Behind the stucco walls where I crouch with a handful of salami saved from breakfast for 
a handful of fur and whisker my grandmother guts a fish, a skeleton exposed. Her knotted fingers 
peel away the white flesh, tucking each strip in a sheet of egg, white flour and hot oil while 
crooning a lullaby. In a stained apron and woven slippers, she strips a thick cabbage leaf by leaf, 
laying the wrinkled heart bare. Sweat beads from the dill and parsley hanging on the ceiling. 
Stirring the room with her hand-carved ladle, beet laden borscht boils on the wood-burning 
stove. 

Crammed beside individually packaged Kraft cheese and stacked red-topped tupperwares, a 
silver stew pot sloshes in the white refrigerator. The gas stove ticks into flame. I stir the beets and 
onion and beef, bubbles rising. Through the window I watch the clouds, like a flock of geese, 
scatter. I dollop sour cream into the blue-china bowl. The soup runs red like the blood passed 
down mother to daughter. With each mouthful dribbling down my chin I become braids and 
stockings and mischief again, stealing scraps for the strays. My grandmother appears, taking the 
spoon. She is as large as Baba Yaga’s chicken legged house, and I am her egg. She blows on the 
broth and feeds my waiting, open mouth, saltiness in my swallow.