By Leslie Brenner
There is only one thing in the world that my adventurous, handsome husband does not eat: beets. And so it happens that one of my favorite foods from my childhood — cold beet borscht — has never once graced our family table.
Until last week. Borscht, you see, is the national dish of Ukraine.
Recently, I have had a devastating personal loss. My brother David, who was two years my junior, died last month quite unexpectedly. It was our younger brother Johnny who called and delivered the irreparable, impossible news.
There is a thing that ties us together in my family: Our souls reside in our kitchens. They lurk in the bottom of a Dutch oven, to be scraped up and deglazed with a gurgle of wine; they flutter within a bowl of heavy cream, about to be whipped into lightness and loft. They waft about, now in the fridge, next in the pantry, whether we’re still of this world, or whether we’ve left long ago.
The love of cooking shared by my brothers and me came from our mom, Joan. She didn’t exactly teach us to cook; she taught us to love cooking. We watched her in the kitchen; we learned by osmosis. The methodical chop of the onion. The quiet sizzle in the pan. The aroma.
Joan was hilarious. She was so funny and so sharp that you almost didn’t consider why she should be sad. The three of us, David and Johnny and I, would remember her, since we lost her six years ago, by texting each other about what we were cooking, or eating, or about our childhood food memories, or how funny Joan was.
Dave was also hilarious. As a teenager, one night — as we sat around the dinner table — he took a large handful of mashed potatoes and smeared it onto his face, a solid white beard. He then proceeded to shave it off, onto his plate, with his butter knife.
The last thing David texted to Johnny and me, two days before he died, was about something he had just cooked for his family. It involved chuck roast, which made him remember Joan and the way she made beef stew.
What’s happening in Ukraine — what has happened in the last month, since we lost Dave — would have torn my brother apart.
And not because Ukraine is our ancestral homeland. Our paternal grandfather was born in Zobolotov (now Zablotiv) in Western Ukraine, near the border with Moldova. But because of what Ukraine is now.
And so, I’ve been thinking about borscht — of which there are many kinds. From what I’ve read, the borscht that is the national dish of Ukraine is the hot-and-hearty style, the beef-based borscht, rooty and earthy and deep.
But if you say “borscht” to just about any American of a certain age who was raised in a Jewish household, something cold and refreshing and pink is what springs to mind. Something light and vegetarian, with a touch of sweetness, a touch of tang. This is the borscht of Ashkenazi Jews a hundred and fifty years ago, who were chased out, or escaped the pogrom. Or who escaped or were exterminated a few decades later. Perhaps it is also the borscht of the Ashkenazi Jews who somehow have remained. The Volodymyr Zelenskys.
Pink borscht — cool, refreshing, and hopeful — is what ties me to president Zelensky, and to the people, brave and bold and besieged, of Ukraine.
It means the world to me to share my mom’s recipe, passed down from her family, from who-knows-where in Eastern Europe, with you.
Help feed the people of Ukraine by donating to World Central Kitchen. Its Chefs for Ukraine initiative is feeding people across the region, at border crossings into Poland, Romania, Moldova, and Hungary.
Now through Sunday, March 18, 100% of our proceeds from our $5 e-cookbook, 21 Favorite Recipes Cooks Without Borders, will be donated to World Central Kitchen.
