TL:DR - I got a newspaper called "BORING TIMES"

I heard a story this morning about illegal immigration in the US, and how it's on the decline because of the lagging economy.  This got me thinking about immigration in general, and the perception of emigrants to America by friends and family who are left behind in the countries that they leave.

My in-laws have friends and family who still live in Belarus and Ukraine.  Whenever we discuss the possibility of going to visit, (something I'm really looking forward to, but we can never seem to put the pieces together) they will always sigh and grumble over the fact that we need to bring a suitcase full of gifts for the people we were going to go and see.

This is not an acceptable gift.

There are two reasons for this.  First, as a token of gratitude for letting us come and eat and drink and relax at that person's place.  I get this - it is a simple sign of human decency to show gratitude for hospitality.  But the second reason is because most people think that if you leave to go to America, you get out of the plane and money rains down on you so much that you can barely stand from having to carry all the extra money in your pockets.  Thus, it is your obligation to spread that inevitable wealth with your unfortunate friends whom you left behind in the economic travesty that is the former USSR. 

She used to be your college roommate

And every time I bring up the conversation with my in-laws, they cite examples of friends who are living off of $100/month in a city where a pair of pants can cost $50.  But to me, this is a skewed statistic, because a) who could live off such a tiny salary, b) who counts Belorussian salaries in US dollars, and c) who can convert rubles to dollars so quickly and accurately?

Being a skeptic and a data-whore, I looked at some figures this morning.  And I haven't come to any real conclusions yet, as I'm sort of researching and writing this post at the same time.  But here's what I've found.

But first, a note about the statistics and facts: I wanted to use median household income, but couldn't find any really reliable numbers.  I instead used per capita GDP, which admittedly doesn't adjust for distribution of wealth, but for our purposes, we'll just assume that per capita GDP is roughly equivalent to what someone in that country would earn on average. Also, the majority of this information has been pulled from wikipedia and numbeo.com, so...yeah - take the data with a grain of salt.  This is mostly for gross generalization purposes.  I'm not submitting a paper to the Harvard Review here.  If I were, I wouldn't say "balls" or "fart".  because that would be unprofessional.  

Country	Per Capita GDP	Cost of Living	Adjusted Income
US	46860	76.19	$61,504.13
Ukraine	6698	45.14	$14,838.28
Russia	15612	63.98	$24,401.38
Belarus	13874	47.89	$28,970.56
Norway	51959	139.53	$37,238.59
Sweden	38204	100.68	$37,945.97
Los Angeles	57500	96.11	$59,827.28
Chicago	56300	88.55	$63,579.90
NYC	67700	100	$67,700.00
Philadelphia	58200	78.55	$74,092.93
San Fransisco	75200	101.43	$74,139.80

All data I found used NYC as a base, so in the information above, if the US cost of living is 76.19, that means prices across the US are on average 76.19% of NYC prices.  So, if you were to normalize all of this and put each GDP per capita in NYC dollars, an average Belorussian citizen would have to live in New York City off of $28,970, not an easy thing to do.  For a Russian, it would be $24,401, even WORSE than Belarus.  A Ukrainian?  $14,838.  But an average American would have to live in NYC off of $61,504.  Almost double that of the Belorussian and FOUR times that of the Ukrainian.  Not too shabby.I just threw Norway and Sweden in there because they're usually the model of oppressive taxation and outrageous cost of living.

But the problem with this, of course, is that you can't say that the income distribution across the entire country is equal (obviously).  This doesn't take into account that people in Moscow or Minsk or Kiev might make more money (or have a higher cost of living).  Additionally, it doesn't take into account that the salaries of those in American cities are generally lower than those people who can afford to live in the suburbs and commute into the urban areas.

Another interesting thing to look at is the distribution of immigrants from Eastern Europe.  The data's a little stale, but I found data from 2000 showing that of the 890,530 immigrants from the former USSR, 233,724 found themselves in New York, 181,800 in California (likely in San Fran or LA) and 44,998 in PA (probably Philly). 

