In honor of Valentine’s Day this year, I’d like to celebrate love in a slightly unconventional way if you don’t mind. Instead of waxing poetic about how my love is like a pair of cashmere socks, a 25 year-old single malt whiskey, the best chicken pot pie I’ve ever tasted, I’d like to pay tribute to a great Slavic love story that blooms not like a rose, but a fistful of perfect daisies: the love between a grandmother and her grandchildren.
Enter my friend Christoph Fischer.
Christoph and I have a lot in common. We’re both writers, for one. We share a Slavic ancestry, for another. And we know what it’s like to hail from crazy Eastern European families where the solution to grudges, disagreements and soul-sucking entanglements is to have everyone move in together.
We remember the smells of garlic and marjoram in our kitchens, we regard spaetzle as…
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