09-08-2014, 09:56 AM
Life had thrown her a box of lemons. Aurora remembered her mom saying to make lemonade from it, or maybe it was her grandmother? Everything was just a blur to her, everything before the crash. Moscow was clear, the doctor's said her memories should start coming back, but they had to as of yet. Her luggage had not yielded any information to why she was in Moscow. Her phone had not rang except for the hospital. She had not been missed. No one had known she was coming here? Why was no one looking for her?
It was all very saddening. Didn't she have a family somewhere? Didn't they care? Or had they all died? Was she really alone? But either which way, she was traveling to Moscow for a reason. Aurora intended to find out why.
And that meant surviving. Every week money was deposited into her bank account like clockwork. It wasn't much but it paid for lodging and food. Food for which she was out of and tired of eating out every night. She thought she knew how to cook? Hopefully. But anything was better than eating out every night. A good home cooked meal sounded wonderful. Fresh ingredients, the smell of herbs and spice cooking in the sauces. For some reason it made her miss her mother. But how do you miss someone you don't even remember, but that feeling still remained.
The cold brisk air of the Moscovian day invigorated Aurora, she was glad to be out and about. She strolled through the market completely lost to what she wanted to make. The market of Moscow served to her people and Aurora had no clue how to make heads or tail of what some of the things were. She wanted a home cooked meal. Chicken fried steak sounded heavenly. But could she pull it off.
Aurora bought oil, and flour and bought fresh herbs, and toss salad fixing. But how does one describe to Russian butcher the idea of a cubed steak? Her accent was clearly American, but even she didn't know where she'd been born, but it was not distinct to a region, completely generic. "A pound of cubed steaks?"
The butcher replied "Cut into cubes?"
Aurora shook her head. "No it's a way of tenderizing the meat. It has a bunch of little holes in it."
Why on the good earth could she remember that and not what she was doing in Moscow?
It was all very saddening. Didn't she have a family somewhere? Didn't they care? Or had they all died? Was she really alone? But either which way, she was traveling to Moscow for a reason. Aurora intended to find out why.
And that meant surviving. Every week money was deposited into her bank account like clockwork. It wasn't much but it paid for lodging and food. Food for which she was out of and tired of eating out every night. She thought she knew how to cook? Hopefully. But anything was better than eating out every night. A good home cooked meal sounded wonderful. Fresh ingredients, the smell of herbs and spice cooking in the sauces. For some reason it made her miss her mother. But how do you miss someone you don't even remember, but that feeling still remained.
The cold brisk air of the Moscovian day invigorated Aurora, she was glad to be out and about. She strolled through the market completely lost to what she wanted to make. The market of Moscow served to her people and Aurora had no clue how to make heads or tail of what some of the things were. She wanted a home cooked meal. Chicken fried steak sounded heavenly. But could she pull it off.
Aurora bought oil, and flour and bought fresh herbs, and toss salad fixing. But how does one describe to Russian butcher the idea of a cubed steak? Her accent was clearly American, but even she didn't know where she'd been born, but it was not distinct to a region, completely generic. "A pound of cubed steaks?"
The butcher replied "Cut into cubes?"
Aurora shook her head. "No it's a way of tenderizing the meat. It has a bunch of little holes in it."
Why on the good earth could she remember that and not what she was doing in Moscow?