Sundays, long ago…

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Photo by Pablo Merchán Montes on Unsplash

My family used to have a ritual, every Sunday.

In the Soviet Union, Sunday was the only day off for everyone — that meant that everyone worked and/or went to school on Saturdays. But on the only day off, we’d begin our Sunday (Voskresenya) by getting up around 9 a.m. First, I would make my bed (a habit I maintain to this day). Then my parents and I would clean up our apartment, sweep the floors, dust, clean our little bathroom and kitchen, and generally straighten everything out while listening to the music on the radio.

After cleaning, then we would have brunch (not in an American sort of way with omelets, waffles, and mimosas, but simply eating a late breakfast, early lunch). Usually, although not all the time, we would have: herring that was marinated in sunflower oil — the day before, my parents would buy the fish, clean it, debone it, then pour the oil over it and let in marinate in the refrigerator. We also had boiled potatoes with butter, salt, and some dill; sliced sweet, white onion; thick Russian bread; and wash it all down with buttermilk.

It may sound weird to some people, the menu, but this combination of food is one of my favorite things to eat. The strange part for me is that I don’t actually like buttermilk — and I would never drink it — except in this particular formula.

The memories of Sundays in our little apartment always gives me warm fuzzies. It wasn’t a big thing, but it was an important one, something special, that made us a family unit, not just three people living together.

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Writer and storyteller, immigrant, wife, mom, knitter, collector of jokes, lover of cheap, sweet wine.

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