Ramps update

I had two bunches of ramps, so I split the consumption methods:

Bunch #1 I fried yesterday in olive oil along with some rapini. Was just …okay. A barely-there rampy taste, a shadow of a ghost of the flavour I remember.

Bunch #2 I ate today. Raw. Just the heads and the stems, though I ate a couple of the leaves, too. As I sit here typing this, enveloped in a cloud of garlicky vapour that I probably won’t be able to shake for a couple of days (I’m so, so sexy), I am drunk on deliciousness. Those ramps were good. They were really, really good. And what’s more, I feel no more inkling of the cold that I’ve been fighting for the last three days. Don’t know if I should attribute it to the ramps, but I suspect that they might’ve helped.

Anyway, bunch #2 was a delicious, albeit socially repelling, success.

I still want to try pickling them, though. No time this weekend – a tightly packed social calendar crowned with sister’s birthday celebrations – but next weekend may be cutting it quite close to the end of the ramps season.

Just today

Favourite things of today, which may or may not have anything to do with Russia:

1. SOMA “cocoa latte” 45% cocoa chocolate. Okay, I’m not huge on chocolate (cue collective gasps), but this stuff tastes like winning at life forever. It’s like a dark chocolate, but with smooth, buttery creaminess that makes it taste like milk chocolate. And the entire time you’re eating it your mouth is wallowing in confused ecstasy “is this dark chocolate? is this milk chocolate?? is it both?!” Okay, no, wait, I AM about to link this to Russia, because this tastes like Russian chocolate of my long-gone youth. Nostalgia party in my mouth.

2. Bill Bryson. I’m currently re-reading In a Sunburned Country about his travels through Australia. I went on a BB binge a few years back and read all of his travel books, and then went to a reading of his memoir of sorts, Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid. Standing in line to get the book signed, I was eagerly anticipating how I’d say something clever and funny when I pass the book to him, and he would respond in kind. We’d trade hilarious quips, and by the time he scrawled his signature on the inside cover, we’d be fast friends for life and make plans to travel through Russia and co-write a book.

Instead, by the time I got to the signing desk, BB seemed tired and a bit disgruntled (I would be too, if I was forced to sit for an hour signing books for a couple hundred people, without even a beer or two). I stammered out that I loved his books, and instead of being floored by my originality, he said an exhausted thanks, quickly signed, and I was ushered away from the desk  by his handlers before I could suggest Russia for his next book.

So, that missed opportunity aside, I’m suggesting it now – BB should write a book on Russia. I’ve read a couple Russia travelogues and they all seem depressing and mired in politics. Yes, Russia can be depressing and mired in politics, but it can also be fun and interesting and wonderful, and also I think humour is essential in a travel book. Real life travel is a lost cause without a sense of humour – shit happens and you have to laugh at it or be miserable. I think travel books should take on a country with an objective view and tongue planted firmly in cheek for half the time. And no one can manage an honest, descriptive and hilarious travelogue quite like BB. So, Russia. Get on that, please.

3. Sweet potato fries. I’m making some right now and they smell incredible. I sprinkled paprika, curry, cumin and cinnamon on them and am making a lemon-garlic mayo dip on the side, too. You know what, we didn’t have sweet potato fries in Russia. And that’s a huge, huge loss for Russia, in my opinion.

4. Thursdays. Because Thursdays are almost Fridays and Fridays are basically almost the weekend. Paaaarrtyyy!*

* a.k.a. sit at home in sweatpants with a glass of wine and a BB book, shoveling fries interspersed with chocolate into my mouth.

Tea time

First thing that I do every morning when I walk into the kitchen is fill and turn on the kettle (mine’s bright-red and whistle-y). Actually, ‘walk through the kitchen, turn on the kettle’ is now an instinct. Sometimes I’ll be pottering around the house, then suddenly hear a long whistle in the kitchen because I had turned the kettle on without realizing it. (Uh, sorry, fire safety)

I blame Russia for this (not the hazardous absentmindedness, but the prodigious tea drinking).