So I found the per capita and cost of living information for those cities, and it was a little more revealing.  A person in Philly or San Fran is living off of almost 5 times more than someone in Ukraine.  The worst city is LA, where they only make 4 times that of the after person in Ukraine.  And the average people in these two cities beat the pants off of anyone from the Scandinavian countries. 

Ok, I'll admit - I've spent a bit too much time on Memebase.

So it would seem that the obvious solution is to come to America to quadruple your income, but what the statistics don't tell you is that there are HUGE and rather obvious issues with immigrating, beginning with being allowed in the country in the first place, and including such non-trivial things like, "hey, you're in your 40s or 50s and have to struggle with having an education that isn't recognized, oh and by the way, you've gotta start learning a language you've never even had the chance to be properly exposed to."  So you're likely to not get a job that is anywhere near what your true qualifications are, thereby significantly decreasing your earnings potential (which sort of flies in the face of everything I've said above) because you're now delivering pizzas instead of working for Lockheed Martin as a Fluid Dynamics specialist.  Also: your children and grandchildren will likely shun your language and culture, isolating you from your own family by making you "the weird grandparent with the creepy accent". 

Ok, one last meme to wrap up the post:

10 Russian Foods That are Making Me Obese, and That I Can't Live Without

So for this week's list, I wanted to do a counter argument to the list I made about the most disgusting Russian foods.  Because, honestly, the Russians make some absolutely amazing dishes that are seriously going to make me bedridden with obesity such that I'll have to be brought to the hospital via crane. 

1. Tea.  Russians never do anything without first letting it "steep" for a while in a cup of hot tea (see what I did there?).  EVERY meal is ended with tea.  And at first, I was sort of indifferent, because honestly, tea?  I honestly thought it was really dumb, especially growing up with my parents always having decaf coffee after dinner.  Now, I can't even believe my parents with their stupid decaf.  "Seriously?  Decaf? What's the point?" I mutter at them with my nose up in the air.

2. Borscht.  Without borscht, I wouldn't have been able to name this blog something awesome.  I was always skeptical about borscht, especially given that I'm not a beet lover, but there's something about the way that it's all put together with the cabbage, the beef, and the beets (not to mention pouring a mountain of sour cream in the soup) that makes me as crazy as a preteen girl at a Bieber concert.

3. Shashlik.  I've discussed this before, but I've gotta mention it again because it's so imperative to my survival.  Grilled pork butt.  It's outstanding, and I've got a delicious man-crush on whoever created this non-gross method of eating butt.

4. Pirogi.  You can't screw these up.  It seems like whatever you put in a pirogi makes it the most delicious pirogi ever created.  Eggs, bacon, meat, rice, vegetables, cherries, onions, whatever it is, they're outstanding.  And the great part is that every family has a different recipe, so you've gotta try everyone's, and they're always competing for room in your stomach, which I can't complain about.

5. Golubtsy.  I never heard of these before, but it's essentially beef and rice wrapped in cabbage, all boiled.  Sounds a bit gross, and for those of you who don't like boiled vegetables, this wouldn't be for you (my wife is of your camp).  But throw half a can of sour cream on top, and I'm living in "oh my god" land where all they play is James Brown.  These are excellent.

6. Olivie - This is the quintessential Russian Salad, and like pirogis, every family has their own recipe.  For my in-laws, they do potatoes, pickles, bologna, and eggs, all nearly swimming in mayonnaise.  But there are families who do it with chicken, or who add carrots, or any number of variations.  If it were up to me, we'd substitute our bed for a giant bowl of olivie and eat while we sleep.  Yeah, it's that good.

7. Salads.  Russians don't believe in lettuce.  I mean, some will use a tiny bit, but normally, Russian salads are nothing like American salads, which are usually 90% lettuce.  When my wife and her family make salads, they're made of two cucumbers, two tomatoes, and half an onion.  And that's it.  Also, they don't believe in any salad dressing other than oil and vinegar.  I used to be annoyed by the whole "no dressing" thing, but now, there's nothing better on a hot summer night than one of these light and delicious salads made with just the best parts of the salads.

