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Hi! I’m Svetlana — the Lady who can turn an ordinary dinner into a tiny taste celebration and your kitchen into the place where love stories are born. Yes, I’m a chef by calling and a hotel-restaurant market analyst by diploma (European University, master’s in economics & marketing — sounds fancy, right?). But don’t be scared of spreadsheets: in real life I’m all about emotions, not Excel. 😏
Picture this: I’m standing at the stove in my favorite red dress (because red is my color — bold, passionate, impossible to ignore), sleeves rolled up, a glass of homemade uzvar in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. The air is filled with garlic, rosemary, and a hint of mischief. I’m whipping up Caesar salad that could make Caesar himself jealous — crisp romaine, perfectly grilled chicken, parmesan shavings that melt on your tongue. And dessert? Something sinful, chocolatey, with a secret ingredient I’ll only reveal on our third date. 😉
By day, I dive into numbers — trends, guest reviews, profit margins. I know why the tiramisu in that little Roman trattoria makes people cry happy tears and why the coffee in Berlin tastes like a hug at 6 a.m. I’ve traveled enough to have passport stamps in Italy, Poland, Germany, Greece, Canada, Egypt — each trip a new flavor, a new story. But the places still on my list? India (for the spice markets that smell like magic), Norway (for fjords and midnight sun kisses), Bora Bora (overwater bungalows and breakfast in bed), South Africa (safari sunsets and wine that tastes like adventure), Peru (Machu Picchu at sunrise and ceviche that sings).
Evenings? You’ll find me stretching — not just my body (though I’m a stretching addict; my spine thanks me daily), but my imagination. I’ll drag you to a deep house concert where the bass vibrates in your chest like a second heartbeat, or to the theater where the lights dim and the world shrinks to just us, whispering commentary between acts. I’ll cook for you barefoot in your kitchen, humming off-key, stealing bites from your fork just to watch you pretend to be annoyed. My cat Anfisa (yes, she’s a diva with opinions) will judge you from the countertop, but one scratch behind her ears and you’re in the club.
Family? My parents are 79 and 77, still holding hands after decades — proof that love can age like fine wine. They live together; I live separately (because even the best borscht needs space to breathe). I’ve got one older sister who taught me that sarcasm is a love language. We’re tight. We’re loud. We’re Ukrainian warmth in human form.
What do I want? Simple, really: to be happy in a family circle that feels like home wherever we are. To give people warmth, joy, and maybe a second helping of whatever made them smile. I’m strong — I can carry a 20 kg sack of potatoes up three flights of stairs without breaking a sweat — but I dream of a man even stronger. Not in muscles (though I won’t complain), but in character. Someone who laughs at my terrible puns, respects my need to disappear into a recipe for three hours, and knows that “personal boundaries” isn’t code for “don’t touch me” but “love me enough to let me breathe.”
I don’t need poetry under my window (though bonus points if you try). I need you to taste the sauce and tell me if it needs more salt. I need you to dance with me in the kitchen at 2 a.m. when the cake is in the oven and the world is quiet. I need you to understand that my love language is food, but also space, also laughter, also deep house at golden hour with your hand on my waist.
I’m not looking for perfect — I change too often for that. One day I want a man who can hike Machu Picchu without complaining; the next, someone who’ll binge true crime documentaries with me under a blanket fort. But always: humor that keeps us young, respect that keeps us safe, and strength that lets me be soft.
If you’re the guy who’ll steal the last bite of my tiramisu just to make me chase you around the table…
If you’ll book a spontaneous flight to Norway because I said I wanted to see the northern lights on your shoulder…
If you’ll let Anfisa sleep on your pillow (she will, no negotiation) and still kiss me goodnight…
Then let’s write our love story, one recipe at a time.
Are you hungry yet? 😘
P.S. Bring an appetite — and maybe a sense of adventure. I’ve got the blue hydrangeas (my favorite flowers) and the playlist ready. Your move, chef’s kiss.
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