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An American Babushka in Moscow:  On the Boundless Pride of Skilled Labor and once again, on Anthony Bourdain, Chef – Countercurrents
Without my glasses the trees outside the window are misconceived mosaics. No young breezes have come to play among them, nor has the west wind come to make them dance. It is only the residual droplets of water that create motion and a semblance of sound. The birds are quiet. It is a distinctly cold morning in Moscow. It is[Read More...]