Maybe Even Cabbage

“Are you Myeerediit from New York?” This is how I have been addressed for the past two months (yes, two months already!). By new colleagues, by new students, by people in the hallway whom I don’t know. On the first day, as I stumbled through the halls of my department, this recognition was relieving. I didn’t have to stammer and stutter through my rusty Russian to explain who I was or where I needed to be. But by the end of week one, the almost “celebrity” status was beginning to make me feel uncomfortable. Everyone looked at me with big eyes and a sense of wonder and curiosity. Not because of who I was but because I was the American. From New York [city]. Yet over the past two months my relationships with my students have thankfully deepened. We’ve gone through all the stereotype lessons, I’ve answered all of their questions (yes, I have an iPhone. No, I don’t eat at McDonalds. Yes, Russian drivers scare me. No, I promise I don’t eat McDonalds). I even startled one class with the fact that I grew up without television or internet (although to be fair this still surprises many of my American friends). So now, two months in, I am Meri from Cooperstown, and it is so much better. Not because my students are starting to learn who I am, but because now we have begun to peel through the superficial layers and have the ability to focus on our similarities rather than our differences. I didn’t realize how gratifying this would be. Of course this is one of the major goals of the Fulbright program but boy is it satisfying when this goal is at least partially achieved.

In other news, I just got back from the Russian village. Ira, her 6 year old son Sasha, and I went to visit her parents and in-laws who conveniently live two streets away from each other. Sasha spends most of his weekends split between his two sets of grandparents like many Russian children. Together we wandered through the birches behind their home and played with the many dogs, cats, and horses living in their small wilderness. 

Ira’s mother fed us delicious blini and sent me home with a huge jar of pickles, jar of wild strawberry jam, a pumpkin, frozen raspberries and blackberries, and a head of cabbage. All homemade/homegrown. It sounds silly, but I still have no idea what to do with my head of cabbage. I have never, ever enjoyed cabbage and am a terrible cook. So it remains to mock me every time I open the refrigerator to find something to eat.

I have also been interviewed this week by the Voronezh local news about Thanksgiving. I have never been on television before (unless you count me in the background of the local Amish barnraising festival on my 13^th birthday, or square-dancing with my dad in Cape Cod when I was 7). I was prepared to explain in Russian who I was, why I was in Voronezh, and the history and traditions associated with Thanksgiving. I was not prepared to answer questions such as:

“What funny traditions do you have on Thanksgiving?”

My immediate thought: Funny traditions? Does the presidential pardon count? How do you even say that? My answer: Nope, I don’t think so.

“How do you cook a turkey?”

  My immediate thought: Can I use a lifeline? Mother? My answer: Probably like a chicken.

Is Russia just like you imagined?

My immediate thought: No. You smile a lot less. And your bureaucratic system gives me nightmares.

My answer because I couldn’t think of how to say anything I really thought in Russian on the spot: No. I thought you had bears on the streets! Ha-ha- ha.

Overall, I think the interview went alright. My consolation is that no one across the pond will ever, ever see this exceptional interview. I can also hope that none of my colleagues or students decide to watch the news on Thanksgiving morning.

Speaking of Thanksgiving, I have purchased a turkey. Yes, a real turkey. After much searching, my American friend Eric and I found a whole turkey in a market. The first woman tried to sell us half a turkey. I was so excited to finally find turkey meat somewhere that it took me five minutes to get her to stop talking long enough to explain that I needed a whole one. “devushka (girl) why do you need a whole turkey? You are too little to eat the whole thing?”. I explained that I needed a turkey to celebrate Thanksgiving, and the woman’s eyes almost popped out of her head. She called all the other women over, and they all helped us pick one out, giggling the whole time. I still don’t quite know how to cook a turkey. Or stuffing. Or cranberry sauce. Or pumpkin pie. But I am determined to make a Thanksgiving dinner for the other Americans in Voronezh and figure it out somehow. That is what the internet is for, right? Hopefully soon Meri’s list of things she can cook will be: fried eggs, macaroni and tomato sauce, salad, turkey. And maybe cabbage. Maybe.