A Thanksgiving Day Gift
I originally wrote this piece for Odd Prompts right around Thanksgiving a few years ago. One of these days I'd like to polish it and turn it into a proper e-book, but I just wanted to share it again.
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A Sparta Point Thanksgiving
It all started when Lisa Fox overheard Connor Westin talking with Marshal Gruzinsky about being away for Thanksgiving Day. Unlike most of Spartan's Own, Connor didn't live here at Sparta Point. Instead, he had a place just outside Eureka where his wife and daughter lived, and went to visit them regularly.
The reminder that she wouldn't be going home for the holidays came sharper than she'd expected. After all, she'd missed plenty of holidays, plenty of family milestones, during her various trips to the Russian Empire, from being an exchange student in Stavropol to that last research trip for a dissertation that would never be completed.
But she'd made all those trips knowing she was giving up those things. Now she was just a few hundred miles away from home, but unable to go because the current political situation made it impossible.
It must've been gnawing at her more than she'd realized, because Klim took her aside later that afternoon and asked what was wrong. When she explained, he nodded and agreed that it would be a disappointment.
However, she hadn't expected him to tell Tamara. After all, the housekeeper was Georgian, and while she did do some Russian staples like buckwheat kasha and cabbage soup, her usual fare was straight from the Transcaucasus, stuff like kachapuri bread and spicy goat stew. Not that Lisa minded it -- it brought back memories of her year in Stavropol -- but she'd never seen Tamara make any typical American food. Other than fast food grabbed on the run while on missions, the last time Lisa had tasted American food was when Connor had brought several pizzas back from a place in Eureka.
So she was astonished to come to the dining room on Thanksgiving Day and discover that the table had been set for a dinner straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. She'd gotten so used to the self-serve buffet on the sideboard that it took her a bit aback.
So had everyone else, because there were some confused moments as a number of the fighters looked at the sideboard, found only the samovar with its usual assortment of jellies and jams. It took a moment for them to figure out that they were supposed to sit down for the meal.
However, Tamara must've spoken to the Marshal about it ahead of time, because he arrived decked out in his dress uniform with all his medals. Lisa was a little surprised he still had it, considering that he'd spent almost a decade on the run between the end of the Red Resurgence and his appeal to Admiral Chaffee, with whom he'd worked closely in the rescue of the crew of Aphrodite back in the 70's.
On the other hand, given his penchant for cosplay, it was also possible that he'd gotten his costumer to run up a replacement. Given how prominent his image had been in the news in those days, there was certainly plenty of photographic evidence for a costumer to work with. Lisa certainly wasn't going to ask him, not when she was barely in his good graces after her original unorthodox arrival at Sparta Point.
At least he was able to carve the turkey with aplomb, which surprised her, given there was no analogous culinary tradition in the Russian Empire, or Soviet Union as it had been when he was living there, for him to draw upon. But wait, just when had the rescue of Aphrodite been? Could it have offered him an opportunity to join the Chaffees for a Thanksgiving dinner and see the Admiral do the honors?
On the other hand, most of Spartan's Own were struggling with the concept of passing dishes around the table. Awkward moments when dishes would be coming at someone from both directions, or someone would get enough food on their plate and start eating, not noticing that a dish near them had become stranded as a result. Lisa remembered more than a few from times she'd gone to holiday dinners on her dad's side of the family and had embarrassed herself similarly. At home, the winery was typically so busy that sit-down family dinners were pretty much non-existent, so she didn't exactly get a lot of opportunity to practice that particular skill.
After those awkward moments were done and everyone could dig in, there was an odd absence of the usual small talk - or even Marshal Gruzinsky's war stories. Yet Lisa didn't feel like it was a matter of them being so delighted they were more interested in eating than making conversation. Rather, it felt more like they were so uncertain and awkward that they didn't know what to say.
