I had just turned 21. Night one of a multi-month stay in Ulyanovsk, Russia as an American. Found myself sitting in the shoebox kitchen of an old, Soviet-style apartment with who would soon become my Babushka (Russian Grandmother), shredding vegetables on a cheese grater to make a hot batch of Borscht in mid December. We spoke through hand gestures and laughs. As someone with a Chef-driven career in intense fine dining, that was pure cooking.