Communism crushed cotton candy business, but family revives it in America

Vlad Rikhlyuk works for the Chicago Fire Department, where it’s common to have more than one job.

“We were keeping our eyes open for a side business,” said his wife, Ellery Rikhlyuk (pronounced “Rih-KLOOK”). “Not jumping on anything, just waiting for something good for our family.”

Nothing jumped out at them, until a family dinner just before the holidays.

“Dad doesn’t have a lot of warm memories with his family growing up in the Soviet Union. I know my grandfather spent 14 years in the labor camps. So, he didn’t talk about it much growing up,” Vlad said.

“He’s just started to open up as he’s gotten older and become a granddad. Until this dinner, I never heard the story about what finally convinced them to leave.

“Dad made the equivalent of about $163 a month in the ’80s through his official job as a welder for the government. It wasn’t enough.

“He had a business partner who had the idea of cotton candy. There were no cotton candy machines in the Ukraine, so they had to sneak across the border to Estonia and smuggle the machine back in.

“Once they figured out how it worked, they had a lot of success. They sold the cotton candy at the corner store and out in public. It was so successful that he started making more money than the police or government workers in town and they got jealous.

“One day, the police showed up and smashed the cotton candy machine to pieces. That was when dad realized they had to leave.”

For Vlad, it was new insight into his family history. But Ellery also saw something else – a conviction about the future.

“That Christmas, my brother-in-law’s girlfriend got my in-laws a cotton candy ornament. I’m looking at it on the tree thinking, ‘It’s so pretty,’ and thinking about the story,” she said. “And I thought, ‘Why don’t we get it back? Let’s get the cotton candy machine back.’”

Within a month, they bought a machine and started crafting original, all-natural recipes with organic sugar and no artificial dyes or flavors. They call it Atlas Sweets.

“It’s not a common way to make it,” Ellery said. “It comes with some extra challenges. But we’re both artisans at heart and we’ve had a lot of fun developing our recipes.”

Then came the second part of the challenge, just as it had for Vlad’s father: turning their craftsmanship into a profitable business.

“The red tape is incredibly confusing. Doing it properly is not made easy for you. If you want to do the legitimate thing, there are all these hoops you have to jump through,” Ellery said.

Each step – from legally registering the business, to setting up taxes and insurance, to acquiring permits from the health department – was new to the Rikhlyuks. And it was expensive; each of those steps involve a new set of taxes and fees, all before the business has a chance to take in a single dollar.

“My family has stories from the Soviet Union of how, if you wanted to do business in peace, you have to pay off all these government entities,” Vlad said. “It’s almost similar. You don’t have people trying to kick in your door, but you still have to pay ahead of time.”

“If the state wants to improve its small business climate, my one message would be to simplify everything. It would be great if all the requirements were in one place,” Ellery said.

The Rikhlyuks said they won’t lose sight of the blessings they have here.

“Coming to the United States changed things generationally for my family. I wanted to give back. That’s why I joined the Marines after 9/11 and why I’m a firefighter now,” Vlad said.

“We love Chicago,” Ellery said. “We’re rooted here, and it’s really cool to be a part of our city in this way and contribute to the food scene, and to be a bit of good news coming out of the West Side.”