Her first surprise was digging into the cranberry sauce and discovering it was far too sweet, without the tartness she would expect. Had Tamara simply used too much sugar, assuming that no one here would like the combination of sweet and sour? Except the flavor under it didn't taste quite right - and then Lisa realized that Tamara had substituted an imported Siberian berry that was about the same color, which had no English name and was generally unknown outside Russia, and boiled them down to make something that looked like cranberry sauce.
The Marshal clearly liked it, but he'd been raised in Siberia, his Georgian parents having moved there during the era of the Stakanovites and the First Five-year Plan. Although most of his stories dealt with his military career, he'd told a few about his childhood, of going out with his mother and picking wild berries.
However, the biggest surprise came only after the main course, when the pie arrived. This time Tamara actually cut the slices and put them on individual plates. Each came already garnished with a dollop of whipped cream.
Except Lisa could see that it looked odd, even from a distance. Then again, American-style pumpkin pie had no good analog in either Russian or Georgian culinary traditions. Could Tamara have substituted something strange?
It was hard not to give the serving in front of her a narrow-eyed look. Only Lisa's knowledge of how important hospitality was to Georgians kept her from inspecting it too much. Better to take a bite and hope it wasn't too bad.
The custard actually tasted like pumpkin, although the spices were a little off, and the crust had a texture closer to that of a Russian pirog or pirozhka than American pastries. And then she got to the neat little white pile and had to quick squash a reflexive urge to spit out the mouthful in disgust.
Yes, Tamara had clearly looked at a photograph or painting, and had no idea what the white topping was supposed to be. She'd substituted mashed potatoes, probably whipped to give them the right texture, but nothing could disguise the taste.
Glad for plenty of experience abroad, eating unfamiliar foods either because she didn't want to offend her hosts or there was nothing else to eat, Lisa got it down. The first bite was the hardest, but while the weird mixture of flavors and textures became more tolerable the further she went, it wasn't exactly something that "grows on you."
Now she had a real quandary. If she looked too enthusiastic, Tamara might think that was the right way to prepare a pumpkin pie. But was there any way to discreetly pass the word about the proper use of whipped cream without offending the kindly Georgian woman who had tended the Marshal's household throughout his exile?
Copyright 2022 by Leigh Kimmel
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A Sparta Point Thanksgiving
It all started when Lisa Fox overheard Connor Westin talking with Marshal Gruzinsky about being away for Thanksgiving Day. Unlike most of Spartan's Own, Connor didn't live here at Sparta Point. Instead, he had a place just outside Eureka where his wife and daughter lived, and went to visit them regularly.
The reminder that she wouldn't be going home for the holidays came sharper than she'd expected. After all, she'd missed plenty of holidays, plenty of family milestones, during her various trips to the Russian Empire, from being an exchange student in Stavropol to that last research trip for a dissertation that would never be completed.
But she'd made all those trips knowing she was giving up those things. Now she was just a few hundred miles away from home, but unable to go because the current political situation made it impossible.
It must've been gnawing at her more than she'd realized, because Klim took her aside later that afternoon and asked what was wrong. When she explained, he nodded and agreed that it would be a disappointment.
However, she hadn't expected him to tell Tamara. After all, the housekeeper was Georgian, and while she did do some Russian staples like buckwheat kasha and cabbage soup, her usual fare was straight from the Transcaucasus, stuff like kachapuri bread and spicy goat stew. Not that Lisa minded it -- it brought back memories of her year in Stavropol -- but she'd never seen Tamara make any typical American food. Other than fast food grabbed on the run while on missions, the last time Lisa had tasted American food was when Connor had brought several pizzas back from a place in Eureka.
So she was astonished to come to the dining room on Thanksgiving Day and discover that the table had been set for a dinner straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. She'd gotten so used to the self-serve buffet on the sideboard that it took her a bit aback.
So had everyone else, because there were some confused moments as a number of the fighters looked at the sideboard, found only the samovar with its usual assortment of jellies and jams. It took a moment for them to figure out that they were supposed to sit down for the meal.
