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[daniellelevsky]

Nurture Project - Week 3 Reflection (January 15-21)

This was a week spent largely heads-down on the computer - applying for grants and residencies, coordinating meetings about potential projects, and handling tedious system analysis tasks and planning around my day job. Necessary work, but not enlivening. My day job still remains an energy-zapper filled with work I find unfulfilling. The grant and residency applications is draining but moves me towards greater artistic freedom. Hopefully.

I nourished myself with movement like pilates and yoga, feeling much stronger physically in both practices. Quality time with a new treasured friend and chatting with longtime pals on the phone also lifted my spirits. But towards the end of the week, I felt myself plunge into disempowered thinking around finances and achieving my dreams as a full-time artist/teacher/writer/performer.

The weekend was all on high notes, though - a banya day with good friends, an exciting and fun audition for the MFA devising program at Pig Iron, enjoying avant garde music and theater from Pig Iron, and laughing at a low-key comedy show. Immersing myself in art, laughter, and sauna steam with my community refilled my reserves.

I'm yearning for less computer screen time and more creating with my hands, body, and community. I want to find relief from the 9-to-5 grind and return to activities where I am actually in person with people. My mood is too yoked to outside validation like grant acceptances right now.

This week showed me how much I rely on creative flow, human connection, and embodiment to truly feel balanced. I did not nurture those inner light sources enough amidst the computer work pileup. I can try to shift my focus back towards play and presence, move the tedious tasks to the backdrop, and tend gently to my spirit through artmaking and quality time with beloveds. My inner equilibrium has been knocked askew.

[daniellelevsky]

Nurture Project - Week 2 Reflection (January 8-14)

Week 2 kicked off on the exhausting side - after a weekend of performances of War and Play Monday was filled with the final tech rehearsals and shows for the first night of The Crone Chronicles at PhysFestNYC. Very proud of the work we created, but definitely pushed myself to the edge physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually.

Luckily, the rest of the week brought a better balance of rejuvenating activities amidst the continued hustle.

For the second day of shows of The Crone Chronicles, I enjoyed a slow morning of journaling with a friend, had a quiet and mostly undisturbed work-from-home day, and then closed PhysFest with two wonderful final performances of The Crone Chronicles. My cup was very filled that day.

On Wednesday, watching the inspiring experimental theater piece Onegin by Krymov Lab NYC recharged me creatively. On Thursday, immersing myself in Judy Chicago's stunning feminist artwork was incredibly nourishing.

The necessary tasks of transporting costumes/props back to Philly and tackling piles of grant applications felt draining. My day job remained uninspiring.

I taught an intro clown workshop in Philly which filled participants with so much joy and silliness - watching them have fun was the best refueling. And being able to dance afterward fueled me, too.

Bobbing my head along at my friend's queer choir concert and catching up with close friends over drinks after brought me the community connection and support I needed.

I ended the week feeling a bit more equilibrium than last. Making space for activities across all the facets of health (physical, creative, intellectual, emotional, spiritual, social) allowed me to bounce back from an exhausting start. But I still haven't cracked the code on finding day-to-day motivation at a job I'm not passionate about. And I tended towards over-exertion with back-to-back intense rehearsals and performances.

This week showed me I have room to build more small restorative practices into each day - whether 5 minutes of meditation, a short walk, or writing in my journal (or Morning Pages?! Yep - I'm doing The Artist's Way again).

I want to continue leaning into inspiration and joy from my creative projects and community. Onward towards more balance!

[daniellelevsky]

Nurture Project - Week 1 Reflection (January 1-7)

Happy 2024, friends! I'm a bit late in posting my first weekly reflection, but I will play catch-up for the last couple weeks.

Here are some thoughts on the first 7 days of the year...

My day job was extremely demanding and stressful this week as I tried to create instructional materials for an incomplete, constantly changing software. It felt neverending and draining - definitely no equilibrium between effort and ease! I was working overtime just to keep up. This area felt very imbalanced, with a lot of output of energy and no input or nurturing to refuel me.

Outside of the day job, highlights of the week included taking a fun, sweaty clown cardio class with teacher Jaymie Parkkinen and chatting with him afterwards about potential future collaborations on workshops. When I got to NYC, I enjoyed dinner with close friends, went to the sauna with another good friend of mine, pet-sat a sweet cat, and got in some movement with yoga and pilates classes. These activities filled me up creatively and socially. But the physically tiring aspects also tapped my energy reserves.

The peak experiences - though utterly exhausting - were the rehearsals and performances of my shows "War & Play" in NYC with my lovely collaborators. After re-rehearsing this piece for a little over a month, finally sharing them with new audiences filled me with so much joy and meaning. I felt immensely proud of these productions and the folks on them... and I was definitely running on fumes by the week's end!

So in summary, this week, I did not find much balance across the different areas of my life. My creative pursuits were deeply fulfilling, but also highly demanding on my time and body. My day job and other responsibilities felt neverending and draining. My social connections were nourishing, but I also think I was not taking enough quiet alone time for true rest.

As I move forward, I want to continue saying "yes" to the art-making that feeds my soul, but also pace myself better so I don't burn out. Finding pockets for rest and renewal, delegating certain tasks, and setting better boundaries with my demanding job will be key. This week tested my equilibrium, but offered many insights on where to improve!

[daniellelevsky]

A Return, Anew: Into Nurturing

Greetings World!

I'm dusting off this old Tumblr after nearly 7 years to start a new project. And the timing feels meaningful - in Judaism, 7 is considered the number of spiritual fullness and completeness.

So here we are, in 2024 - 7 years after I last posted here regularly. It feels like the right time to pursue new depths of self-knowledge and balance. I want to understand how the different pieces of my life puzzle fit together; where my energy flows and where it's blocked.

