On New Year’s Eve, I anticipated the imminent spectacle of the New York City ball drop in the time capsule of Soviet culture that is my in-law's Brooklyn apartment. In Russian, my father-in-law gave a speech about the exciting moments to come in the new year, and I looked apprehensively at the shot of vodka in my hand. I’d had enough olivier and caviar to choke a horse, and yet, my mother in law insisted on walloping heaps of mayonnaise-slathered (albeit delicious) helpings of cuisine onto my gold and white china plat...
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