Feeling full, July 12, 2006

Though many laud the French culinary arts or find their palates drawn to the national dishes of Greece and Italy, I must insist that Russians are the masters of soup.

It started with some hot chicken and mushroom soup. I was a little leery when Galina first mixed in sour cream (smetana), but shortly after I finished slurping up the first spoonful, I was acclimated to the peculiar garnish. The combination is hearty and filling—never salty or watery.

This first soup was very tasty, but I couldn’t help thinking my mom, Jane, with her bizarre culinary intuition, could have stumbled upon this same concoction at home. I want the honest-to-goodness national dishes. As I said in an earlier post, I want Borscht.

First, came a different cold soup. Out of the refrigerator, Galina lifted a pot of white, viscous soup bespeckled with pinks and greens. The pink was chicken sausage; the green was onion and dill; and the white was sour cream. It was absolutely fantastic—not just one of the best soups I ever had—but, seriously, one of the single best tasting dishes that my palate has ever had the pleasure of savoring. With white and black bread, I polished it off two more bowls of the amazing soup before bed last night.

Today was the big day, though. Today, I came home to see a ruddy red soup sitting on the stove. At first glance, I thought it might be the soup I desired, but I decided to build my hunger and catch up on some sleep—waiting until Galina came home, just to be sure.

Waking to the sound of her key turning the lock of our apartment’s exterior door, I blinked groggily and queried my stomach for pangs of hunger. I went to the bathroom to wash my face, as the familiar Russian questions came echoing down the hallway…

“Did you eat?” Galina asked.
“I will eat.” I mumbled back, clumsily.
“Did you eat?” she repeated.
“Oh. Um. I didn’t eat. But I will.”
“Come. Borscht.”
“Borscht?!” I responded, incredulously.
“Da.” She replied with a smile.

I walked into the kitchen and found my usual seat at the small table. Galina had a empty bowl ready for me with a big scoop of sour cream already on my spoon. She, then, proceeded to fill my entire bowl to the brim with the red, well-stocked Borscht.

I’m sure my eyes had grown very large by the time she set the heaping portion of soup in front of me. I thanked her and had at it. I found the flavor to be very complex—both satisfying and also demanding. Once my spoon started shoveling it in, it didn’t stop until there was only the brick-colored juice left at the bottom of the bowl, every droplet of which I carefully mopped up with white bread.

I sat for a few moments then, drinking my black tea and preparing for digestion.

No, wait. I needed more.

Galina came back into the kitchen and I asked her where the sour cream is. She took out the jar and gave me another healthy spoonful. Then, without hesitating, she held my bowl up next to the pot on the stove and proceeded to refill my entire original portion.

Knowing I wasn’t THAT hungry—but that if I absolutely must, I could finish the borscht—I gave a mental shrug and dug in.

So now, I am lying in my room—very full—waiting until 8 PM when I will be seeing the premiere of the Pirates of the Caribbean (Piraty Caribskogo Morya) in Russian, and quite convinced that no one knows soup like the Russians do.