![]() ![]() At a table in Leningrad, and a table in deepest Queens, New York, the ridiculous garlic crunches beneath our teeth as we sit across from each other, the garlic obliterating whatever else we have eaten, and making us one. ![]() And on top of that cloves of garlic, the garlic that is to give me strength, that is to clear my lungs of asthmatic gunk, and make of me a real garlic-eating strong man. On top of it, the creamiest, deadliest of American butter, slathered in thick feta-like hunks. Two slices of that dark, unbleached Russian bread, the kind that tastes of badly managed soil and a peasant's indifference to death. A young boy with a dead father and a dead friend bends down before a country dog and feeds it his butter sandwich. What he is ashamed of is the one act of decency I have yet encountered in all the tales of our family's past. My father sits at the head of a table before the carcass of an enormous American turkey. ![]()
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