“Sometimes it seems that for nineteenth-century Russian writers, food was what landscape (or maybe class?) was for the English. Or war for… — Anya von Bremzen Copy Share Image
“It was my mother, my frequent co-conspirator in the kitchen and my conduit to our past, who suggested the means to convey… — Anya von Bremzen Copy Share Image
“Inevitably, a story about Soviet food is a chronicle of longing, of unrequited desire. So what happens when some of your most… — Anya von Bremzen Copy Share Image
“On Sundays Mom invariably ran out of money, which is when she cracked eggs into the skillet over cubes of fried black… — Anya Von Bremzen Copy Share Image
“In just a bony fistful of years, classical Russian food culture vanished, almost without a trace. The country's nationalistic euphoria on entering World War I in 1914 collapsed under nonstop disasters presided over by the 'last of the Romanovs': clueless, autocratic czar Nicholas II and Alexandra, his reactionary, hysterical German-born wife. Imperial Russia went lurching toward breakdown and starvation. Golden… — Anya von Bremzen Copy Share
“Sometimes it seems that for nineteenth-century Russian writers, food was what landscape (or maybe class?) was for the English. Or war for the Germans,… — Anya von Bremzen Copy Share Image
“Mom and I argued about every other dish on the menu. But on this we agreed: without kulebiaka, there could be no proper Silver… — Anya von Bremzen Copy Share Image
“It was my mother, my frequent co-conspirator in the kitchen and my conduit to our past, who suggested the means to convey this epic… — Anya von Bremzen Copy Share Image
“Inevitably, a story about Soviet food is a chronicle of longing, of unrequited desire. So what happens when some of your most intense culinary… — Anya von Bremzen Copy Share Image
“The sense that I'd fled my Jewishness in Odessa added painful new pressure to the dilemma I would face at sixteen. That's when each… — Anya von Bremzen Copy Share Image
“My mother is finally rolling out her kulebiaka dough, maneuvering intently on a dime size oasis of kitchen counter. I inhale the sweetish tang… — Anya von Bremzen Copy Share Image
“On Sundays Mom invariably ran out of money, which is when she cracked eggs into the skillet over cubes of fried black sourdough bread.… — Anya Von Bremzen Copy Share Image