Each year, I choose a new quote to guide me for the year to come - for 2024, I chose a quote from Buddhist-Vietnamese monk and one of my teachers, Thich Nhat Hanh, to carry me forward:

"Walk as if you are kissing the Earth with your feet."

I look to 2024 as a chance to sink deeper roots into this beautiful, blossoming life I’m building for myself. Thich Nhat Hanh's words will remind me to walk steadily yet lightly upon this precious Earth, embracing each breath as a gift. There is much more love to cultivate, still and despite.

In this coming year, I aim to be more rooted, intentional, and connected - to my new home in Philadelphia, its land and community, my body and spirit, my creative work, my relationships. After so much movement and flux these past few years, my goal for 2024 is to sink in deeply and mindfully, and pour my energy into what serves my raison d’être.

I'm divvying up my time and energy amongst different categories of creative pursuits and personal development goals:

Producing/performing theater and clown

Writing essays, poetry, and fiction

Navigating my day job in instructional design

Opportunities for teaching (clown, Jewish studies, yoga)

Travel and adventure

Building community and relationships in my new home

Nurturing my health and wellbeing

In times past, I have felt energized and focused by what I brought into my life; other times, I felt drained and overwhelmed by it all.

So this year, I'm going to document it - how I spend each week across these different areas. What activities feed me, versus take from me? When do I give too much and have nothing left for myself?

I'm reminded of a teaching from yoga philosophy around sthira and sukha - finding equilibrium between strength and comfort, effort and ease. I want to find that sweet spot, where I can walk the line between sthira and sukha in how I pace myself across all these different pursuits. Grounding down into steady effort when needed, while also cultivating softness and spaciousness.

So, once a week, I'll tally up the previous 7 days - what projects got my time and energy, what didn't, how balanced did I feel, what do I need more or less of, etc.

I'm hopeful this reflection will help me find alignment, purpose, and sustainability across the many beautiful puzzle pieces of my life.

As the Jewish tradition says, 7 is the number sitting at the center of it all, binding together the physical and spiritual worlds.

So, let the journey begin...

[daniellelevsky]

Throwback to me writing this

Others’ Memories

Editor’s note: The names of the author’s parents have been changed to protect their privacy. M (Michael) refers to her father, A (Anna) refers to her mother, and D refers to Ms. Levsky herself. 

D: I recall memories that are not my own. They live and breathe in the minds of my parents, my Mama, my Papa, and resonate in HD picture through my mind. I grew up with stories of waiting in long lines for toilet paper in the Soviet Union, of camping adventures through Ukraine and farm volunteer hours in Russia, of how my parents came to know each other at 13 and love each other at 20, of my family’s departure to America, of how happy this country made them. There are certain images that are permanently entangled in my own recollections; they are so vivid, so real, and yet, they are just stories.

M: We were both on the cusp of turning 27 when we left the Soviet Union. That was 1992 and it was a very interesting year. Like everyone else who declared his or her departure, we were fired from work pretty quickly. Most of the year was spent selling off things from our apartment. We sold the cabinets, Anna’s favorite bed. Most of our advertisements were plastered on the bus stop sign when we didn’t have enough to put one in the paper. Anna cried when we sold that bed.

We sold somany miscellaneous things. Just anything and everything we could. Buckets, chipped cups. People were willing to buy this junk because there was barely anything to be found in the supermarkets. Lines around the stores would last four, maybe six hours, and all for a gloriously overpriced stick of butter. So we sold everything. Not for much, but we were able to get by.

Buying anything was so expensive. The prices were just insane. I can’t even explain how expensive it was just to buy some vegetables. No, wait; yes, I can. We sold almost every component of our kitchen: the chairs, the table, cabinets, closets. For that, we were able to get my purple winter coat. It’s the same one I use to shovel snow in now.

A: I cried when we sold that bed. I had never slept on a more comfortable bed in my life before. The mattress was this rouge color, from Czechoslovakia. It molded to our shapes perfectly. Later, when we moved here, I learned that what I had been sleeping on was essentially a sofa bed. For that pink futon, I got a single pair of shoes.

Michael’s father made us a bed. Back then, we saved up all of our glass bottles. You could go to the store and exchange them for pennies. There, his father exchanged the bottles and also found some wooden crates that he fashioned into a bed for us.

My 27th birthday was March 4, 1992 and we arrived in America on April 27, 1992. In March, we had to make all of our travel arrangements. The plane tickets from Moscow were already paid for, but we had to pay for the suitcases, the train ride from Kiev, and a taxi to the airport in Moscow.

So many people were leaving the Soviet Union at the time that train tickets were hard to come by. It was slightly terrifying, because on the taxi ride from the train station to the airport, a lot of people were mugged, robbed, and even killed by bandits. There were gangs who understood that these people were leaving with only their most prized possessions, but when those prized possessions didn’t serve any monetary value, they just took their money and killed them.

One of our friends referred us to what we knew was another gang that offered safe passage from the train station to the airport for an exorbitant price. If, say, a taxi ride cost 100 rubles, these personal rides cost 1000 rubles. It was a very interesting moment because we had no idea if we were actually going to be taken to the airport or if we were going to be sold off to the other bandits. When we climbed into the private vehicle, it was Michael, my mother, and my very sick father. I guess all you could do was pray to your God that nothing terrible should happen.

When we arrived in America, we realized that we would have had nothing to give away to those bandits. We might as well have brought empty suitcases, because all we ended up using was toothpaste, soap, the kitchen coat, and the sofa-bed shoes we brought.

