And on top of that cloves of garlic, the garlic that is to give me strength, that is to clear my lungs of asthmatic gunk, and make of me a real garlic-eating strong man. On top of it, the creamiest, deadliest of American butter, slathered in thick feta-like hunks. Two slices of that dark, unbleached Russian bread, the kind that tastes of badly managed soil and a peasant's indifference to death. A young boy with a dead father and a dead friend bends down before a country dog and feeds it his butter sandwich. What he is ashamed of is the one act of decency I have yet encountered in all the tales of our family's past.
My father sits at the head of a table before the carcass of an enormous American turkey.
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