas.

Yeah, their website is a mess. Sorry about that, but it's not my website. Sometimes I can't seem to find anything in English, and other times I can. I can read the product names in Russian if I must, but it takes too damn long. Today, I was able to see the order form in English, and linked it here for you. But that's not always the case. Oh, and the two times I have ordered these, the delivery was serendipitous, but not at all when I was expecting it. But that pretty much describes everything about Moscow.

Doesn't sound like much of a product endorsement, but, really, it is.

I Have a Theory: The reason I sat down to write this post at all was because I was struck by this idea yesterday.

It has come to my attention lately that, socially, we are running (if what we do can be called that) with a distinctly younger crowd. These people are roughly 25 to 34 or so. Obviously, some of them are women (and very cool ones . . . I cite Mirka, from Slovakia, as a prime example). But it seems to me that the ones I interact with most are men.

Very young men.

Let me state now, and for the record, that there is absolutely no hanky-panky going on here. No flirting. These are attractive men, but it just doesn't have that vibe. And, no, in spite of the fact I draw gay men to me like moths to a flame, my gay-dar isn't picking up anything.

For example, Adorable French Guy always calls me to arrange an outing. Even though he knows The Spouse and has his contact information, too. Last week he called and asked about The Spouse even. "Do you want to talk to him?" I asked. "Non . . ." and he went on to suggest a museum.

Why does he want to talk to me?

My first thought was that maybe I'm sort of Acting Den Mother. All of the reassurances of Mom with none of the guilt. Because being an expat is tough work, even if you are young and resilient. At least I hope I don't remind him of Mom. Ew. Although I don't really want to be Mrs. Robinson either. Double ew.

But one of my good friends and fellow expats suggested something I like better. She theorized that maybe the "younger ones" like to have older, married women friends because we're totally non-threatening.

Like gay men are for us? Eureka.

I'm clinging to that idea anyhow.

For Those Who Are Following This Saga: My back is feeling a little better today. I am counting the minutes until my gym membership kicks in, and I can go swimming every day.

Twice? The Spouse brought me a copy of Aeroflot's April in-flight magazine, and my blog is mentioned there. Page 214. It was in the March issue, too. Хорошо!

Misery Loves Company

It's snowing. I wore my down-filled coat today.

Why on earth would so many people end up living in a place with such lousy weather? I mean, really.

Please don't tell me how lovely it is where you are. And stop sending me photos of your beach vacation/flower garden/backyard barbecue. I don't think I can take it. The Spouse called me today from Bratislava to tell me how nice the weather there was. He was genuinely thrilled.

I started to cry.

Oh, and there's a street dog corpse in the alley in front of the kids' school.

Baboo is crushed because tomorrow (Tuesday) is Jour de Cowboy in the school cantine. This is the one day out of the school year that they will serve hamburgers. And on Tuesdays she eats a packed lunch because she's at the other school.

Everybody's mood is merde.

The Eggs and I

"Do you mind if I blow the eggs?" I asked The Spouse yesterday. We were in the kitchen, and he was making the Traditional Weekend Pancakes From Scratch for the children.

When he finished spluttering in his coffee, he said, one eyebrow raised, "Why, of course not. It makes the eggs so happy."

grumblegrumblegrumble

I had this brainstorm because the girls wanted to decorate Easter eggs, but, remembering vividly my own childhood, I was loathe to boil up dozens of eggs that we would then either

1. have to eat at every meal for the next week

or (and this was always worse)

2. discover, mummified but redolent of sulfur nonetheless, months after Easter.

I had never blown eggs before, but it wasn't that hard. I took a corn-on-the-cob holder, which has thin spikes, and used that to poke a hole in each end, making one slightly larger than the other. Then I just blew hard on the smaller hole while the contents of the egg squirted out into a bowl.

The girls put the wrappers on the eggs. I put them in a bowl, and then poured a kettle of boiling water over them.

The wrappers magically shrank right onto the egg shells. Et voilà.

The happiest eggs in town.

My Life Is Definitely Weird. But in a Good Way.

First, I have to ask: what's up with this? Is it really what they say it is? I'm . . . speechless.

I also need to point out this article, as sort of a follow up to my own Cosmonautics Day report. Disappointed. Really.

And third (and then I really will stop, I promise), it seems our Deirdre Dare has had her own issues with Jack recently. For the record, I published mine first.

This morning The Spouse had a conference call at 0800. Nothing so weird about that, you say. Except in Moscow, offices get going around 10:00 (and the work day lasts until 7:00 p.m.). This meant I had to take the children to school today.

So I did. I dropped off Baboo. Then I dropped off Skittles. I strolled over to the grocery store near the school where I scored two of these. Well, not this brand, but you get the idea. I got the only two in that store. They go in these. Which may or may not ultimately be responsible for my future dementia. Certainly won't be the vodka.