M: Almost after we arrived, our friend Misha, who had been in Chicago for a year now, called me up and started badgering. “What are you doing, not working? Think you’re walking around like a free man now, eh?” He set me up with a job as a pizza delivery boy.

We all lived in one apartment in a building on Touhy. I worked most of the evening shifts in the bad parts of town. Anna would worry. Her mother would worry more. When I came home, they would tell me over and over again that it was time to quit this job, that it was dangerous. Then, we would all eat the delicious pizza I brought back and complain about eating so late. We repeated this process over and over again, every night until the middle of the summer.

With the money I earned, we went to buy our first car. No one in the Soviet Union really owned cars. At least, no one that lived within a 20 mile radius around us did. I took driving lessons just before we left Ukraine so I already knew how to drive and just had to pass a driver’s test here.

The first time we went to a car dealership, Anna was in tears again.

A: The car dealership was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. No one had cars in the Soviet Union. I mean, some people did, but they were smuggled in or a gift from the corrupt government. None of them were obtained in a normal setting. But this wasn’t one car, it was many cars, maybe even hundreds, just standing there and waiting to be bought. I felt as if I had landed on another planet. Michael was touching the cars, he even sampled a ride in a bright green Cadillac.

This couldn’t have ever happened there. If a car dealership opened up in the Soviet Union, they would have been stolen altogether or had parts removed from them within a day. There would be nothing left of the lot.

And it wasn’t just the cars. It was all the stores. All the merchandise, the groceries. I got lost in an Aldi the first time I went inside. I was so fixated on the different pastries, cookies, trying to differentiate the prices at the beginning of the store that I was separated from the group and couldn’t find my way back out of the store.

One of the first things we bought in America was an iron. In Ukraine, it was a necessity to have an iron, because all the clothes were made with pure cotton and we had no dryers to speak of. Here, with synthetic materials woven into our new clothes and dryers readily available on every corner, we never ended up using the iron.

M: American food was very strange and very exciting to us. For the first few months that we were in America, we received food packages because we were considered refugees. Most everyone in our building was Russian, except for an older Korean couple who also received the packages. Each package contained an enormous quantity of peanut butter, which we had never tried before. Everyone in the building agreed that it was disgusting.

Anna tried to do something about it. She found a recipe on the jar of peanut butter to make pastries and decided to give them a try. After handing them out to the entire building, she discovered that they were totally inedible and disgusting. We ended up throwing so much of it away.

We didn’t go to many restaurants, but finally, on my 27th birthday in September, we went to our first restaurant: McDonald’s.

A: I hated McDonald’s. I had just found out I was pregnant a month before and so I had become overly sensitive to smells. McDonald’s smelled just terrible to me. So did every smoker we passed by on the street.

We somehow managed to clothe ourselves and furnish the apartment, too. As refugees, we were welcomed into a secondhand store where we could get a bag of clothing for free. The owner of the store took a shine to me and insisted I try on fake fur coats, one after the other. Perhaps the coats came from the same source, but they were all incredibly short on my arms. We took one just to appease him. It was actually very fun being able to pick up new clothes without having to worry about our budget.

Furniture we knew we would have to pay for. So, instead, we resolved to drive around at the end of the summer, looking for couches and chairs that others had disposed of to make room for new furniture. For some reason, we would always happen to be out collecting furniture when it had just rained. We picked up a couch, moved it into the apartment, noticed a terrible smell, and then would heave it out the fifth story window towards the dumpster. We did this five times and had even more fun than with the free clothes.

D: When my mother was pregnant with me, she turned down a job to work at a chemical laboratory and started taking English classes at a school in Uptown with my father. They were awarded a grant for refugees and were able to save some of their class money for food and rent. My mother told me that she had never had a professor as brilliant as the one who taught her English. He not only knew the language well, but he savored teaching every word and reveled in the success of his students. While I was growing inside her womb, she was taking in every passionate lesson from this man. In a way, I’d like to think I was taking it all in, too.

DANIELLE LEVSKY currently lives, writes, laughs, and cries in Chicago; most of the time she works as a graphic designer and copy editor for the Chicago Tribune. She holds a B.A. in English Writing and a minor in French Language and Literature from the University of Pittsburgh. Her work has appeared in numerous online and print publications. Learn more about the Russian redhead at dlevsky13.wix.com/daniellelevsky.

[daniellelevsky]

I’ve recently started writing for @poemswhileyouwait. My first event was at the William Blake exhibit opening at the Block Museum in Evanston. To see some more of the poems I wrote there, head to my Poetry instagram: https://www.instagram.com/scribbles.and.sonnets/

“Tender” by Danielle Levsky – William Blake at the Block Museum, 9.23.17

poem topic: tender

[daniellelevsky]

Updates!

Hey friends. I updated my portfolio today with some recent articles I wrote for Print and City Paper, as well as a logo design project! Check out my stuff here: daniellelevsky.wordpress.com/?p=*

[daniellelevsky]

Farewell to 2015

2015 was quite the year for me.

I adjusted to being out of college; learned to live alone; worked at the Chicago Tribune; started my freelance writing career; lost weight, gained it back and lost it again; gained my confidence back as a writer, woman and human being; made new friends and dropped toxic ones; rekindled and reaffirmed the most important relationships in my life; went to Turkey, Poland, Berlin and Greece with amazing friends; gained a new member of my family: Roma, the prettiest kitty alive; shockingly received a chance to be a published author in 2016; chopped my hair off only to grow it back out again; moved to Pittsburgh; started a new job; moved into a house with my friends; became a regular contributor at two awesome publications, and found out I'll be writing theater reviews for Pittsburgh City Paper in 2016.