8.  Napoleon.  Oh god, Russians do desserts right.  And this particular cake is the best cake I think I've ever had.  The only problem: it takes 2 days to make.  Essentially, it's a cake made of both sour cream and whipped cream, with maybe 25 or 30 paper thin layers with the cream smothered in between each layer.  In the end, it's about eight or nine inches tall (depending on how many layers you make) and it lasts about thirty seconds.  Once you put it on the table, it's a madhouse.  I've personally lost two fingers to Napoleon related injuries.

9.  Dill.  An herb the Americans give little attention to that the Russians will put on ANYTHING.  I don't blame them though, it adds a seriously fresh and amazing aroma and taste that I think a lot of American foods are missing.

10.  Zharkoye.  This is a strange dish, and is sort of the Russian version of the spanish paella.  It's chicken wings (or some other meat, but my in-laws use chicken wings) braised with a magical sauce of carrots, onions, and water - all mixed in with potatoes.  I still have no idea how it's done, even though I've helped make it dozens of times.  All I know is that it's outstanding.

So if you're ever able to get access to a Russian household, please, please, please ask for these ten things - I promise you that you won't be disappointed. 

Family Member Management

Sammy got sick again yesterday.  He threw up about fifteen hundred times, and covered the floor with vomit.  From a purely scientific perspective, it's actually pretty amazing how much he can hold in that thing.  But thankfully, we think we figured out what was wrong with him.  The last time we rushed him to the emergency room, it was after giving him Rice cereal; we haven't given any cereal to him in the past two weeks, and this time we also gave him rice cereal.  So either this particular box of cereal is bad, or he's got some reaction to the cereal, allergic or otherwise. 

But hey, I tried that crap - I wouldn't eat it either.

The science geek in me wants to wait another two weeks and try it again, just to see if this is what the problem is (and then perhaps switch cereals to see if it's an ingredient in the cereal).  But the father in me, especially after seeing how miserable Sammy looked yesterday, says no. 

Give it a week, and I'll probably start thinking about testing the cereals again.

But besides these vague lessons, one thing we definitely did learn was how to manage family members.  There is such a vast difference between how each of our parents reacted to the last incident:

Me: Ma - we took Sammy to the Emergency Room last night; he was throwing up like a fountain for at least a couple hours.

My mom: Oh yeah?  Well, it's good to hear that he's feeling better.

Me: What?  I didn't say he was better.  He still looks miserable and pale, and has lost a lot of weight.

My mom: Did I tell you about the time that you threw up a couple times?  It was amazing.  Also, have you given any more thought to coming up to see us?  We haven't seen our grandchild in two months! And even though I don't really do anything all day long, it's somehow your fault.  No, seriously - I really am blaming you for my not coming down to see him.  Nevermind the fact that he just threw up a hundred times, and I'm still acting as if nothing really happened.  Did you hear about my trip to the bookstore?  It was amazing.  I didn't know there were so many books published!  Your father and I must have walked out with three armfuls each.  I needed to stock up on books for my bookclub meetings!  Then we came home and had Beef Bourguignon glazed with a pinch of carmelized onions with a side of steamed carrots, and ate it on the patio overlooking our freshly groomed and pruned lawn.  Call your brother!  He misses you, and you haven't spent any time talking to him.  He's got three weeks off before he starts work, and is bored from sitting around all day, and you should really get yourself together and call him.  That reminds me, I just saw a bear on my walk this morning! 

Me: ok, bye.

And this is how the conversation goes with my wife and the in-laws:

Wife: Ma, we took Sammy to the Emergen -

MIL: DON'T say emergency room.
FIL (in background): EMERGENCY ROOM??? What's going on? Who's sick?
MIL: Oh my god, What happened? 

Wife: He thre -

MIL: He threw up everywhere?  Why didn't you called us sooner? It's because you're always drinking coca-cola, and it gets inside your milk, and then it's like he's drinking coke!  You don't feed him enough, he's all skin and bones!  How is he feeling now?  What can we do?  Do you need anything?  I can cook for you! We're on our way!
FIL: First find out where they are!
MIL: Are you at your house?  Ok NOW we're on our way!

Wife: Ok, thanks!

