“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 disjunction, this unruly collision of collectivist myths and personal antimyths. We would reconstruct every decade of… — 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… — Anya von Bremzen Copy Share Image
“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
