my grandmother, mum and her brother

Our beloved "babulya" and Valentina's namesake passed away on the 8th of this month, International Women's Day. And it's only fitting since she was a remarkable woman. I've shared a little bit about her before but I wanted to take a moment and honor her memory. 

Most of what I know about her life I learned directly from babulya. She never shied away from sharing whatever was on her mind and wore her heart on her sleeve. She loved to help us little ones go down for our naps and I remember many a hot and sticky afternoon laying on top of her yellow macrame bed cover listening to her stories. Stories of survival, violence, hunger but also of perseverance and courage. Looking back some of the things she told us were completely inappropriate for children our age but I think to her it was all she ever knew and it never crossed her mind that it might not be fit for us. She would lie next to me, spooning me, and rub my back while recalling watching a Nazi officer shoot her father point blank and subsequently watching him die. She talked about things like starvation and sickness with just as much nonchalance. No one ever offered her empathy, cut her any breaks or helped her out. She crawled and clawed her way to life every day on this earth. To a five year old's ears her stories sounded fantastical, I didn't even really have a concept of death at that point. All my cousins and I could gather was that our grandmother was some sort of superwoman that could and did survive just about everything thrown at her. 

As an adult I often came back to my memories of these stories and it would both horrify and confound me. How could someone presented with such a harsh and bitter reality go on to become such a kind, giving and loving soul? How could someone who had so little, raise six incredible individuals that have gone on to build beautiful families of their own? All I had ever known my babulya to be was sweet, giving, caring and full of life. She always had some new story to tell. She cared for her chickens the way most people care for their children. Her flower garden was her pride and joy and vegetable garden was the talk of the village. 

I knew her through my own eyes and through what my mum shared about her. What I learned about her from her funeral further confirmed everything I already held so dear about her. My mum has shared countless stories about the days that her and her siblings spent celebrating babulya's life in Moldova over Facetime. She told me that over a hundred people showed up for the funeral and although some of them were friends and family, most of them were people babulya had helped at one time or another. There were single mothers with their now grown children who babulya supported by sharing her garden and by making clothes for them. There were outcasts of the village who she made sure were always fed and warm. There were people who were homeless at some time or another who she took in. The sick who she always checked in on and the lonely to whom she was a friend. The last word was spoken by my mum's cousins who shared that as long as they can remember whenever "auntie Valya" passed by their house she would share half of whatever she had - fruits or vegetables, money she made selling her knits at the market or flowers from her garden. And finally, through sobs - "the gate to Auntie Valya's home has closed once and for all..." 

Hearing that felt bittersweet as my heart ached because I knew that I would never again hear the familiar creak of that rusty old gate the the subsequent bark of her dog... But at the same time my heart swelled with pride that I have been granted the honor of raising a little girl who may one day grow up to be someone else's "Auntie Valya." And what a legacy she has to live up to. My grandmother would never be considered "successful" by most standards. She died with little to nothing to her name. She wasn't educated or well-known. But she left a mark in so many people's hearts and that is something truly valuable and completely priceless. 

When my parent's arrived in Moldova the day before the funeral the weather was as you would expect - sunny and fairly warm, pretty similar to weather here. However, they were all shocked when on the morning of the funeral a bitter cold front blew in. As the funeral began a drizzle started that soon turned into snow. According to tradition my mum's family and friends followed the hearse on foot to the graveyard and my mum recalled as two teenage boys who were just babies when babulya cared for them and their mother carried wreaths directly behind the hearse for miles in the rain and snow. That image is so powerful to me and will forever be seared in my mind. Such profound love and commitment. 

When I think about my babulya one of my favorite quotes always comes to mind:

“Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love.” 

Mother Teresa

I can only hope and pray to raise both my children to exude so much kindness, grace, love and care for people. To be as completely unselfish, humble and hardworking. But to never lose their sparkle or their joy for life. To never take a single day for granted and make the most from whatever they have been given. And to love so very much and so deeply that it leaves a mark on everyone they meet. 

This past weekend I bought this beautiful green head of cauliflower and was thinking of ways to use it. I also am working on using up a gigantic bag of kale that I have in the fridge and after some research it became apparent that these two would be best used in a soup!

I wanted something quick and easy since I was doing a lot of other food prep that day and the whole thing ended up taking a little over a half hour. Win!!

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

1 medium onion, chopped 

4 cloves garlic, chopped

Sea salt

1 medium head cauliflower (about 3 pounds), florets and stems cut into pieces

4 cups vegetable stock

1/2 cup of filtered water

1/4 cup chopped fresh dill, plus more for garnish

3 cups of chopped kale

Freshly ground black pepper 

Heat oil in a large pot over medium heat; cook onion, covered, until soft, 4 to 5 minutes. Add garlic and a pinch of salt, and cook for 3 minutes more. Add cauliflower, and pour in filtered water until it reaches just below the top of the cauliflower.