2015, you were a hell of a year, the most up and downs I've ever experienced. What did I learn from all the changes? Don't apologize for anything, especially whatever brings you joy. Those who expect an apology are not worth your time. In the words of Miles from Risky Business, "sometimes you gotta say "what the fuck," make your move... every now and then, saying "what the fuck," brings freedom. Freedom brings opportunity, opportunity makes your future."

2016, what the fuck - I am ready for you.

[daniellelevsky]

I will still return to France the second I get the chance

Photo credit to Jean Jullien

On November 13, 2015, tragedy struck in the city I once called home. Paris was under a terrorist attack and according to the Guardian’s reports as of Saturday morning, November 14, the death toll clocked to 87 at the Bataclan theatre; 18 at Boulevard de Charonne; one at Boulevard Voltaire; five at Rue de la Fontaine au Roi; and 14 at Rue Alibert. More deaths have been reported since then and have come to a total of almost 129, while 352 people were injured. Since the attacks, a statement was received that the attacks were from the Islamic State and that France is a ‘key target;’ according to Isis, the attacks were in retaliation to France bombing Syria.

When I first found out, all I could think about were my friends that currently resided in Paris. I reached out to them on WhatsApp and Facebook. This was the second time this year I messaged them out of panic and not a friendly hello. In one conversation, my friend, who is an exchange student in Paris from Siberia, responded to my message. Days earlier we had spoken about setting up a Skype session to catch up on life.

“It’s a three minute walk away from my building,” she responded to me, sending me a photo of her location, just blocks away from the Bataclan theatre. “I’m panicked and crying.”

I was relieved that she responded. I tried to calm her down, divert her attention away from the attacks and on other subjects, like what she would do after she finished university.

Then, Facebook sent me a notification that three of my friends were marked safe during the attacks. My Siberian friend also messaged me a photo of Facebook requesting to know if she was safe or not.

“Facebook worries,” she said. “But what can they do if I’m not okay?”

It’s a great question and one that has bothered me in many ways since the events of yesterday occurred.

France has taught me so much. When I visited for the first time at age 11, I was mesmerized by its beauty, charm and wonderful cast of characters. As I learned French through junior high, high school and college, I admired and respected the intellectual work and pursuits that came out of so many French individuals. I knew that the French government still had a lot of work to do in its treatment of people and policies, but I loved France for its flaws and its merits.

When I had a chance to live in Paris, to study abroad at the incredible Sorbonne, to meet all the varieties of French people, to experience the most astounding art and exhibitions through Paris and surrounding cities, my love overwhelmed me. It enveloped me. I almost did not get on the return flight to the US because of how much I already felt at home.

I’ve heard too many times that French people are considered rude and impolite, but I never experienced this once. From the server at the cafe who gave me book recommendations, to the lawyer I argued with about the meaning of the song ‘Get Lucky’ by Daft Punk on the lawn of the Eiffel Tower, I enjoyed every honest encounter I had with a French person. We spoke of every subject, directly and to the point. They challenged my outlook on life, people and love.

And all of these people were innocent: my friends, my acquaintances, the server at the cafe who shamelessly flirted with me every time I stepped in to have an espresso. All of these people deserve to live full, rich lives. I am relieved my friends are safe, but what if they weren’t? What could I do to help them? It could have just as easily been me if I was studying abroad this year.

Just a day earlier, suicide bombings launched by an ISIS cell from the centerfold in Syria left 43 dead. In September, a bombing in Ankara, Turkey left 100 dead. In August, a large car bomb exploded in Cairo, Egypt and and injured six. In July, the Islamic State and Egypt left over 117 people dead in the Sinai. In April, 147 died in an attack by Islamist group al-Shabab on Garissa University in Kenya.

I am thousands of miles away from Paris but I will still return. I am thousands of miles away from all of these places but I hope to one day see them and meet people from them. ISIS continues to attack different parts of the world in what looks like a global spread of terrorism. However, if anyone thinks they can keep me from a place I want to be or a people I want to be with, they are incredibly mistaken. I once wrote a blog post about why I travel and mentioned that people worry that I am going to places in which some part of my identity is dismissed or despised. 

I will not let fear conquer. I will not let hate conquer. There will always be people who hate me or hate what I represent in the world, but there will also be people that are kind hearted and good. I will let good conquer. I will believe in good people. I will use words to solve my arguments, not weapons. I will recognize others as a part of our human family. 

One day, I hope everyone recognizes this, too. 

And one day, very soon, I will return to my good Paris.

[daniellelevsky]

Why I’m Not Afraid To Travel

It might not be the most practical decision (or expense) but most of my income goes to traveling. I’ve been out of college for a little over a year now and most of my pennies are saved to learn about the diversity and beauty of people, about all the different cultures and histories on our Earth.

It is astonishing. There is so much to learn, so much to see, so much to love. I am aware of the tensions and conflicts that exist between countries and groups of people, internationally. Regardless, I am eager to meet others and learn about them. I suppose that every writer draws their fuel, their inspiration from something, and for me that has been and continues to be something very simple: people.

Unfortunately, when I share my travel news and itineraries with others, I often get negative and discouraging responses. Usually this negativity comes with a judgmental and overarching opinion (or even fact) in the formula: “Oh, I will not go to Place X because they do not like People Y and I identify with People Y distinctively.” Replace People Y with Americans, Jews, Muslims, Christians, wealthy people, impoverished people, Buddhists, redheads, blondes… the list goes on. It is one thing to feel that your life is endangered in a certain place because of what subgroup of human you identify with; it is another thing entirely to avoid going somewhere because one, fifty, or 100 people have expressed their distaste or dislike of another’s subgroup.

