Summer is always my favorite time of the year, regardless of the heat and bugs that plague my friends. No, for me, the first shimmering waves of heat carry on their crests a hungry stomach, cricket-song, and exhilarating freedom. Each sweltering day is new and fun, and each moment is a chance to learn and do something I’ve never done before.
However, these last few years, a new feeling has seeped into my summer days: nostalgia. Due to the Russian invasion of Ukraine, nostalgia and longing for what I once saw as commonplace have emerged. Nostalgia for the summer barbecues with my entire extended family in the enchanted and carefully pruned garden, which was my parents’ pride. Nostalgia for the crispy, golden-fried carp and salty and savory poflotski spaghetti that my grandmother would arrange on the veranda’s makeshift table as the sun set, painting the sky golden and purple and the woods navy blue, as if out of Monet’s Twilight, Venice. And, nostalgia for the pidvechirok (afternoon tea time) with floral cups of steaming fragrant linden tea, and delicate plates topped with slices of Kyivskiy tort, laced with ribbons of frosting, and perhaps, if I was lucky, topped with the single, coveted golden flower. If summer wasn’t accompanied by food, it would surely be the end of the world for me.
Now, after not seeing my cousins, relatives, and grandparents in over two years, the hunger of nostalgia remains.
When the borders are closed and time differences make communication difficult, recipes remembered by my family and foods reconstructed with the help of limited sources online have become a tether that keeps our history, culture, and memories intact. After all, for many colonized, occupied, or ravaged populations, culture was and is a way to remember, hope and pray for a better future. But we persist, and so does our culture, with people remembering, participating in, and carrying on Ukrainian traditions, crafts, and foods.
Ukrainian, and Slavic cooking in general, may come off as drab and plain, composed of simple vegetables, pickles, porridges, and meats. However, where we “lacked” in spice, Ukrainians turned to something familiar—art—and it seeped into the food. pysanki, Easter eggs laced with ornaments, charms, and wishes for the recipient, are broken by each family to symbolize victory of good over evil; korovayi, delicate loaves of bread shaped and decorated painstakingly into animals, flowers, and other items, are presented to guests with salt as the ultimate sign of respect; or even the simple mlyntsi, savory crepes filled with shining pearls of roe or sweet, white cottage cheese, seem to glisten next to the porridge at the breakfast table.
Unfortunately, not all foods are available abroad. But by using what is available and modifying what’s not, some cravings can be eased. Each day, our kitchen would become a symphony of tastes and flavors, harmoniously blending and interweaving to create an intricate and hearty meal. Each week, a new soup or stew is made, from vibrant borscht, to tangy okroshka, to sour kapusnyak, or creamy kulish. And every day, our meals continue to be “ordinary,” with a side of pickles, cutlets, pilmeni, crispy potatoes, or salo. Through a rhythmic routine, memories can’t fade, and hope for being able to return home the next summer remains.
From florid and intricate to homely and warm, Ukrainian food is filled with, and becomes art—which requires care and love. My grandparents’ and my extended family’s love for food and cooking has rubbed off on me; their stories of food during the tragedies that repeatedly plague Ukraine inspire me to cook and think about every bite and every story behind each dish. The intricate tapestry that is Ukrainian cuisine weaves and sways with the Ukrainian language, pisnya solovʼyina, the nightingale’s song, to create a piece of Ukraine’s timeless story.
Hopefully, one day, I will be able to return to my sleepy village amidst the willows and linden; to the swaying poppy and wheat fields; and to the shaded veranda, hopefully frozen in time, where so many sweltering summer hours were spent with family, listening to cricket-song and laughter, all while scarfing down glistening plates of steaming food.