Then I slowly ambled home, taking a new-to-me route. Just because. It was cold this morning (we could see our breath), but sunny. The world felt good.

I put away my groceries. I did the dishes. I turned on the computer. And saw this email:

Can I buy you a cup of coffee on Friday if you are free. I am in Moscow for some hours and just thought it might be nice to try the meeting someone from online. I just don't know Moscow and rather than sitting reading in an airport or wandering around aimlessly, I thought I would try this.

We can swap expat wife stories or just drink.

It was signed by a woman who I knew from one of the expat forums, but had never met. By now it was probably around 10:00. I sent her an SMS, and we arranged to met outside my Metro station.

And I'm so glad I did. She was the nicest woman. Lives in a town about three hours by plane from Moscow. While I was happy to have a coffee with her, since she hadn't really ever seen anything in Moscow, I told her, "Let's go see Red Square."

So we did.

Below is Lenin's Tomb. If you can read Cyrillic, you can see L-E-N-I-N spelled out along the top. Above the name is where the Russian heads of state used to stand for parades. If you ever saw any of those photos of those serious old Cold War Communist guys, that's usually where they were standing.

Along the right side of the tomb, against the wall of the Kremlin (That crenelated wall? That's the Kremlin.) you can see two busts. You cannot see that there are also plaques along the wall. All those old Soviet leaders are buried along there (except Yeltsin, but including Gagarin). Unfortunately, you are not allowed to get close enough to see anything.

We went inside St. Basil's, the interior of which is more beautiful and jewel-like than Sainte-Chapelle.


I don't know why I had never done this before. It was easy. By that, I mean the ticket booth and the entrance were easy to locate and easy to manage.

Here's my friend, taking photos of the exterior.


Then we walked through GUM. I had only been inside once before. This time it was all done up for spring, complete with fake cherry trees and canned bird tweets.

While in GUM we went in Gastronom #1, which is a gorgeous tribute to what food and drink are supposed to be. The French moms say the bread there is quite good. I often see them carrying bags of it when they come to meet their children after school.

I didn't buy anything, but I could not resist taking a picture of these two. Say it with me: awwwww. They even have little icing mushrooms on their backs.

I want one.

BUT, and this brings me to my next topic, I am BACK ON MY NO CARB DIET, BABY! And I have been soooooo good this week. I have even lost a kilo. So no chocolate hedgehogs for me today, thanks.

I did finally break down and bought a gym membership. The Spouse, who recently acquired his own gym membership, has apparently grown weary of hearing me itemize my aches, pains, and other curses of old age. "I can't take another 30 years of this," he told me this morning. "I think a gym membership for you will do us both a world of good."

I won't actually have it in my hand until May 12, but I committed.

The way it works in Moscow is that you pony up an obscene amount of money to go to a gym for a year. If, for some reason, you have to leave town, you can sell the remainder of your membership. What I bought is good through January 2010. And for this I will pay 40,000 rubles (about $1200 US at 33 rubles to the dollar), which is a great price.

Why so expensive, you may ask. Rents, I guess. Even now, although prices are coming down, real estate in Moscow is nose-curlingly expensive.

Now what about the two months this summer when I am in Ohio, you may ask. Good question. Most gyms allow you to freeze your membership for periods like this. I can freeze mine for two months. So my membership will actually extend through March 2010.

I stalled about this initially, NOT because of the price (because it is a decent price by Moscow standards), but because, you see, I took most of my gym gear home last summer and left it there.

I have no gym shoes here. Nary a sports bra.

I don't want to run around Moscow looking for a decently priced pair of gym shoes when I have two pairs sitting in a closet in the US. I've stuck my head in sporting goods stores in the center, and the prices are mind-boggling. I have heard that there is a French chain called Decathlon here, and the French say the prices are in line with those in France. I was thinking I could try to find a Decathlon store when I realized . . .

This gym has a pool!

And since I seem to have the Mother of All Plantar Fasciitis Cases lately . . . yeah, yeah, I know. Nothing is more boring than someone singing My Medical Problems. But my point is that until this gets better, swimming seems ideal anyhow.

Coincidentally, my friend today has the same problem (and the same size feet as mine, too!). She recommended always wearing shoes in the house (I do wear my fake Birkenstocks inside because I had noticed that walking barefoot was painful).

"Do you own a pair of Crocs?" she asked.

Do I!
I shall give Muscovite fashionistas the proverbial finger with my bling-ed Crocs.

Dee Dum, Dee Dum, Delightful, Redux

When I opened the curtains this morning, the sky was overcast. Our streak of nice-ish weather seemed over.

A while later, after The Spouse and children left, I looked out the window and saw people on the street carrying umbrellas.

That's not good.

Just a moment ago, I thought it suddenly seemed quite dark in here. I looked up.

It's snowing.

The kids went to school today in sneakers.

Yeah, yeah, I know. It's Moscow. Expats tell me they've seen snow here in June.

