Russian to Judgement

 

Some people donate anonymously to upstanding charities as a way to make an impact. Others provide moral support in the form of artillery shells or canned goods. A few choose to pray, feeling it’s the only way to combat true evil. For most of us though, the lowly, unwashed, those options remain perilously out of reach. We are forced to pick sides in smaller ways, showing the world that vocal condemnation isn’t enough. 

I always knew there was something off with Russian dressing, though I couldn’t place it until now. When in doubt, I went with ranch. What’s more American than that anyway? A ranch on the open plain or a single-level home designed with movement in mind conjures up images of John Wayne and other forlorn cowboys, rustling steers and prodding cattle. In these trying times, a dry salad is better than one doused in Russian slop. I went through the same thing in the early days of the pandemic, when I had to unceremoniously dump vats of fish sauce I was hoarding in my downstairs neighbor's storage unit. 

It was hard to put my finger on why Nutcrackers, those grinning wooden figurines, resonated with me much more than Russian nesting dolls. But now I’ve come to realize why. For one thing, they’re German. And with nutcrackers, what you see is what you get. There is no deception, no ruse, nothing kept under wraps. While it’s unwise to use them for the wholesome cracking of nuts at the dinner table, they serve a legitimate mantle function, standing tall in the face of lesser tchotchke. Nesting dolls keep their agenda hidden, in an homage to the Trojan Horse, surely making Odysseus proud, wherever he may be. You think you’re getting one large babushka and instead your home is crawling with little dolls you didn’t ask for and don’t have room for. It becomes another thing to dust. I suppose Tchaikovsky’s out too, seeing as his Nutcracker suite is one of the earliest examples of cultural appropriation. 

I always had a feeling there was a good reason I never cracked into any Tolstoy. I thought it was because of an aversion to author’s legendary length. It's not I ever read the phonebook either. But it was more than that. I can read the entire output of Kakfa or Clancy in the time it takes to open War & Peace with a rusty crowbar. How many Karamazov brothers did we need? Two would’ve been plenty.  

I grant you that perhaps it’s not fair to blame these things for what’s going on in Russia. Maybe so. But I don’t know Putin. I’ve never met the man. He's not in my house. Whereas, I have things in my fridge that need tossing, books on my bookshelves that need burning, and decorations on my mantle that need trashing. 

This is my way of making a difference. Nyet.