This blogging is kinda fun! I am even doing it in my online English class.
Here is a blog post I did for it.
I thought I would share it with you!
I was born in Russia.
I lived there for the first five years of my life.
In poverty.
Food was scarce, and what we had was greatly appreciated.
Most of what I remember came from the earth.
Pulling turnips; gathering eggs; drinking warm cow milk.
Just as I was leaving my birth country
with my new adoptive family,
in the home of our hosts in Moscow
I began to learn that food is something that can be not only appreciated
but something that is a part of tradition
and celebration.
I felt proud presenting my new American grandmother
with a traditional Russian cake
on her birthday
hand crafted by our Russian host family.
Beyond the special cake
We celebrated the birthday at a dacha
(a country farm)
with a large group of Russian people.
I experienced chocolate for the first time.
I was so excited at the delicious taste of this delectable, rich sweet candy.
Once I arrived at my new home in America
I realized my opportunity to experience so many wholesome new foods.
I appreciated everything and enjoyed eating them all.
Growing up I had realized the importance of eating every bite,
leaving nothing to go to waste.
Appreciating food was important to me.
My American mom cooked foods to help me remember my Russian heritage
and the Russian culture.
I valued eating and enjoyed everything I ate.
In Russia, it was customary to present departing guests
with a gift of remembrance.
I received a large, hand-crafted spoon from the people at the dacha.
It is special to me still today.
My value for healthy foods has stayed consistent.
When I might have the opportunity to lick cookie batter from the beater
I would probably decline.
Instead,
I would much more enjoy picking some chicken off of a stewed chicken bone.
Good wholesome food has stayed important to me.
But, there is something that I could never grasp.
I remember one day shortly after I had arrived in America,
I was at a store and picked up piece of fruit.
I touched it. I looked at it, turning it in my hands.
I smelled it. I tried to eat it.
It was odd.
I asked my mom, "What is it? I don't understand?"
And she told me, "It's plastic fruit."
Even today,
I ask,
"What is the purpose?
Why not buy real food and put it in a basket
and that can be used for decoration, instead?"
The answer still eludes me.