(three minutes pass by and the phone rings again)

MIL: I bet it's because he's not eating regular foods yet.  You should start giving him soups.  He's too skinny!  We're coming as fast as we can!
FIL: (in background) I've done a few dry runs in case this happened, and it takes me an average of 3 minutes at top speed to get to your house!  We'll be there in 49 seconds!!

(After spending some time with us, and making sure everything is ok first hand, they go home.)

(Ten minutes after they've gotten home, the phone rings again)

MIL: Is he still doing ok?  Call me with updates!!!

I actually just received a call from her saying that no one (my wife or the babysitter) is answering their phones and she assumed the worst had happened.

I've definitely decided I like the in-law's approach more, but we've come to the conclusion that we're probably going to wait until after any big events to let them in on the action.  It definitely made yesterday's experience slightly less stressful. 

I still haven't called to tell my parents. 

When Slinky-Spine Comes in Handy

I love my in laws dearly.  But I've got a confession to make.  Despite my undying love for them, they do, unfortunately, have troubles with tact.  

Take, for example, our recent trip to PF Chang's in Baltimore.  These dear, lovely, and incredibly intelligent people tend to not do too well within the confines of an eating-oriented establishment.  It might be the terribly expansive menu, or the (legitimate) stomach issues my MIL has, or the stress that comes with having to make decisions under a time constraint.  Or perhaps they're simply trying to optimize the preference curve that exists in the relationship between the most varied and delicious cuisine choices vs. the ever-present fight for the lowest cost.  

My in laws are math geeks like that.  Or is that economics?  

Not important.  What IS important, however, is when my MIL pointed to one of the menu choices, and asked the waiter, "Tell me, Is it delicious?"

The other Russian couple we were with ordered their drinks with one single word, "Ginger!"  When the poor, sweet, and unbelievably patient African-American waiter wasn't entirely sure what that meant, they repeated, annoyed, "GINGER!"  They then commented to each other decidedly NOT under their breath about how black people are so stupid they can't even take drink orders.

My FIL is actually pretty good about these things.  He will actually not insult anyone when ordering.  He sits, silent, and points to the item he'd like on the menu.  The entire exchange between himself and the waiter is usually absolutely silent unless he'd like a shot of vodka.  I remember one time, the people at the restaurant said that they don't serve straight shots.  He then said, "Vodka on the rocks, no ice".

And just this past weekend, my wife was ordering a cocktail.  My MIL asks her what is in the cocktail.  My wife says vodka, schnapps, a little fruit juice.  My MIL wonders aloud if she should get one.  My FIL replies that she drinks too much, and is an alcoholic (which she definitely isn't).  My wife says that if she'd like one, she should get one.  My MIL then tells my FIL that if anyone in the family should stop drinking, it's him.  This exchange goes on for five or ten more minutes.

The waiter has still not yet finished taking our order, and is looking near comatose.  Or he's seizing.  Whatever it is, there's foam coming from his mouth.  (do these things happen with comas/seizures?  Please excuse my insensitivity/ignorance, also - my dear aunt sally {MATH JOKE!}).  Kapow!

I guess the point here is this.  Perhaps there is a Russian Emily Post?  Emilia Sergeivich Postova?  As much as I love them, my spine is starting to hate me from all the slinking under the table I've been doing at restaurant dinners with them.  I love them dearly, but perhaps we'll just get take out from now on.

Anatomy of a Russian BBQ

I wanted to write a post about how to properly create the delicacy that is "Shashlik".  But with the research, all the different kinds, all the very important stipulations and rules surrounding its proper creation, I'd probably not only be writing for a week and a half straight, but I'd bore you to tears.  Because no one can make cooking meat THAT funny.  Seriously - there's a russki-rule against it.  Only slight chuckles allowed.  Belly laughs strictly forbidden.

So instead, I wanted to give you just one tiny slice into how one family prepares it, as literally EVERY family does it differently. 

And not just a little bit differently like with burgers.  You put cilantro in the ground beef, you say?  Putting butter on the bun before grilling?  Whoa - shakin' the foundation here.  You're still using beef, right?  In a circular patty?  Psh.

