If you ever thought Ivan Drago just needed a good confession or a trip to a monastery, then this might be the page for you. If you feel like you straddle the lines between East and West in your own marriage, come read or contribute to the page.

My father was from West Virginia coal country and a convert to Orthodoxy who became a priest. My mother was the daughter of second generation Eastern European immigrants outside Pittsburgh. I was born in the latter half of the Cold War in 1981. My childhood seemed pretty normal to me until I hit second grade and my incredulous teacher refused to believe that my parents would not let me have a Shamrock shake at our class Saint Patrick’s day party because it was Great Lent. She doubted me so much that she called home, and my father told her I was correct and we do not have any dairy for those 40 days. I watched her whisper with the other adult in the room in shock and disbelief.  I spent most of the rest of my days in school trying to blend into the prevailing culture.

Across the Atlantic, in the Bulgarian Valley of the Roses, B was dreaming of the West. As a young boy he was marching in communist parades, but when he came home he studied under the tutelage of his western-educated grandfather who refused to join the party and who cursed at the communist talking heads on the nightly television broadcasts as his wife pleaded with him to keep his voice down or their would trouble for all. B spent his time dreaming of cowboys, rock music and real Levis. at the age of 19 after a stint at camp which exploited the labor of young Eastern European men, he settled in Boston.

In 2011, these two Cold War kids met and 80 days later,  we married. We live in a 19th century farm house that B remodeled. God blessed us us with two Bulgar-ican princesses and a chubby baby boy. The love is strong and the misunderstanding frequent. This blog attempts to bridge the gap between Bulgarian and American culture through stories, recipes, interviews, art, and everything in-between.