According to a 2005 study cited on Wiki (what, it’s totally a legit source), 82% of Russians consume tea daily. I think they’re low-balling it. Any time we went to a Russian’s house, either here or back in the Motherland, tea was always offered, insisted on, and pretty much expected. In the morning, you drink tea. If a friend comes over to chat, you drink tea. After every meal, especially the large, celebratory affairs that would last a few hours, you drink tea.

When my dad and I go cross-country skiing (or hiking, or skating, or anywhere outdoorsy for a prolonged period of time), he doesn’t leave the house without a thermos full of strong, sweet tea.

My favourite was the tea on Russian trains, because it was usually served in glass mugs in подстаканники (podstakanniki, meaning “thing under the glass”, elaborate metal holders). Every summer we’d go visit our relatives in Ukraine, which was a two-day train ride, and what I looked forward the most to was drinking tea from those glass mugs, delivered to you by the train conductor (complimentary!). There’s just something so sophisticated yet rustic about sitting in your rocking compartment, watching the birches swish past the window to the clicketty-clack-clicketty-clack of the wheels, all while drinking tea out of a glass in an ornate metal holder.

The main thing that is very different from North America is the tea brewing process itself. This is one of those habits that I took for universal until my friends in Canada responded with a “what in the world are you doing to our tea, woman” when I first tried to make them a pot.

Russians use a ‘two-step’ brewing process. A lot of loose tea or several teabags are put into a teapot, and are steeped in boiling water for a long while – about ten minutes. This produces a very strong tea concentrate, called заварка (zavarka). Заварка is what makes tea Russian… the origin of the tea leaves doesn’t really matter, nor what utensils are used in the tea-making process. If you make заварка, you’re basically making Russian tea.

Заварка is then served to the table along with a pot of boiling water. Each person pours some of the concentrate into their cup, then dilutes it with the water (that way everyone can make their tea as strong or weak as they want).

Note to the wise: don’t drink заварка on its own. Apparently, it can cause intense heartbeat, hallucinations, headaches and restlessness (once again, thanks Wiki). A variant of it, called чифирь (chifir’) is used in Russian prisons as a substitute to drugs and alcohol. Drink enough of very strong заварка and you could be in for a heart attack… DEATH BY TEA.

Admittedly, Russian tea drinking has shout-outs to give to various cultures.  Tea drinking came about thanks to China (thanks, China!). The Chinese ambassador to Moscow made a gift of several chests of tea to Tsar Aleksey Mikhaylovich in the mid-1600s. During this period, Russia was attempting to establish trade with China and tea soon became one of the most desired imports. The samovar and the glass-holders were inspired by similar Turkish implements (thanks, Turkey!).

Oh, and, Russian language note! Tea in Russian is чай (chai). So, chai tea sounds like “tea tea” to me. I wonder if we got the word chai courtesy of India? Nevermind, according to the Etymology of tea, it’s thanks to the Chinese (again).

День Победы – Victory Day

Today is День Победы (Den’ Pobedy), a.k.a. Victory Day.

On May 9, 1945, Germany capitulated to the Soviet Union, ending World War II (different date from the general capitulation day to all the Allies, which was May 7th).

While in Canada the only people who’d know the official date of the end of WWII would probably be European history students (and then, only those that have taken WWII or Europe in 20th century courses and actually bothered to study), in Russia this day is a national holiday (as it is in several other ex-USSR countries). Although ‘holiday’ suggests a day of celebration, Den Pobedy is also a day of commemoration. The Great Patriotic War cost the Soviet Union approximately 25 million people – about 10 million soldiers and 15 million civillians. Approximately, because official numbers are still, and always will be, disputed, and fluctuate by several million depending on which sources are consulted. Regardless, whether 23 million or 26 million, the war more than decimated the nations – almost 14 per cent of the entire population of the Soviet Union in 1939 didn’t live to see 1946.