No, I'm talking WAY different.  For example, my family only chooses the highest quality meat: pork ass.  Apparently, my FIL thinks that the fat that's contained within that sweet swine rump soaks up the marinade so much better than anything else out there.  But other families prefer the juicy tenderness of veal or lamb or even fish. 

Sometimes I'm glad we don't live on a farm, because I could seriously imagine my FIL there in the pig pen, eyes closed and face pressed closely to the ass of the pig, and rubbing it lovingly.  Best Jew ever. 

The next most important part of my family's unique Shashlik tradition is the marinade.  Apparently, this needs to be done the night before the grill gets fired up so that the fat can sufficiently soak up the juices.  Again.  VASTLY different methods exist. My FIL describes some people who marinade with seltzer, or with yogurt, or with a crazy Milk/yogurt mix called Kefir.

My family opts for just vinegar, onions, salt and pepper.  This way the taste of swine butt can REALLY come through.  Then you're supposed to put the meat under pressure by placing a huge weight on the pot where they're marinading.  This aides in the soaking up of the juices. Don't ask me how this works.  I know it's counter intuitive.  You wouldn't squeeze the sponge to get more water in it, but apparently this is how it is with meat.

Ok, now you're ready for grilling.  No, don't even THINK of using gas.  People have been killed for using propane for shashlik.  And hands off the charcoal briquettes.  You have to use wood based charcoal.  This way it makes the meat taste as if you really just cooked it in the middle of the woods.  Never seen wood based charcoal before?  Hmm, strange.  Because it's the ONLY charcoal sold in the Grocery Store.

Oh god, I'm drooling just looking at this picture from last weekend

Notice anything strange about the skewers?  They're not some wussy round skewers purchased to cook stupid crap like eggplants or peppers.  These are home-effing-made flat skewers specially designed to sear the ass of all pigs they come into contact with.  They also double as fencing epees, though, in a pinch.  Or javelins.  Tent stakes.  Ear piercing mechanisms.  You get the idea - they're sharp.



Seriously, I'm having hunger pains just thinking about how delicious the picture looks. 

Best summer tradition ever.  The first time I ever had shashlik, they were so delicious I ate three or four pieces at once.  They got stuck in my throat and I had to lie down for thirty minutes because they wouldn't dislodge themselves.  I think it was the second time I met my wife's parents.  It was at that moment that my FIL knew I was the one for him.

Happy summer everyone, and welcome to Shashlik Country.

Poetry - a treatise

It is a favorite past time of my in laws to recite poetry.  After a few shots, a discussion of the current state of affairs in the US, Israel, and all former USSR countries, and proper ways to do "trick-shots" (such as putting the shot glass in the bend of your elbow), a young Russian's fancy turns to love, and romantic poetry begins to be spouted.

A constant favorite is the snippet from Eugene Onegin "I loved you once", translated in English below for those of you who are link-o-phobic.

I loved you once: perhaps that love has yet
To die down thoroughly within my soul;
But let it not dismay you any longer;
I have no wish to cause you any sorrow.
I loved you wordlessly, without a hope,
By shyness tortured, or by jealousy.
I loved you with such tenderness and candor
And pray God grants you to be loved that way again.

I memorized the first three lines (in Russian, mind you) just by sheer contact-repetition.  Every once in a while, they will pull out a Lermontov, or if someone's feeling especially saucy, they'll break out the Bunin.

This gets me thinking, after my head clears from all the vodka/Romanticism, about why it is that in America, we don't pay nearly as much attention to poetry as the Russians do.  My 6 year old nephew (who, to be clear, has Russian parents) is already memorizing Pushkin, and it's treated as if it's completely natural, and not creepy at all.

The only poem I've ever memorized in my life is a William Carlos Williams poem, "Red Wheelbarrow" (cut/pasted below).  This is because he obviously had twitter's character limit in mind when writing the poem.  This helps with memorization

so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.

Blogger's note - immediately after this, there was originally a whole bunch of really great and funny stuff that I was particularly proud of...but somehow it disappeared into the belly of the Blogger Beast. What follows is a poor man's attempt to recreate what was once a brush with genius, but is now just figurative blog fodder.