But, see, the thing is . . . we now also have . . .

MOSQUITOES.

I had to shut the windows last night and turn on the AC (since the central heat is still on . . . good thing, too, cuz, it's like, snowing out there . . .). I went through my stash of plug-in mosquito repellent gadgets. I have no repellent to put in them. I even looked at the grocery store yesterday, but they still have the shoe polish display front and center.

It's too early for the mosquito repellent products.

But poor Spouse and Skittles: mosquitoes ignore me, but find them delicious. Especially Skittles. There was a rush for the anti-itch gel this morning.

In cheerier news, I seem to have solved the pussy willow mystery. All over town, I have seen people carrying small sprays of pussy willow. There are often babushkas outside the Metro selling them. I like pussy willow okay, but always preferred forcing forsythia in an effort to bring a little spring indoors.

Well, it seems there is a religious significance to the pussy willow here. It's not Palm Sunday, but Pussy Willow Sunday.

Palm branches weren't something one found this far north (although, you don't see many palm trees in the American Midwest either, yet everyone has a palm for Palm Sunday). Further, it seems, the people of Jerusalem cut "leafy branches" to lay before Jesus. The Orthodox Church doesn't see any strict requirement there, so any type of branch may be used.

So there you have it: your fun fact for the day.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

Baboo, who is 10-going-on-35, has fencing class (or escrime, as they call it in French) on Tuesdays after school.

When everyone is there, the class has about eight kids in it, all roughly the same age, give or take two years. These are not beginners, but all kids who have had at least one year of fencing. This is Baboo's second year.

There are some kids Baboo always beats.

There are some kids she sometimes beats.

There is one she never beats.

A girl who is in 7th grade. Not only is she a kick-ass fencer, she's tall and beautiful and classy and totally cool. She is a great role model. I want to hang out with her.

Lately, it has happened that Baboo can regularly score one point against the Cool Girl. The matches go to three or four points, depending on what the instructor wants them to do (and I think she decides based on the ability of the kids paired in each match).

CG always wins all her matches, but, as I said, lately Baboo gets at least one point in on her. I also believe that competing against CG is a learning experience. Anyhow, Baboo is philosophical about her losses. Recently I told her, "The day you finally beat her, that will be really something."

Yesterday, Baboo beat CG, 4 to 3!

Yes, I know I am being a total Obnoxious Parent, but it was just so cool to watch this match. I am no expert in what I am looking at when the kids compete, but I could see that suddenly the skills moved up a huge step to a completely new level.

For one, I have never seen my kid move so fast. She also seemed to crack CG's defenses over and over again. Like a cobra.

But the two of them . . . it was pure poetry. I told Baboo afterwards, "Don't expect her to make the same mistakes next week. This girl is too smart. It may be a long time before you beat her again."

This photo is old . . . from last June. But it's such a lovely photo of Baboo in her fencing gear. And I'm so proud of her today.


On a completely unrelated topic, below are some Easter egg decorations I bought in the grocery store yesterday. Each strip has five colored bands the consistency of cling-wrap. As I understand it, you put the band on the egg, and then drop the whole thing into hot or boiling water. The heat shrinks the plastic onto the egg.

I have never tried it, not being a big fan of hard-boiled eggs. But they were too lovely to pass up. I just had to share.

The last one is my favorite, I think. If you click on the images, you can see them larger and in more detail.

It's Not Easter Yet (Not Here, Anyhow)

It's not.

Russian Orthodox Easter is next weekend. Now, I thought Lent started at the same time as Maslenitsa (the blini festival week), but it seems that happens the week before Russian Orthodox Lent begins (as opposed to the day before). I don't think the concept of Ash Wednesday exists here either, but what do I know? Drop a comment if you are better versed on the topic than I am.

Now, in some parts of Moscow, the Easter Bunny was organized. I am seriously impressed.

Chez Beet, he wasn't so on the ball. In fact, EB had a difficult time finding much of anything, although his provisioning was limited to what was available at the Sedmoi Continent grocery stores. He didn't even look in the boxes in my bedroom for the sad, crumpled, handle-less baskets that have been passed off as Easter baskets Chez Beet, lo these many years abroad. With the same tired Easter grass I have recycled for, oh, maybe the last six or seven years . . . Because you don't generally see what you and I would call Easter baskets or Easter basket grass on offer in the shops in Eastern Europe.

So each girl got a giant chocolate egg. They have now had them over 24 hours and have not yet even opened the boxes. I can't believe the self-restraint.


And lots of these gorgeous Russian chocolates. Two of my personal favorites are below. Not only are they beautifully wrapped, they taste pretty darn good, too. I especially love the four little bears.


And gummi bears. Since they like gummi bears. And I don't particularly. So there is little risk I will eat them.

All artfully arranged on a plate. Because it was late and EB was tired.

Maybe Orthodox EB will do a better job.