I have had many discussions with my host grandma and sister about how I do like soup and borscht and chicken on the bone; I just don’t like them for breakfast.
Yesterday when they gave me soup and I picked at it and ate the boiled eggs and sausage instead, they told me that soup would start my day out right. There are many vitamins in soup. It is good for me and will not make my stomach feel bad. “Yes, that’s true,” I said, still skeptical.
“When you go back to America,” Baba (Grandma) said, “You will tell your mom, soup for breakfast!” I laughed and laughed.
The other day when Baba and Mama were upset at my host sister for not eating enough, they pointed at her and said “Jessica!” and pointed at me and back to her. Teasing both of us because I don’t eat enough.
I just want to eat something light like eggs or cereal for breakfast, I try to tell them.
“You can eat anything anytime you want,” my host sister says. I think she feels I’m limited by these rules I’ve imposed on myself. “Where is this book that says you can’t eat lasagna for breakfast? I have not read that anywhere.”
“It is how we do things in American. We have certain things for breakfast and other things we eat for lunch and dinner,” I said, giggling.
“You are wrong, we are right,” she told me.
I made my host family lasagna for supper the other night. I had to find the ingredients in Kyiv, and they were startled by the flat noodles. They all liked the meal and said “very good” over and over in Ukrainian, so I was pleased. There was some left over and Baba said, “Tomorrow. We’ll eat it tomorrow.” I started to smile and shake my head at the same time that she said, “in the morning. You can eat it in the morning.”
“Not for breakfast,” I said and laughed. “I’m not eating lasagna for breakfast.”
“What do you want?” she said in Ukrainian.
“I want eggs and malincy (similar to pancakes with berry jam) and Muesli,” I said, and even responded in Ukrainian. “I will eat lasagna for lunch.”
“For lunch,” she agreed.
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Her daughter – we’ll call her Tammy – and family took me to the center of Kyiv to see some of the main points of interest. We went to Shevchenko Park and saw the university named after the famous poet. They pointed out to me many of the historic buildings, and we saw the Golden Gates memorial. They explained how much of the city was destroyed after the second world war and there are not many ancient buildings left. We went into the underground mall in the Center and my eyes rounded at how modern it was. And I was excited that there was a McDonald's food. American food! Sometimes I miss fast food. I know that we eat too much of it in America but I still miss it.
“I like McDonald’s,” said Tammy’s daughter, Jane.
“Jessica, maybe you want Verenicky (meat dumplings) or something else? Tell Jane that McDonald’s is not healthy,” Tammy said.
“McDonald’s is not healthy,” I said to Jane in a small voice. “But I really, really want it. Like really, really.” So we had McDonald’s. It was wonderful.
The train ride back to my village the next day was two hours. I pulled out my Ukrainian flashcards and discussed them with Baba. Pretty soon, the older ladies nearby were watching me, interjecting a comment or two if I pronounced something wrong. A young lady on the train came up to me afterwhile because she had overheard me speak English. We talked for awhile in English.
Meanwhile, a drunk young man was very interested in me and our conversation and would try to interject comments or talk to us. His mom hushed him up sometimes. He’d walk by in the aisle and tried to talk to me or grab my hand and I’d gently push him away, or just ignore him.
Finally, he stood up and tried to touch my knee. I shoved his hand away and instantly there were about five babusyas on their feet, shouting at his mother to control her drunk son. My new friend translated. “She’s saying she hasn’t done anything wrong and her son is just fine, they’re the ones who are wrong,” she said. “They’re saying she shouldn’t take him out in public and that they’re going to call the police …” Then she added. “This doesn’t really happen that often.” The two got off at the next stop.
It was very exciting.
Finally, he stood up and tried to touch my knee. I shoved his hand away and instantly there were about five babusyas on their feet, shouting at his mother to control her drunk son. My new friend translated. “She’s saying she hasn’t done anything wrong and her son is just fine, they’re the ones who are wrong,” she said. “They’re saying she shouldn’t take him out in public and that they’re going to call the police …” Then she added. “This doesn’t really happen that often.” The two got off at the next stop.
It was very exciting.
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