Natural Magic

Stepping into Pokrovskoye-Streshnevo park, across the street from our apartment in Moscow, reminds me of a scene from the movie, Field of Dreams, where the baseball players vanish seconds after entering an Iowa cornfield. As I step from asphalt to earth, my foot touches either a Welcome Mat of squishy mud, grassy sod, feathery snow, or fly-away dust, depending on the season.  And it's at that moment of contact, the Magic begins. 

The park, like the cornfield, is not what it seems.  From the height of our 10^th floor apartment, the treetops give no clues as to what they are hiding.  With the arrival of spring, the darker pines mix with every delicious shade of green you could think of  – lime sherbet, honeydew melon, Granny Smith apple - to shelter the secrets underneath.  As I walk further inside, the noise of cars, machinery, sirens, and horns fade as the trees close in around me and absorb the frenzy of life left behind.  Paths lay before me, a virtual city of nature hidden from view, inviting me in.

The morning is cool with a hint of sweet flowers growing nearby.  I choose the path straight ahead and quickly find that I am not alone.  A slender man, with slightly humped shoulders, appears up ahead, walking with his head down and hands clasped behind his back.  With his long, scraggly, graying beard, he resembles Tolstoy or Solzhenitsyn, deeply contemplating the meaning of life or the beginning of his next chapter. Not wanting to disturb his thoughts, I pass quietly to the right, following the curve towards a grassy field in the distance.  Through the greening branches, I notice movement, arms and legs slowly appearing and disappearing like some kind of disembodied dance.  Coming closer, I recognize the unison of motions, Tai chi, being practiced by a dozen seniors, men and women. As they disperse, one woman wanders to a tree on the fringes of the field, stretches her arms as far as they will reach around its trunk, and stands with her cheek caressing its bark, as if it were her dearest friend. 

Quacks lure me further down the road to the intersection of five footpaths, trailing out of the woods to converge at a pair of lakes in the center of the park.  Mist hovers over the water, becoming transparent enough in spots to see the outlines of fishermen, who have already set up stools and stretched out poles, waiting patiently for fish to swim by for breakfast. Two bathers in assorted pieces of clothing (or not), swim out a few strokes, tread water, then swim back to sun and stretch. Ducks glide as if they’re meditating, until they spy a tasty treat below and dive head down, tail up, to fetch it.

Finding a stump, I sit waiting for the sun to break through the scattered clouds.  Children’s voices from the nearby playground and cries from a baby being strolled in its pram, add to birds’ song and squirrels’ chatter.  Two men pass by lugging gallon-sized plastic jugs filled with glistening water from natural springs, tucked quietly in a corner of the forest.    

The sun hits me full in the face and I close my eyes as the warmth soaks in.  At this moment in time, I know that I have been given exactly what I need, as have my companions in the park. And therein lies the Magic that only Nature can provide, as we cross the threshold into Her world.  

Cooking Queens

Considering that I don’t like to cook, it’s amazing that I belong to The Cooking Queens, the rather whimsical title for a group of 5 ladies who meet every month and . . .cook.  Their love of cooking and common thread of having children who attend the Anglo-American School of Moscow, brings them together from points all over the world.  Barbara from Poland, Anu and Paivi from Finland, SoonDuk from Korea, Hein from Vietnam, and former members Junko from Japan, and May from Thailand. I was honored when they invited me to join, not only because they are such warm, friendly people, but because I felt included.  Similar to that middle school kind of excitement, when a group of girls you like makes a spot for you at the lunch table.  The fact that they didn't know anything about my cooking abilities when they issued the invitation, is what Martha Stewart might refer to as "a good thing." 