Personally speaking, my cultural background could potentially have me run into people who do not like “my people.” My parents are immigrants from the former Soviet Union (Ukraine, specifically) and my first language was Russian. There are plenty of people who dislike immigrants, former Soviets, Ukrainians, and Russian speakers. I also come from a long line of Jewry on both sides of my family. Anti-semitism is rampant. Finally, I am an outspoken, opinionated, heterosexual, Caucasian-identified woman who was born with American citizenship.

These are all human-created concepts. When all of us were born into the world, we were not aware of these divisions, these conceptions. I distinctly remember the first time I started truly differentiating between boys and girls, children who had different facial features than me, and hearing other languages being spoken around me. I was not afraid by it. I was in awe, I was curious. It was because I found our differences irrevocably beautiful.

What I can’t recall exactly is how many times I have been told that if I travel to Place X, people will not like me because they do not like Russian speakers, Jews, Americans, women, and so forth.

Everywhere you go, you will find an enemy or someone who will not like you for who they imagine you to be. This is true. It is also true, however, that everywhere you go, you will find someone who thinks you are beautiful, interesting, and an essential asset to our human experience.

If you would like to avoid ignorance and hatred from others, I suggest that you arrange a trip to the moon. I should also mention that you will not find any human inhabitants there. So, to paraphrase, if you would like to avoid all human interaction, I suggest that you arrange a trip to the moon.

And therein lies the problem: we have forgotten that we are all humans. These subgroups are interesting, they are biological, but that which distinguishes us from other species on Earth (rationality, technological advancement, intellectual and higher thought) also is dangerous. Instead of celebrating our differences, we break them down. We criticize them, we radicalize them, we turn flesh against other flesh.

For this reason, I will continue to travel even where I know my background is hated. I will continue to travel and meet beautiful, kind people because they exist everywhere you go.

To travel is to learn, to learn is to grow, and I think that is the most important piece of advice I can offer to anyone I meet.

[daniellelevsky]

Thirty Day Writing Challenge: Day Four

Today’s topic is: my favorite comfort foods.

When the weather gets cold, I get hungry. I sometimes think I am secretly a bear because I stock up on those calories to get through the cold, long winter (I also wear a lot layers to cover up the effects of those calories).

I grew up with the cooking of my Ukrainian-Jewish mother, so my comfort foods are a little skewed. I did, however, attend American schools and visited American friends’ houses so I am not immune to the classic comforts, friends. My list will be eclectic. Read on and try not to drool.

1. Pelmeni (Russian Dumplings)

Ah, pelmeni. The stuff of dreams and childhood. These traditional Russian dumplings are better than any other dumpling you’ve ever had (I’m looking at you, potsticker). My favorite ones are stuffed with a minced meat (traditionally they are a combination of pork, beef and chicken), then wrapped in thin, unleavened dough made of flour, water and a small portion of eggs. They are boiled until they float to the top, then served with butter and salt, sour cream, or vinegar. I know these are my go-to on a rough day. They make everything warm and fuzzy and happy.

2. Sweet Varenyky/Pierogies

These are the distant cousin to pelmeni. They are a traditional Ukrainian dumpling, filled with something sweet or savory. Because of the texture of the dough, I prefer to have them sweet, usually with fresh cherries. The name itself simply means “boiled things.” Are you sensing a theme here? They too are quicky and easy to make and can be served with sour cream or plain.

3. Chocolate Chip Cookies

I would be severely un-American if chocolate chip cookies did not make this list. There is something so heartwarming and adolescent about having a warmed up chocolate chip cookie with a glass of (almond if you’re lactose intolerant) milk. Because I never really had this snack at bedtime when I was growing up, I like to eat it now and imagine I am a child in one of the quintessentially American films I watched while I was learning English, like Home Alone, Parent Trip and Matilda.

4. Matzo Ball Soup

And what kind of Jewish gal would I be if matzo ball soup didn’t make this list? The chicken broth in the soup has been called the ‘Jewish penicillin’ and my parents took this title quite seriously. In fact, it’s recently been proven to be true. I knew there must be a reason that after eating a bowl of matzo balls in mama’s homemade chicken broth when I had a cold that I felt infinitely better and ready to take on the world.

5. Plov

I reviewed a Pittsburgh Uzbek restaurant that served a less than satisfactory plov dish, but this ‘rice pilaf’ brings back the best memories. My mother would make it from scratch, tossing in fresh saffron, lamb, carrots, green onions, and more spices. The entire dish would take hours to cook. We would hungrily gather around the finished pot in the late evening, drugged by the aroma of saffron. That first bite was always so hot but so perfect. Homemade plov is where its at.

6. Garlic Mashed Potatoes

Oh look, two of my favorite things: cute kitties and mashed potatoes. Another very all American option but garlic mashed potatoes - and mashed potatoes with truffle oil - are actually the best thing since before sliced bread. Sans additional ingredients, mashed potatoes and ginger ale were also my go to if I ever had a bad stomach ache and couldn’t eat anything else. 

7. Mac and Cheese

I feel like I’ve gained 10 pounds just by writing this blog. Who can resist the temptation of mac and cheese? I like to mix it up by using greek yogurt instead of milk and butter and adding parmesan/asiago blend instead of cheddar, but whatever way you slice it, mac and cheese is a comfort food goddess. All hail.

8. Hummus

My Judaism is peeking through again. Hummus is fantastic and it comes in so many flavors and varieties. I’ve eaten hummus in Israel, Turkey and Greece and not once has it tasted the same. It’s a very versatile dish but it’s so filling and delicious. It’s also a very healthy protein option when you’re craving something to eat at a weird midnight hour or when you’re strapped at work.