Bring to a boil over high heat. Add dill. Reduce heat to low, and simmer until cauliflower is just tender, about 10 minutes. Stir in kale, and simmer for 3 minutes.

Let sit for 5 minutes to cool slightly. Puree soup in a blender until very smooth. Return to pot, and reheat. Season with salt and pepper. Garnish with dill, black pepper, a drizzle of oil, and pinch of sea salt.

The best news was that I have never been able to successfully feed Birdie soup. She feels very passionately about anything labeled soup and absolutely refuses to touch the stuff. But! With some coaxing she finished her entire bowl! There may have been some cheddar bunnies involved but still I count it as a victory!

*recipe adapted from Martha Stewart

hat, top, sunglasses, bag, shoes, shorts, blanket

As soon as the weather gets nice I can think of nothing but picnics. Growing up we did a lot of picnicking since my parents didn't have a lot of money and it was an easy and cheap way to do something that felt "special." Thanks to my mum I've become a pro at it. Whenever the mood strikes us I'll quickly wash and chop some veggies, throw in a baguette and some cheese and cured meat and bam! Done. In the spring and summer I try to always keep blankets in the car for this very reason and once we're driving we'll stop at a gas station for some cold drinks and then we're off! It's easy, quick and inexpensive and there's nothing like eating outdoors.

And although we've had a few cooler days this past weekend spring is here to stay down south. The trees are exploding with blooms, grass is sprouting everywhere and I've packed away all the winter accoutrements. So of course I've been doing some spring and summer shopping. Mostly because these kids grow like weeds and though I've been pretty good at stocking up on clothes for them I'm reaching the point where I have nothing in storage and each season I have to start from scratch. 

As you well know I love a good mama-daughter outfit and this combo gives me major heart eyes. I've always been of the opinion that you can never go wrong with white and denim in the summer! 

bow, top, bonnet, boots, shorts, socks, basket

When I was almost four we were living in Russia and my parents began work on their dream home. Dad would bring home blueprints and mum and I would pore over decor magazines dreaming of what life would look like within the four brick walls. I became especially fixated on a two page spread of a ballerina themed pepto bismol pink bedroom with dormers. The curtains were taffeta and everything was fluffy and tufted. It was a beautiful saccharine pink fantasy. 

Mid construction we moved to America for a little over a year and a half for my dad to complete his masters degree. The December before we returned we watched tanks take over the Red Square and the ultimate dissolution of the Soviet Union on our tv. Though my parents were ecstatic to see the end of decades of violence and dictatorship they were fearful of what this would mean for the future of the country, both politically and economically. 

We returned to Russia a few months later to a drizzly and gray spring. The country was in shambles - stores empty and ransacked, the sudden appearance of the homeless (the Soviet government was notorious for hiding and mistreating the homeless, handicapped and poor) and general sense of confusion and dread. And it was amidst all this chaos that my parents received the news that the money that they had in their savings account for the new house now approximately amounted to the price of ten watermelons. 

I don't remember how they broke the news to me but I was aware of the fact that the house would now remain just a dream, perhaps forever. 

Growing up we often passed our "dream home," or rather a concrete foundation with four brick walls. A few years later grass began to grow in the foyer and a small tree took up residence in the kitchen. In the meantime friends and family built their own homes adjacent to ours and I watched many little girls my age get their dream rooms - complete with bunk beds, princess wallpaper and pink curtains. There was one girl in particular that had a room almost identical to the one I had dreamed of back when I was four. It even had dormers just like in that magazine and every time I saw it I felt a little lump form inside my throat. 

Honestly, this story is just a tiny piece of the puzzle that makes up my childhood. But it stands out in my mind as the moment I became aware of life outside of my own toddler bubble. My parents struggled throughout my childhood and worked tirelessly to build a better life for us. I rarely "fit in" at school - I never had the right clothes, right toys and I never got what everyone else did for Christmas. My parents didn't drive the right car or own the right home. Every once in a while I would get lucky and one of the "nerds" or outcasts would take me under their wing and for a little while I would have a friend - someone to eat lunch with and chat with at the end of class. Sometimes it hurt or stung but at home surrounded by my parent's love and security I always felt safe. 

So this past November when we first saw the house that is now our home and I walked into the "bonus room" full of light and with two dormers that faced the mountains my heart skipped a beat. I instantly imagined the room with our children's beds in it and books and toys scattered everywhere. I was smitten. And four months later when we held the keys in our hands for the first time I immediately hatched a plan for their room. I stayed up painting and decorating well after midnight for a week straight to make sure that their room would be ready by the time we move in.  When I finally got to reveal it I watched with tears in my eyes as wonder and joy danced across Birdie's face. It was everything. It was the most incredible feeling to give her something I had been dreaming of pretty much my whole life. 

dear star, that just happens

to keep us from ever-darkness,

to hold us in the great hands of light–

Watch, now, how I start the day

Mary Oliver