I Don't Do Ram

Look, I don't know what this is. You don't know what this. The only people who know what this is are the Russians in the grocery store. And being on a solo shopping expedition, I was in no position to ask.

The stores were getting a little low at Dom Dodson. So I put in a request for a driver and Maxim was volunteered. A decidedly non-English speaking Russian, Maxim was none too loquacious on our way to the supermarket. Of course, being a decidedly non-Russian speaking American, neither was I.


It's snowing rather steadily here today. Quite pretty, actually. As long as you don't look at the cars.


This is every car and truck in Moscow. There's simply no way to avoid it. There's just not. The slushy mix of snow and dirt that is every street spatters everything all the time. Only the narrow side streets behind apartment buildings tend to stay picturesquely packed.


That's the narrow drive behind my building as of this afternoon.

So I grabbed a cart and sprinted through the store, grabbing things with pictures on them or things I could actually see. Dannon strawberry yogurt. A few slices of Italian salami. Juice with a picture of mangoes on the bottle. Bag of ram meat -- no. Moving on. Discus of frozen pizza. Trapezoid of cheese. A box with a picture of milk splashing into a bowl of flakes. Looks good. Got it. Moving on. Need yablakie. Where are those nice Braeburns they had here a couple of weeks ago? Don't see 'em. Have to settle for these green ones. Got it. Moving on.

You have to bag the stuff yourself as the checker scans it. Which is fine, of course. I paid, then wrangled it all back out to the car waiting outside, rapidly disappearing under accumulating snow.


This is what you get for just under 3000 Roubles.