Kumquat Marmalade
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I’ve been on a marmalade bender lately. Well, it’s actually been for the
last few weeks. Winter, of course, is marmalade season and the markets in
Paris ar...
Banana Pudding
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I love this banana pudding recipe featuring homemade Nilla wafers, Swiss
meringue and pastry cream. It’s a simple, elegant dish that comes in
individual ...
This Saturday’s Recipes by The Pioneer Woman
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This Saturday is a brand new episode of “Home Sweet Home” on Food Network.
My kids are helping me shoot it, my production company in the UK is editing
it t...
Leftovers à la française
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In the family, we rapidly nicknamed my mother “la reine des restes” (the
queen of leftovers) because she’d make a point of keeping every scrap of
food, kee...
Salt: The hidden preservative
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"No preservatives!" "No artificial preservatives!" This can only be true if
the prepared food item has zero salt. Because salt is the oldest
preservative k...
Follow Czech Please on Social Media
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Dear readers,
I decided to stop posting to this blog at the end of 2013. The good news is
that I am still posting regularly on my *Czech Please FaceBook* a...
October 23
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Last night I got to spend some time with my friend Sam. We hadn't hung out,
just the two of us, for a while - maybe not since June was born, if I
really th...
Chengdu, China
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I never have been travelling in China, was never interested to work there
or even visit. Mostly because of second hand stories I have heard. Well,
was I wr...
This makes me soooo happy. Especially this one. When I see it, I'm seven. I'm wearing red man-made-leather squeeky shoes and running around the yard. The huge tree is ready for autumn, as am I. My shoes' new smell paints the crisp air. I erase it by picking up chestnuts and bringing them up to my nose; they give off a damp raw scent. I take them out of their cracked shells and roll them in my palms. Their smoothness is reassuring. I don't know why, but they make me happy.
So, a friend suggested that I blog about this article that attempts to pinpoint the origin of sudden Russian female pulchritude (the author’s expression, not mine). I’m still not sure what her conclusion is, but I think that there is too much focus on beauty and not enough on talent. Applebaum goes on to point out that there are plenty Eastern European doctors and chess players that deserve as much attention as the beautiful amazons escorting older gentlemen.
Um… we already knew that. But, where DID all those gorgeous Russians come from? One of her hypotheses is that they were always there, but were overshadowed by their dowdy garb and lack of makeup. She writes, “This doesn't mean there weren't any beautiful women, of course, just that they didn't have the clothes or cosmetics to enhance their looks, and, far more important, they couldn't use their faces to launch international careers. Instead of gracing London drawing rooms, they stayed in Minsk, Omsk, or Alma Ata. Instead of couture, they wore cheap polyester.”
Applebaum, eat some more apples, I say. Yes, a woman could be transformed with the right lipstick shade, eyeliner application and a smudge of rouge. Yes, she could look ten pounds thinner in the right dress, three inches taller in the right shoes, and two heads more statuesque next to the right man. But… What about the way she carries herself? Her gestures, facial and verbal expressions and posture? What about grace, mystery, that certain “je ne sais quoi?” Is it possible that more eastern European women possess those qualities than American ones? I don’t know. I do know that when gorgeous Russian women attempt to glamorize themselves the way they perceive American women do, something scary happens. At least in my eyes.
Below are two videos of Russian women. The first depicts the phenomenon described above. The second shows a Woman who is beautiful despite the lack of makeup, pretty clothes and … well, you get the point.
This 81-year-old Russian man painted happy scenes from folk tales for his paralyzed wife who was having a tough time coming to grips with her situation. He noticed that she was becoming withdrawn and indifferent, remembered he was not bad at painting in his youth, and surprised her. She sees the cheerful art on the garage through her windows and smiles. He said, "The most important thing is that my wife no longer cries."