Rocksteady clumsily put his earpiece in and stuck the microphone on his cheek. Standing at the kitchen counter, he looked at the collection of bowls and utensils. There were several bags of groceries and a couple of recipe cards with spidery script on them and copious spots in various colors from drips and drabs.

Humming softly, he turned on a hole and put a huge soup pot on it. Emptying some boxes of vegetable broth into the soup pot, he picked up a chopstick and pressed the '5' on the cellphone handset.

The headset crackled and an old voice answered.

"Babushka!" Rocksteady cheered. "Da. I am here. In America. Da. Da. Nyet. Not married yet. Da."

He chuckled and began chopping onions, garlic and cabbage. Nodding every so often, he listened and kept chopping. "Nyet-no one special. No one like my babushka in all America.

"Da. Am fixing borscht like my babushka taught me. With cabbage and red wine and special spices."

He kept nodding, adding ingredients to the pot and stirring it. The cabbage soup was starting to bubble. "Ahh...Babushka. No one like you in all America. Nyet."

He chuckled and began humming. "Watching the television? And fixing borscht. Good plans for Christmas. Sending big package to you. Some of the good chocolate like you like and little snow globe with Statue of Liberty.

"Going to get promoted soon. Big boss need me. He crazy...like Uncle Pitr. He need me. Going to be big deal in city."

He paused, licking the immense wooden spoon. "Da, Babushka. Da." He pulled out a small spice canister and a tiny 1/2 teaspoon measuring spoon. Measuring out exactly 1/2 teaspoon of the grey-green powder and sprinkling it in the soup. "Just adding secret spices now."

He sighed happily as the smell floated in the air. Taking out another tiny pinch, he mixed it with his tub of sour cream so that the flavors could blend. A white blob landed on his recipe card and, after a quick look around to make sure that no one was watching, he wiped it up with his fingers and stuck them in his mouth.

Suddenly his eyes went wide and he about choked. "Nyet! Nyet! Not wiping counter with fingers! Nyet!"

He flushed and his gray skin turned almost rosy. "Nyet. Do not need bride!" He stirred the pot, eyeing it hungrily. "Da, Babushka. Like the pretty girl, but...uh...working hard and need time to court the girl."

He nodded with his eyes open wide. "She very pretty and she doesn't know Uncle Pitr? Sure that she doesn't know Uncle Pitr? Uhh...very busy. Very busy working."

He sighed and nodded, stirring idly. "Will read letter, da. Don't cry, Babushka. Will read letter. Da. Will write soon." He looked at the pot. The kitchen smelled of grandmother's special spices and cabbage and soup just like in Saint Petersburg. Grandmother always fixed her special borscht for Christmas and his birthday. "Da. Miss you too. I'm sorry. Will call more-! Da. Will call more. You write to me. And will call more. Will write soon. Da. Da. Love you, Babushka."

His eyes watered and he sniffled as the elderly woman kept talking. The kitchen almost smelled like hers in her tiny Saint Petersburg apartment when she would fix borscht and cakes for Christmas. No matter what she had to do to afford his favorite soup and a cake with thick icing, she fixed it every year, listening to her old radio. When he left to try to find work as a younger man, she would still fix him his borscht and tell him all of the gossip. She would light candles in the the church she attended, praying for him to be safe and successful in America. By this time, she must have lit a hundred or more candles and prayed for him for hours. When he moved to America-a country that seemed still adversarial and terrifying after surviving the Cold War-she finally agreed to send him a small jar of the special spice mix that she used in her borscht, along with some hand-written recipe cards. She even managed to learn a broken form of English so that he could "practice" with her over the phone because everyone said that learning English would help make you successful in America.

Sniffing, he nodded as she told him of the latest eligible woman she had met on her way to the market. She wanted him to be married, to have the joy of children and grandchildren. Preferably to a good Russian girl who was Eastern Orthodox who could cook. She lit candles and prayed for that too-every Wednesday at the evening Mass.

"Da, Babushka. Will write soon." He stared at the pot of brilliant red soup, drinking in the scent that was almost like his home. Closing his eyes and feeling the soft trail of tears on his rough grey cheeks, he gripped the spoon. "Da. Da. Will do that." He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, just breathing in the scent. Clumsily, he poured some borscht into a bowl and put a dollop of the spiced sour cream on top. Sitting down on the bench, he frowned at the soup. Smiling weakly, he nodded, stirring it all together.

"Da. Love you, Babushka." He tried to smile, but it failed. The bowl wavered in his sight and his hand trembled, causing the spoon to clink against bowl.

"Love you, Babushka... Merry Christmas..."

He slowly hung up and as his cheeks felt warm and wet. Somehow, his borscht tasted just...a little salty.