Many foods with Russian names can be frightening and intimidating. For example, “borscht” carries the connotation of all things cold and soviet (with a hint of beets), just as “moose and squirrel” brings back memories of animated Russian spies. We westerners generally shirk away from these foods just at the mention of them.

But for some reason, “pavlova” slipped through our anti-soviet filters. Perhaps this is because the food actually originated in New Zealand, and so has been anglicized from the beginning. Or maybe it’s because it is a national dessert of Australia. Or maybe it’s because the longest string of un-vowelled consonants in the word is only two letters long. But I prefer to believe that its incorporation into American cuisine comes from a shared appreciation for a graceful art form: dancing.

The food is named after Anna Pavlova, a ballet dancer from Russia. And the dessert itself preserves the grace and splendor derived from the art. Atop a meringue dance floor, assorted berries float on a layer of whipped cream, dancing with one another, performing the perfect snapshot of harmony. And as Sam told Harold in Athol Fugard’s Master Harold and the Boys:

There’s no collisions out there, Hally… To be one of those finalists on that dance floor is like… like being in a dream about a world in which accidents don’t happen.

Folks, this may be one of those rare occasions when we can learn a valuable lesson from strawberries, specifically dancing strawberries. The dance is beautiful because it embodies lightness, not harsh and heavy Russian syllables. When we eat pavlova, we remember the subtly viscous whipped cream tying together the sweet fruit and the crisp meringue. In a final performance, the pavlova dances with our senses and seems to pull us into its perfect lightness. Italo Calvino wrote:

It is true that software cannot exercise its powers of lightness except through the weight of hardware. But it is the software that gives the orders… The iron machines still exist, but they obey the orders of weightless bits.

It is in this lightness, paradoxically, that we find true power. Not in obstinate syllabic adventures of native Russian cuisines, not in the heavy flavors of beef and beets or the deliberate enunciation of “moose and skveral”. True power comes from the dance, and that is why we love pavlova.