Every Fourth of July, while grills across America fire up with burgers and dogs, our table tells a different story. One seasoned with shashlik, pickled tomatoes, kampot juice, and a little Soviet soul. For families who came from the former USSR chasing freedom, this holiday is more than fireworks. It’s a celebration of the life we built here, one flavorful plate at a time. These are the 12 essentials that turn our Independence Day into a feast of memory, migration, and mashed potatoes.

They say “don’t change” like it’s a compliment. But change is the whole point. This is a story about what happens when life shifts slowly, suddenly, sometimes stupidly and you come out different. Not worse. Not better. Just realer. Welcome to the club.

Your papachka won’t say “I love you.” But he will hand you a jar of fermented mushrooms like it’s a Nobel Prize. This Father’s Day, give him more than a tie.

Your kid’s using ChatGPT for homework. Before you panic, read this there’s more at stake than just the assignment.

You know that feeling when the weather shifts and your body just knows? This past weekend was that. If you grew up in a Russian-speaking home, with borscht in the trunk and Boney M on the stereo, you felt it too. Summer’s not a plan. It’s a feeling. And it just arrived.

Today is May 21, the first day of Gemini season, and I figured what better time to finally say something about all this Gemini talk? Not because the stars told me to but because I’m living it. I’ve seen the memes. I’ve heard the slander. And yes, Poopsiki, I had to Google what they say about us. Turns out I’m apparently chaotic, curious, and maybe even two-faced. But let me tell you something: if I have two faces, they’re both showing up on time, with jokes, charm, and a little pelmeni breath.

If you grew up in Sheepshead Bay, you know the fridge wasn’t just for food. It held smells, memories, and the kind of love you didn’t say out loud you just served it, with tea and too many questions from Babushka.

I didn’t go to escape. I went to help. I cooked for wounded soldiers, picked fruit in dusty fields, and stood in a place where someone in our group found a photo of her murdered friend. This isn’t a post. It’s a memory. It’s my community. And I’m proud to be part of it.