Klara created a poem:

Baby-bel cheeses are yummy
But nothing's as sweet as my Mommy.

Another funny, if a tad disturbing, story about Klara:

Klara asks, “Did God put me in your tummy because he wanted me to have a really wonderful mommy? Because God loves me and wants me to be happy?”

“Of course, sweetie.”

“Then why did he put you into grandma’s tummy?”

My mother says it’s insensitive to wear a fur coat to the zoo. I guess it’s like eating a chicken sandwich while visiting a chicken farm. Or reading a book in a forest.

Everything I wear looks like I ate a gigantic, sloppy meal in it. Even my professor regalia look that way, even though I never had a chance to eat anything in them.

The bookstore is filled to the brim with customers hauling out stacks of books with such grim determination you’d think books are about to be banned. Normally, my father would be here with me, and he’d say, as usual, “Ah, so these are the stupid, soulless Americans who don’t read that propaganda always tells us about!”

This year we are starting with Soviet-era decorated salads early in the season. This one is called “Snow mounds”. Boiled potatoes, beef, mushrooms, boiled carrots, garlic and herb stuffed eggs, shaved parmesan, and the substance for the ingestion of which all Soviet recipes existed. (Whoever knows what substance I mean wins).