from russia, with love

my friend olga,
from moscow,
and i were
making some stew
the other night.
a cold front had
moved in and
the weather made
one crave for
comfort food.
i will bring
the meat and the
potatoes she said
over the phone.
you bring vodka.
yes? she isn't
exactly a petite
woman, so i pretty
much listen
to whatever she says.
she likes to cook
with her hair in
a net, stirring
the broth with a long
wooden spoon. i asked
her what kind of meat
she was slicing
and dicing,
dropping into
the boiling cauldron
of potatoes and carrots.
don't worry about it
my little friend,
she said. fix me
a drink. meat is meat.
in russia, it is
impolite to ask what
kind of meat it is,
you are cooking.
you are spoiled and
soft here with your
free range chickens
and angus beef.
just eat it. she
turned and smiled
at me showing her
eastern bloc gold
teeth. the lipstick
didn't help much.
her cheeks were
rosy from the heat
of the stew and her
sleeves were rolled
up above the elbows.
she had the window
open as snow
began to fall
and blow in, melting
against her face.
where is my drink,
she said. i took
a sip of mine and
handed her a glass
of vodka on the rocks.
what are you drinking?
what is that green
drink you are sipping
like a girl? it's
an apple martini, olga.
you aren't a sissy man
are you, she said,
throwing down her drink
in one gulp.
no, i'm not, i said,
and dropped the red
cherry into my mouth.
i beg to differ.