Summary:

Ilya Rozanov hated western Christmas with every part of his orthodox communist soul. Not that those two things could logically coexist, of course. “Are you sure we have to make this?” Shane eyed the biggest pack of mayonnaise he had ever seen like it had personally offended him. Which it probably had. “Oh yes,” Ilya nodded enthusiastically, unloading canned tuna (fine), eggs (fine), fake crab sticks (thin ice), herring (what?), more mayonnaise— “You're going to murder me,” Shane's forehead pressed into its favorite spot between Ilya's shoulder blades. “I'm feeling ten pounds heavier just from looking at this.” “Is authentic Russian experience,” Ilya deadpanned. or Hollanov's 5-step guide to the perfect winter holidays.