We have adopted a new tradition in the Piedmont that is slowly coming alive after the howls of winter. We hold a Sunday Soiree at the Farm. It is a delightful amalgamation of traditions in this place that has been undifferentiated indigeonous territory, a British Colony, a founding member of a successful Republic, an occupied satrap of a Federal government under which it had disagreement, and currently another State in the Union.

The Chairman decided the Sunday ritual would incorporate all those unique historical traditions into one cheerful gathering of unity on what is the Holy Day of the week for those who observe it. He believes it is a good thing to promote free and open dialogue not under the direct supervision of our Legal Section. Our young Attorney appreciates the relaxed air of the affairs and is under no obligation to watch her pronouns or take notes on which of the various conspiracy theories she is supposed to monitor. She ha been known to giggle on Sundays, though she is rigid as a pike on production days.

Good food is a relaxing feature at the Soirees, and Melissa has assumed command of the kitchen at the Great House to provide a series of memorable meals to enliven the discourse. This Sunday it was a delightful shrimp and tomato creation, simmered gently and ladled generously over textured bow-tie pasta. Alongside were Russian vegetable and salad entrees and concluded with a generous slice of a delightful strawberry-topped cheesecake. The last of these menu items nearly caused an altercation over the idea of “seconds” between Rocket and Loma, while something else was brewing between DeMille and some of the Guests.

“You have been calling us The Russians. We wish to lodge a formal protest on your disregard for truth.”

“The Chairman called you Russians from the first time you met. He said you grew up in Russia and that is why we call you guys that.”

“It is true that we grew up in the Soviet Union, and we understand why there is confusion. It would be wildly erratic to call us “Soviets,” although we grew up in the Soviet Union. We must be specific in orientation given the divisive nature of the times.”

“What would you prefer? We could call you ‘Former Soviets.’ Would that work?”

“Is not innaccurate, but subject to post-1990 revisionism. Our family was from Crimea, a delightful slice of paradise on the seas of Azov and Black. It was crushed under Russian occupation beginning on March 18, 2021. In the span of a few weeks,”little green men” staged an illegal referendum on the status of Crimea. In this way, Moscow attempted to legitimize military aggression and subsequent annexation of the Autonomous Republic of Crimea and the proud city of Sevastopol. By birth, we consider ourselves Crimeans, and hence the term “Ukrainian” properly applies to us.”

DeMille stretched to his full height and raised three fingers of Rada Honey-Pepper vodka in a tall crystal shot glass. “We are pleased to have that straight, and will strive not to be offensive in future terminology.”

“The times are difficult, and we would appreciate it if someone would tell the Chairman to divest himself of that tunic he got at the Moscow flea market.”

“He likes it, but we are sure he can accommodate neighborhood sensibilities.”

“так, дякую за вашу доброту.”

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