That poem is nice and all - gives a great perspective, and brings attention to blah blah blah, barfidy puke-hurl.  But it's vastly different from the poems in the Russian repertoire.  Why is it, though, that I've only ever memorized one poem?  Most likely because poems are stupid.  But it is also probable that my high school education came into play a little bit.  My teacher would introduce poems to us that made very little sense, and offer very little explanation as to what the poet was trying to say.  This led to the assumption  discovery that most poets end up adhering to the following formula when developing their "poems":

First, decide the tone of your poem, happy or sad.  Happy poems are boring, so it's best to choose sad poems.  Then string together a list of random and infrequently used words in such a way as they are related in a coherent fashion but just mysterious enough to cripple any true meaning. The more infrequently used, the better.  Observe the following stanza from a poem:

Parched and posted atop the pugilistic rampart
The mockingbird does not caw
Misogynistic hands grip the beleaguered bird's heart
To bring forth guilt back into its gaping maw

Brilliant, you say?  Perhaps too brilliant?  A great rhyming scheme mixed with a bit of alliteration?  Did you catch the deeper meaning of the word "Misogynistic"?  Did you go back and read it more than once?  I greatly apologize if you did, because I literally just wrote it in a matter of a few seconds.

This, to me, has become the problem with poetry.  It's almost like a language that has been developed by crazy hipsters to differentiate themselves from everyone else, thus making sure that they retain their elite and esoteric status as hipsters.  So is this the problem?  Is this why nobody likes poetry?

Or is it due to a flaw in our educational system?  Enlisting those who cannot discuss the subject properly could result in generations of Americans who just simply do not get it because they were never taught HOW to get it.

And as a final possibility, could it be that it's a more systemic flaw in our culture that while we can sit long enough to read W.C.W., we can't sit around long enough to extract that he's trying to bring focus to an under-appreciated object, and show us that even the most overlooked things can be objects of adoration.

Not unlike a good poem, perhaps?  Psh, if that were true, there'd be a movie about the stupid wheelbarrow.  And an action figure.

I realize i'm generalizing here, because there are plenty of people who like poetry.  But let's face it.  They're in the minority.  Because honestly?  Poetry's dumb.

"I have one guy"

I know stereotypes are inappropriate, but my father in law is a mafia boss.

The first piece of evidence is that he looks like one.

Secondly, he almost never talks.  He says that men who talk too much are like women.  I'm not sure how he'd feel about this blog then.  I've gone to dinners with him where he won't speak all night.  Then the women will go to the bathroom, and it'll just be the two of us.  Thank god for internet on phones to divert the awkwardness.

But probably the most convincing reason I think my father in law is a mafia boss is this:  Recently, we were going through the house discussing all the different projects that need to be done - fix this lamp, stop the leaky sink, remove this, you know, blah, blah, blah.  If there was something that was too complicated for the two of us to get it done, he'd say, "I have one guy - get this done.  Very quick, very cheap." And he says it very off-the-cuff, like he says it all the time.  But his hand motion is what bothers me about it.  He makes a movement as if he's chopping someone's fingers off.  Again, very off-the-cuff, like he does it all the time.

Imagine now if we were not talking about the bathroom door, but about ordering a hit on someone.

"I have one guy - get this done.  Very quick, very cheap".

Sends shivers down my spine.

Tonight, for example, he is coming over to our place to speak with a contractor about getting some work done.  We have a couple of old, crappy sheds in the backyard that wild and crazy animals are now starting to populate rapidly.  So, we need a guy to come in and tear them down and remove the debris.  We got a quote last week from a guy that was just under $1000.

When we told the new guy that my father in law would be speaking with him, he said, "oh, then it won't be more than $250."

Fine and dandy - I could see contractor's quotes varying that much.  Sometimes, they try and gouge you.  But things get weird when you take into consideration my father in law has a "deal" with one of the local auto-mechanics.  I pay $10 cash for a full service oil change, and most low level maintenance is free.  I only pay for parts.

Honestly, I'm a little creeped out by it.  But my wallet's not.