9. Guacamole

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: eating guacamole makes me feel like I’m on vacation. I think this is because when I was young, my family took me on a few trips to Mexico and I fell in love with guacamole. I ate it every day for lunch and dinner, putting it on nachos, quesadillas, salads. When we got back to the states and I tried to make it myself, it didn’t quite taste the same. Worse even, I had a bad experience at a Mexican restaurant near my hometown and declared that Mexican food was the best in Mexico. Fast forward to my twenty second year of life and I munch on guacamole at least once a month. I close my eyes and think I’m sitting by the beach...

10. White Bread With Butter and Caviar

Talk to any Russian kid and this will be one of their all time favorite things. While black caviar was reserved for New Years (it’s very expensive), red salmon/sturgeon caviar was much easier and cheaper to come by in Russian stores. The best breakfasts ever were simple and to the point: a good, Italian white bread with fresh butter and a hearty helping of caviar. This would, of course, be served with a Russian black tea. This is probably my most favorite comfort food as the taste transports me to some other worldly, magical wonderland. 

Now that I’m thinking about it, it looks like I’m going to eat all of these foods. Right now.

[daniellelevsky]

Today's rant: Why I *still* need feminism

Over Halloween weekend, two (and unfortunately/probably more) girls reported a sexual assault around Pitt campus. This post hits the nail on the head. Girls are not objects for you to be rough with/grab/do anything without permission. This does not change depending on your mood, their mood, what they're wearing, what they're not wearing, what they said yesterday, what they're saying today, etc. People ask me why I "need feminism." I need feminism for a plethora of reasons (and so do you), but at the moment, I need it because girls are still being assaulted, both sexually and physically. I need it because girls are still being treated like objects and not like humans. TL;DR Respect every human being for what they are: a human being.

[daniellelevsky]

Thirty Day Writing Challenge: Day Three

I am a little bit behind but still persevering in this challenge. Today’s entry topic is first love and first kiss.

I haven't written about my first love/my first kiss since I was 15 or so, when after one long winded story I swore that I would never waste another word on him again. 

But now I'm 22. I've loved and loved. I've left the suburbs more than just for a temporary trip, I've lived and experienced more than I ever imagined at 15. 

When I was in junior high and madly crushing on my first love, I would often close my eyes and imagine what college would be like. I thought we'd both go to school just 30 minutes away from our homes at one of the best (and most expensive) universities in the midwest. I thought we would pursue our separate passions: him theater and I writing. I thought that in the end, we'd be together and all would end well. 

But of course, fantasies are just that. I never thought he would ever see me as more than a friend. To my utmost surprise and delight, he asked me to go on a date with him at the end of eighth grade. Our parents drove us to the movies, as they had done so many other times before. It was on our third official date I remember that we ventured out to my favorite spot, which I called my secret spot. It was in a field just outside my subdivision, where wildflowers grew free and haphazardly in the summer. A pond lined the left side of the field and across the road was miles of Illinois corn. It was a serene scene, my secret spot. And I'd only revealed it to a few people in my life. 

We walked along that field for what felt like the 100th time, but this time him and I both knew I'd have my first kiss on that field. I remember I was terrified and excited. Before, I'd gotten advice from a close friend on what it's like to kiss a boy.  She wasn't very good at explaining. In the early days of Youtube they had kissing tutorials which I watched countless times before my meeting at the secret spot. I remember it felt wet and jittery. Tongue was not explored that first time around (and thank goodness it wasn't - those Youtube videos did nothing to make me feel comfortable about the process). 

We dated through the summer until he told me we couldn't date anymore because (surprise) he was gay. He was my first kiss, my first love, and I was too young to understand what his coming out meant about me: absolutely nothing. 

Our friendship became unhealthy and toxic through our first year of high school, so much that we have not spoken since then. It was only halfway through my sophomore year of high school, my involvement with the high school Gay Straight Alliance, and having so many other friends come out to me/tell me their story that I understood where he was coming from and how hard it must have been for him to pretend he was interested in women, to conform to society expected of him. 

It's strange to me that now, I am not only an active ally in the LGBTQ+ community but that I'm working on writing a long form essay about spaces in which it exists. And all of it came from a first love, a first kiss and a secret spot.

[daniellelevsky]

Thirty Day Writing Challenge: Day Two

I was in transit to Chicago yesterday so I didn’t have time to post this. Today’s topic is something you feel strongly about.

I feel strongly about a lot of things. I’m in general a person who has strong feelings on everything I take on, be it feminism, LGBTQ+ rights, racism, bullying, financial responsibility, supporting the arts, anti-semitism, language learning, creative professions...

But something happened to me the other day that struck a chord. I was on an informal job interview at a coffee shop, talking with the Head Designer and Editor in Chief of a startup arts and culture mag in Pittsburgh. We were discussing my previous writing experience, what kind of work I wanted to do, and what kind of work they were looking for in the future. 

During my interview, a drunk guy plops in a chair next to me. One of my interviewers later pointed out that rather than making the customary amount of personal space between both of our chairs, he made sure to move it closer to my chair.

I was listening to something one of the editors was saying when he muttered, “Those are some nice boots.”

It didn’t register right away but I turned to him and asked “Excuse me?” He didn’t immediately say anything so I turned back, turning my full attention to the editors once more. He then started talking over my editors.

“I was just saying you have nice BOOTS.”

Now he had the attention of not just me but also my editors. The Editor in Chief nodded at him and looked back at our table to continue our conversation. But the guy was not done.

“Hey, you know, if you see a girl with really nice boobs, all you have to do is say, ‘hey, nice boooooooooooo...ts.” 

He started laughing as the Editor in Chief, the Design Editor and I shook our heads. I turned my chair abruptly away from him and muttered under my breath, “Thanks, good to know!”

We ignored him and later he interrupted our discussion again, talking about his work as a journalist/filmmaker/quantum physicist.