 When I say I don’t like to cook, I can list a couple of exceptions like making bran muffins and “macaroni” (pepperoni) pizza with our 3-year-old grandson, Luke.  And I’ve gladly done my fair share of cooking over the years for our family of three children.  I even had a system that at least one friend marveled at.  “You mean that you actually plan your meals a week in advance, what you’re having each night?  And you go to the grocery store once a week and buy everything you need for the whole week?” Yes, our children even penned the name, “Long Shopping Day” for our Friday, after-work-and-school trips to the store.  Coming home, I would put the groceries away and stick the menu on the fridge.  Heaven help the family member who suggested we switch Monday night burritos with Tuesday night spaghetti!

 I never learned to cook “formally”. . . with ingredients.  Nothing that resembles how our daughters, Elizabeth and Katherine prepare meals today.  They actually open a recipe book and follow a list of directions, sometimes a page long, to make their own spaghetti sauce.  Not I.  The only ingredients involved in my box of Kraft Italian Spaghetti mix are tomato paste and ground beef.  Using organic and locally grown fresh ingredients, they are teaching me how delicious and healthy dishes can be prepared.

 When it was my turn to cook for The Queens, I wanted to fix something typically American. I decided to rule out hamburgers and hot dogs, opting for something a little more suitable for a lady’s luncheon.  But what is “typically American?”  In Arkansas when we consider where to dine out, options include Los Amigos, New China, Michelangelo’s, Saigon Cuisine and Taziki’s Greek Fare.  Maybe The Dixie Café’s menu selections of turnip greens, catfish, meatloaf or macaroni and cheese might fit the bill.

 Yes. . . Mac and Cheese, a perfect choice! Not Kraft out-of-the-box for this occasion, but the homemade version, using real cheese.  I added a bowl of  Katherine’s gourmet salad, whipped up a batch of Southern cornbread, and sliced a dozen Russian apples for a warm apple crisp.  I was proud, and my guests were gracious.

 The lessons I’m learning from the cooking club, however, are not about food, but friendship, international friendship.  As I share meals with these ladies from a variety of cultures and backgrounds, my vision for world peace is strengthened.  Were our countries in conflict, I know that we could reach agreements over plates of Bulgogi, Celery-Blue Cheese Soup, Vietnamese Spring Rolls, Salmon Pie, Finnish Birthday Cake, and yes, Mac and Cheese. Government leaders, having lunch with “The Queens” would quickly discern that true power lies in relationships.

Lady in Red

“She’s over there!”  Ann says pointing in the direction of the fountain.

 

“Who?”  I ask.

“The lady in the red dress,” she answers over her shoulder as she hurries forward, reaching into her tote bag for a bar of chocolate.

“Yea! She’s still alive,” I whisper to myself, always hopeful, but never sure that we will find her each year when we return to Gorky Park for the Victory Day celebration.

A patch of dyed reddish-brown hair, the hem of a flag-red dress and matching patent leather flats are the only parts that peek through the circle of people surrounding her.  I hurry to join them. She hasn’t changed much, only slightly thinner in the face, but the same straight-backed posture, lift of the chin and firm handshake, all signifying that this is one tough lady.  She’s wearing the same knee-length, long-sleeved, pointed collared dress she’s worn the previous four years we’ve seen her.  Belted at the waist and buttoned up the front, it serves its purpose as the blank canvas to show off row after row after row of gold.  Dazzling! Impressive! WOW! There must be at least 40 medals, half of which are round and range in size from U.S. quarters to half dollars, pinned in place by red and gold ribbons. Others are stars, dangling from pendants, broaches with starburst centers, wreaths, hammers and cycles, and a couple of pictures of stern-faced military men, all with indecipherable inscriptions (to me), in Cyrillic, heralding their significance.

Lyudmila is a veteran of the Great Patriotic War, a title that strangely sounds loftier and less calculating than what non-Russians call it, World War II.  With the end of the war now 65 years behind them, the number of veterans returning to Gorky Park, and other parks around Moscow each May 9^th, is dwindling as age takes lives that the war spared.  For one day every year, they are treated as heroes and heroines, not by the president, marching soldiers and blaring military music on Red Square, but by children and adults, quietly and thankfully, one red carnation and chocolate bar at a time.

