My Roots Are Made Of Food

I live in the oddest neighborhood. It is populated, in equal proportion, by ultra-orthodox Jews, loud college kids, and Russian retirees (I live next door to a giant retirement home half the windows of which are covered in tulle – a sure sign of Russian occupation). The elderly Russians are the funniest of the bunch. They very calmly, and with a great sense of dignity, promenade down the street in pairs or quadruples, all wearing berets. It’s the strangest thing – like an ex-Communist occupation rule that all people over the age of 65 must be in constant possession of a beret. Men, women, lap dogs, it doesn’t matter - they all have berets.

With such a neighborhood come certain perks. There are a ton of Russian food stores around (and Russian book stores as well, which is really convenient). Some days, I need a little boost, a little jolt of comfort and familiarity that mac and cheese approaches but can never quite reach. Every once in a while I need the kind of serenity and peace that a really good burger promises but doesn’t always deliver. When even Indian food fails to soothe (the community I grew up in was way more Indian than Russian), I turn to Russian food. When clicking my heels does me no good but I really want to go home – as in, I want to eat the food I grew up with, I stop by one of the many Russian grocery stores around my house.

A sure way to tell you’re in an authentic Russian grocery store? They’re rude to you. Yep, that’s how you know. I think I have successfully worn my local people down. They are constantly surprised to hear Russian come out of my mouth since I look so American (lacking a beret and all) and big smiles seem to work magic. Even a cranky Russian can’t resist a big smile. Well, except this cranky Russian. I can resist a great many things.

How do you say smorgasbord in Russian? For that matter, how do you say it in English? Well, that’s what I have here. A Russian comfort food bonanza, a smorgasbord of childhood favorites. I can already hear the “ewws”, but give it a chance. Eww later, read now. Clockwise beginning with the white shredded cabbage, we have: pickled cabbage, eggplant caviar, eggplant “Georgian style” with cilantro and walnuts (can you tell I like eggplant?), herring with dill, onions, and vegetable oil, and in the center, the piece de resistance - cabbage stuffed with ground beef and rice, poached in a dill-laced stock.


The store eggplant caviar will never be as good as my Mom’s (which is not to say that it isn’t good in its own right – it is, really), the pickled cabbage is almost (almost) but not quite as good as my grandmother's - tangy, crunchy, and light. The herring is fantastic – even my parents get grossed by how much I love it. It's salty and soft, dissolving at the slightest prod. The stuffed cabbage is beautiful – the cabbage leaf is soft but still has body, the stuffing is tender and infused with dill. It serves its purpose.

Sometimes I need to scratch that itch that misses childhood. Food is the quickest way to do it. Taste and scent memory is very potent for me – I can remember everything I have eaten at every restaurant for at least the last 10 years. Food helps trigger all sorts of other memories, some good, some horrible. Whenever I need to selectively trigger memories of me, the me I no longer am, the me two decades ago in my Mom’s house, food is the ticket.