TL;DR: I was cat-called/harassed during an INTERVIEW.

This is getting absolutely ridiculous. Not only do women have to worry about being harassed on their walk home, to work, to meet a friend, to go to a party, to go to a job interview, but now, if an occasion that’s even as important as a job interview is taking place, I still run the chance of being harassed by some assholes.

This idea has been echoed by fellow feminists, or, you know, just people with decency and respect for others: women need to stop being treated as a commodity, as an object that you have the right to impose your opinion/thought upon at any given moment. 

Here’s the thing: when someone, a man, woman, or wherever you fall on the gender spectrum harasses or cat-calls a woman when she’s simply going about your life, what does that say about you? Not only are you offending the woman in question, but you’re also insulting yourself. When you make an action like that, you’re sending a message out to the world that you are still of caveman-like mentality, that you run mostly on testosterone and sex drive, and that you don’t understand the basic tenets of human interaction and respect. Basically, you are making yourself look like a fool.

I really hope I don’t run into this situation again. I really hope that no one is going to interrupt my interview to comment on my booo...ts or anything else for that matter. I really hope that one day, we can all treat each other with respect.

[daniellelevsky]

Restaurant Review: “Kavsar” | A Ukrainian-American visits Pittsburgh’s only Uzbek restaurant

A preface for this review: I grew up in a Russian-speaking households, listening to Russian tales and eating Eastern European food from the moment I learned how to chew. I was a first generation American who grew up speaking only Russian for the first four years of her life. My parents continued to uphold traditions from their home country in the house while they learned English and moved onto careers in Programming and Mortgage Brokerage. In terms of cuisine, Borscht, the oft berated Eastern European beet soup, was one of my first dishes. I grew up drinking Kefir, Rajik and/or Ayran, various forms of cultured milk. Pelmeni, Russian dumplings, and blinchiki, Russian pancakes/crepes, were often served for family gatherings and guests.

When I first learned about Kavsar, Pittsburgh’s only Uzbek restaurant, I was at once excited and skeptical. I had been deceived before by places in Chicago offering authentic Asian/Eastern European goodness and delivering something very subpar. Still, I had been searching for authentic, Eastern European-esque cuisine in Pittsburgh since I started undergrad in 2011. I owed it to myself and to the sweet family that owns this restaurant a chance. 

Besides, their Yelp page had decent reviews. So I decided I would go.

...but not before asking my mother.

“What’s on their menu?” she asked me even before I finished telling her the name of the restaurant.

“Listen, if they don’t have Plov, Lagman, oh, and especially Manti.”

“Okay, it looks like they have all of that,” I scrolled through their prettily put together online menu. They featured photos of the food by each of the selections. My eyes lit up when I reached the drink menu. “Hey, they also have Ayran!”

My mother laughed. I drank Kefir/Ayran like it was nobody’s business... when I could find it.

“The final test of this being a proper Uzbek restaurant is their tea. If they serve it in typical, Western tea cups, it’s not the right place. Uzbek tea is usually served in a Pialla, which falls somewhere between a bowl and the tea cups we use today.”

With approval and instruction from dear mother, my three Ukrainian friends and I set off on our dinner venture.

Anya had spent most of her life in Kiev, Ukraine, coincidentally where my parents were born and raised. She came to the USA to study music in her 20s and still resided her. Pasha and Vlad were also born in Ukraine but emigrated to the states as pre-teens. They too held high expectations for the meal we were about to enjoy.

We somehow navigated the very slippery streets of Mt. Washington with much love to the Google Maps navigational system. 

“You have arrived,” the annoyed woman on my phone told us and we looked around. We were in a residential neighborhood. We parked on side of the road then got out of the car, noticing a one room fitness center and then beside it, aha, a glowing “Open” sign and the Kavsar restaurant name on plastic sheet above it, hung from inside the residence. The home had been remodeled into a restaurant, and upon walking into the building, the feeling is still very much there. In the entrance room, a nice and smiling attendant asked us how many people would be joining our party. The walls were a cream color, a complete contrast to the very ornate, carpeted floor. We made our way up a rather steep flight of stairs to the dining room, where the walls were mostly bare save for a few plant-influenced metal hangings on them. The chairs, however, were strewn with wedding like bows behind them, immediately transporting back to fun but overwhelming Russo-Ukrainian parties I had attended at Russian restaurants as a child. The familiarity put me at ease.

We sat down and I let the others take their time looking at the menu. I already had my mother’s consultation on hand. I ordered Ayran and Plov, sticking to the basics. Anya ordered Manti and tea, Pasha ordered Plov, and Vlad ordered chicken kebabs. 

Quick note: Because I did not have a chance to try my friends’ food, this review is based on my order. 

Ah, Ayran. It is said to have originated in Turkey, having been sipped on by nomadic Turks prior to 1000 CE, and is considered their national drink; however, Ayran can be found in other neighboring regions, including Uzkbekistan, Azerbaijan, Iran, and Arab countries. Ayran is described as a cold, yogurt beverage with salt. The comparison I always make for my American friends is a liquid version of Greek yogurt.  It’s a flavor that doesn’t appeal to all, but to those who love it, rejoice and drink it often: Ayran is packed with electrolytes so it is useful against dehydration. It also is an excellent source of probiotics, a beneficial bacteria found in many yogurts that is necessary to a well-functioning human digestive system.

But I digress. This Ayran was indeed homemade and a perfectly crafted glass. It teetered the balance of liquid and solid, had just the right amount of tart and salt, and was a breath of fresh air after I had spent most of the day running around like a chicken with its head chopped off. It was honestly so good that I drank two glasses over the course of the meal.