Questioned about her medals, Lyudmila, points to one on the left side of her chest as she shakes her head and repeats in an increasingly vehement voice, “Nyet St. Petersburg! Leningrad, Leningrad!”  Our friend, Andrei, translates as she continues her indignant narrative. “They gave her a medal with St. Petersburg written on it, but she didn’t want it. She insists that the city should still be Leningrad, not St. Petersburg.  She was a nurse there during the 900-day siege.”  When I venture to ask her to tell us something of that time, she says only, through Andrei’s translation, “no food, no food.”  Approximately 650,000 people died.    

Andrei nods and pulls out a picture of his father, Gennadi, who served on the Karelian front, close to Leningrad. During Andrei’s childhood, his father told him the story of when his platoon was given one loaf of bread per day for each eight people.  The denser end pieces were the most prized, so the commander cut the loaf into eight pieces, held one piece from the middle of the loaf and one from the end behind his back, then asked the soldiers, “Who wants to choose first?”  Andrei’s father said that when the Germans learned about the shortage of food on the front, they started teasing the Soviet soldiers, holding up loaves of bread from their trenches, yelling, ”Russian!  Who wants to choose?  In which hand do I have a piece of bread?”    

On this sunny day filled with balloons, music, eating, drinking and laughter, stories of death, starvation and inhumanity have a Once Upon a Time quality, so incomprehensible in reality that they just couldn’t be true. The Truth confronts us, though, as we greet the men and women who lived them, whose children re-tell their experiences. And for those of us fortunate enough to hear, we must pass them on.

Lyudmila with our friend, Ann Symons, fellow expat living in Moscow

A Parade in the Sky

If I had a facebook account, which our children keep encouraging me to do, or knew how to twitter, I would quickly grab my laptop and type, “Sitting on the couch in our Moscow apartment, sipping tea, and WATCHING RUSSIAN JETS AND HELICOPTERS FLY BY MY WINDOW!”  Not just a few, but formation after formation, probably 15-20 of them on a flight path from the airport to Red Square, practicing for the Victory Day celebration on May 9^th.  All I need is a pair of binoculars and one of those “How to Identify Military Aircraft” cheat sheets that I’ve seen guys refer to in war movies. “Coastwatchers,” I think they were called, who manned remote outposts in the South Pacific during World War II, courageously radioing in aircraft and naval sightings. In an infinitely safer position in our 10^th floor apartment than a tree perch somewhere in the Solomon Islands, I gather my own intelligence about the upcoming air show.  Without the advantage of the coastwatchers’ expertise, however, my descriptions have a rather generic flavor. . .

·      pointy-nosed, Top Gun planes which look poised to fly upside down or perform death-defying dives like the Thunderbirds

·      slender-bodied white planes, resembling the Concord without the “drooping” nose

·      hulking planes with over-sized midsections, capable of carrying a few dozen tanks, perhaps?     

·      average-looking gray helicopters, dressed up for the occasion with Russian flags hanging beneath them

They fly by at a parade pace above our neighboring tall buildings, and I’m tempted to wave as they pass by.  One group of the Top Gunners forms the number 65 to commemorate the 65^th anniversary of the end of World War II.  I count another group of 10, tightly spaced in a triangular formation.  Others form a single file and stretch far in the distance, disappearing as they head towards city center.  It is quite a show!  But not one that conjures up feelings of fear or foreboding. Rather than military might, it’s military remembrance that I sense from their presence, part of a grand celebration to honor the almost 25 million Russians who died in the Allied cause.

I’m sure I will see the planes again on Sunday as I look up at them from ground level, perhaps as I stand along the New Arbat watching the parade, or mingle among some of the remaining veterans at Gorky Park.  On this morning, though, I feel like a distinguished guest with a front-row seat to my own private preview.