However, Tamara must've spoken to the Marshal about it ahead of time, because he arrived decked out in his dress uniform with all his medals. Lisa was a little surprised he still had it, considering that he'd spent almost a decade on the run between the end of the Red Resurgence and his appeal to Admiral Chaffee, with whom he'd worked closely in the rescue of the crew of Aphrodite back in the 70's.
On the other hand, given his penchant for cosplay, it was also possible that he'd gotten his costumer to run up a replacement. Given how prominent his image had been in the news in those days, there was certainly plenty of photographic evidence for a costumer to work with. Lisa certainly wasn't going to ask him, not when she was barely in his good graces after her original unorthodox arrival at Sparta Point.
At least he was able to carve the turkey with aplomb, which surprised her, given there was no analogous culinary tradition in the Russian Empire, or Soviet Union as it had been when he was living there, for him to draw upon. But wait, just when had the rescue of Aphrodite been? Could it have offered him an opportunity to join the Chaffees for a Thanksgiving dinner and see the Admiral do the honors?
On the other hand, most of Spartan's Own were struggling with the concept of passing dishes around the table. Awkward moments when dishes would be coming at someone from both directions, or someone would get enough food on their plate and start eating, not noticing that a dish near them had become stranded as a result. Lisa remembered more than a few from times she'd gone to holiday dinners on her dad's side of the family and had embarrassed herself similarly. At home, the winery was typically so busy that sit-down family dinners were pretty much non-existent, so she didn't exactly get a lot of opportunity to practice that particular skill.
After those awkward moments were done and everyone could dig in, there was an odd absence of the usual small talk - or even Marshal Gruzinsky's war stories. Yet Lisa didn't feel like it was a matter of them being so delighted they were more interested in eating than making conversation. Rather, it felt more like they were so uncertain and awkward that they didn't know what to say.
Her first surprise was digging into the cranberry sauce and discovering it was far too sweet, without the tartness she would expect. Had Tamara simply used too much sugar, assuming that no one here would like the combination of sweet and sour? Except the flavor under it didn't taste quite right - and then Lisa realized that Tamara had substituted an imported Siberian berry that was about the same color, which had no English name and was generally unknown outside Russia, and boiled them down to make something that looked like cranberry sauce.
The Marshal clearly liked it, but he'd been raised in Siberia, his Georgian parents having moved there during the era of the Stakanovites and the First Five-year Plan. Although most of his stories dealt with his military career, he'd told a few about his childhood, of going out with his mother and picking wild berries.
However, the biggest surprise came only after the main course, when the pie arrived. This time Tamara actually cut the slices and put them on individual plates. Each came already garnished with a dollop of whipped cream.
Except Lisa could see that it looked odd, even from a distance. Then again, American-style pumpkin pie had no good analog in either Russian or Georgian culinary traditions. Could Tamara have substituted something strange?
It was hard not to give the serving in front of her a narrow-eyed look. Only Lisa's knowledge of how important hospitality was to Georgians kept her from inspecting it too much. Better to take a bite and hope it wasn't too bad.
The custard actually tasted like pumpkin, although the spices were a little off, and the crust had a texture closer to that of a Russian pirog or pirozhka than American pastries. And then she got to the neat little white pile and had to quick squash a reflexive urge to spit out the mouthful in disgust.
Yes, Tamara had clearly looked at a photograph or painting, and had no idea what the white topping was supposed to be. She'd substituted mashed potatoes, probably whipped to give them the right texture, but nothing could disguise the taste.
Glad for plenty of experience abroad, eating unfamiliar foods either because she didn't want to offend her hosts or there was nothing else to eat, Lisa got it down. The first bite was the hardest, but while the weird mixture of flavors and textures became more tolerable the further she went, it wasn't exactly something that "grows on you."
Now she had a real quandary. If she looked too enthusiastic, Tamara might think that was the right way to prepare a pumpkin pie. But was there any way to discreetly pass the word about the proper use of whipped cream without offending the kindly Georgian woman who had tended the Marshal's household throughout his exile?
Copyright 2022 by Leigh Kimmel