I was highly anticipating the Plov, because every country that makes it has its own recipe (and there are many - it is a staple/national dish of Afghan, Armenian, Azerbaijani, Bangladeshi, Balochi, Bukharan Jewish, Cretan, Kurdish, Iranian, Pakistani, Swahili, Uyghur, Uzbek, Tajik and Turkish cuisines). From a very basic standpoint, the dish consists of rice cooked in a seasoned broth and is often stirred with cooked onion, spices, and depending on the cuisine, it could contain meat, fish, vegetables, pasta, and dried fruits. My mother would make the most delicious Plov over New Years, which for many former Soviets is still considered one of the biggest celebrations of the year. She would make sure to include fresh saffron, lamb, and prunes. I swear I died and went to heaven whenever I ate her dish.

Kavsar had a lot to live up to and unfortunately, they did not get the job done. Though they advertised this as a national Uzbek dish, the rice was bland; I detected no hint of spice at all. They did not serve lamb in their restaurant and instead used beef, which was cooked too dry. I may have perhaps been ruined by my mother’s recipe, because Pasha found it perfectly eatable.

Anya did give me a piece of her Manti, a steamed beef dumpling dish, and they were delicate, buttery and flavorful. It seems that by going with the most “national” dish that was being served around the clock, I had made a bad choice.

Before we left, we ordered a pot of green tea, as often Eastern Europeans do. The tea cups that were brought to us were just as my mother described: wide tea cups that could almost be used to drink soup out of.

Well, if they had Piallas, I suppose it was a true Uzbek place. I will have to order something more off-the-beaten path next time.

If you’re in Pittsburgh and you’d like a taste of Eastern European/Asian cuisine, check this place out:

Kavsar Restaurant 16 Southern Ave Pittsburgh, PA 15211 in Mt. Washington

[daniellelevsky]

Thirty Day Writing Challenge: Day One

In an effort to get me back into the habit of writing every (damn) day, I decided to try a thirty day writing challenge to get me movin’ and groovin’. Some of these prompts are cheesy but I’m going to do my best to do justice to them regardless and make them more genuine and less typical.

The first challenge: five ways to win your heart.

Well, if I’m going to be writing a listicle, I better do it right. Here we go:

I’m Jekyll and Hyde when it comes to my romantic life. On one hand, I can be a hopeless romantic who enjoys the long walks, the romantic dates, the flowers and hand holding, but on the other hand, I can be too pragmatic, too practical about the future, and someone who has to schedule ‘time with her SO’ on a calendar. My boyfriend knows this contradictory romanticism of mine and still loves me, which in return, makes me love him.

For that reason, the five ways to win my heart vary in romantic style:

1. You make me laugh.

Since I was a little girl, my mother always told me that it was so important to date people who made you laugh. Because, she said, after 20, 30 years together, many things would fade: your good looks, the initial enigmatic spark, and the excitement. What keeps things interesting, she told me, is someone who can make you howl and cry with laughter.

2. You talk dirty to me, i.e. mostly about writing/literature but also anything academic/fascinating.

My ideal Friday night consists of drinking Argentian wine, eating French cheese, discussing the politics of the EU, analyzing the state of the media industry, and/or talking about the latest study on neurological child development. If you can tell me or debate things with me that matter, you have my heart. 

3. You respect my independence and want to go through life together as equal partners.

There is nothing sexier than an individual who not only fancies you but also wants you to succeed in your chosen path in life AND will walk alongside you as you chase dreams and kick major ass.

4. You accept my weirdness and aren’t afraid of showing me how weird you can be.

Sometimes, I make funny noises. For fun. Sometimes, I take jokes a little too far. I also have really weird ideas when it comes to making a snack from my usually unstocked kitchen. If you not only accept my weirdness but embrace and encourage it, you’re my knight in shining armor.

5. You support me when I doubt myself.

I graduated from college a year ago and I can’t count how many times I’ve doubted my abilities and knowledge since then. It’s a crazy competitive world out there but sometimes it helps so much to have a friend that can you remind you that everything is going to be fine, things are not as bad as they seem, and I am doing more than okay for a 22 year old. It’s even better when that best friend is also your partner.

[daniellelevsky]

I took the above photo when I still lived as a ghost in Chicago. The photo below is me yesterday: in Pittsburgh , in my new day job office, in my semi new life. 

In Pittsburgh, I may be often stressed and busy as hell, but I am so happy and feel so fulfilled. My nine to five gets monotonous sometimes (often), but afterwards I have whole evenings and weekends to spend writing, pitching and freelancing, snuggling my boyfriend, hanging out with some incredible friends/people, and soaking in the friendly and warm atmosphere of this middle sized town. Opportunities here seem bountiful and endless. I feel very much alive.

I can’t really explain why I didn’t feel that way in Chicago. I can talk about the reasons and factors contributing to my unhappiness: I felt financially dependent on my parents, couldn’t connect with or find “my” people, was always weary of someone wanting to befriend me for selfish/career purposes, and in general felt that people were more concerned about getting themselves ahead than building meaningful, supportive relationships. The amount of flakiness in that town was astonishing. I do it too, sure, but I like making plans with people and keeping them - I think it shows respect and interest in building relationships. But I digress. I also did not have ample time to write, to pitch, to explore. I felt hindered in my abilities and unconfident in my craft. The environment I found myself in was not nurturing but toxic and negative.

I do hope one day I will return to Chicago and live there. I also hope that when I come back I will be able to seek out the positive environments, the genuine people. I know they exist as I had my brief glances into them just before I left, ironically enough. I think I may have just come back too soon.

TL;DR: I’m really thriving here in Pittsburgh. After two months of being here, I am sure I made the right choice in my move.