Klara is very Russian, in spite of the name. Today she was uninterested in the fruit puree, the rice or the berries that I tried offering her. Then I noticed that she was eyeing my buckwheat and gave her some. And you should have seen how happily she gobbled it up. This is real buckwheat, mind you, not that weird kashi crap from a box.
Back when I was an undergrad and had my first American boyfriend, the poor fellow came by, saw my buckwheat on the stove, and begged me never to feed him because “it looks very scary.”