All this history seems comfortably removed, but really, it was just a couple generations away. My grandfather remembers the German army marching into his village in the Ukraine, and then occupying it for months. He was about seven at the time. When I was studying German in university I didn’t tell him at first, because he still has a hard time disassociating the language from the war. My grandmother grew up in an orphanage because she lost both parents in the war. My great-grandfather was a senior war plane mechanic at a military base. My great-grandmother remembers walking through Moscow in November 1941, when the German troops were just kilometers away, and the streets were deserted, people bearing down in anticipation of the defense of the capital.

Anyway, every Den Pobedy my parents would dress me up all nice, and then we would buy a few bunches of daffodils or carnations and take the Metro down to the Red Square, where all the veterans who could still get around gathered that day, medals pinned on their uniforms. And then we would walk around, and I would take a flower at a time and give it to a veteran, and just basically say thanks. You know, thanks for fighting for us, for going through that. And then we’d leave a bunch of flowers at the Grave of the Unknown Soldier. I remember my dad telling me that maybe it was one of his grandparents buried there, and for a while I was secretly convinced that it was. I guess that’s the point of that monument – to represent those that didn’t come back and those who weren’t brought back and whose graves are all over the world, marked or unmarked.

War sucks. A lot. For everyone. Whether you’re a winner or a loser, you will have bodies to count at the end. WWII cost the lives of 60 million people. That’s equivalent to all of England, or two Venezuelas, or three Australias. I don’t think someone has to be a pacifist, necessarily, to realize that war is inherently a shitty kind of thing. Without getting into the moralistic debate of pacifism vs. just war vs. other views, I think it can be safely stated that war is an ugly, terrible situation.

Okay, kind of a super depressing blog entry. I meant it to be all cheery “little kids give flowers to smiling veterans! la la la!” entry, but instead it turned into a WWII-fueled lament about war. I don’t think I am capable of short entries – mine inevitably unravel into spiels and long-winded stories. Ah well.

Ramptacular!

I BOUGHT RAMPS (a.k.a. wild leeks).

Went to the St. Lawrence Market this morning, and, there they were in small bunches, all delicate and leafy and garlicky. Bought only two bunches, and now am trying to decide what cooking method will best vanquish my nostalgia. The pressure is high. I can’t screw it up. One time my mom bought me pickled ramps from a Russian food store and they were all wrong – too sweet, insufficiently garlicky and lacking the crucial soft crunch. The crushing disappointment in the face of my initial excitement was very, very painful.

So, either I do something with them that is utterly unrelated to any way I used to consume them in Russia, to prevent disappointed nostalgia – so, sauté them or something. By all accounts, that would be delicious.

OR… or, I try to pickle them myself. Harder, more time-consuming, and more prone to failure. However, the potential payout – resolving another craving – is so much higher.

So, kitchen gambling. Once I decide, will document the result.

Dosvidaniya, Russia!

I don’t remember my parents ever sitting me down and informing me of our impending immigration. They may have, but I don’t recall that conversation. I just remember at one point knowing, in vague and general terms, that we were going to move, a concept that was so abstract as not to concern me at all.  Most likely I was like “Oh, immigrate, okay, cool” and then went back to my pretend intense sword fight with Rochefort (sidenote: this non-girly love of swashbuckling totally runs in the family. My sister had a thing for Zorro and went through dozens of newspaper swords a week, destroyed in numerous duels. She even had a face mask and cape. /sidenote)

Anyway, the actual immigration process took almost two years, though to a nine-year-old me only certain moments stand out:

I remember travelling by train in torrential rain, my parents lugging along me and my baby sister, then two, to attend yet another consular interview (though I have no memory of the interview itself, or whether I was even present at it).

I remember the mandatory medical check-up to make sure Canada wasn’t importing any sick Russkies. I was aware enough to realize that being found in bad health would mean no immigration, and was absolutely terrified that the doctor would turn to my parents and gravely say, “I’m sorry, but Canada doesn’t want the likes of your eldest daughter. You better leave her here.” And they would shrug and comply.

I remember practicing introducing myself to my soon-to-be-newfound Canadian friends. Alone in our tiny living room in Moscow I rehearsed, comfortable in the knowledge that I am a brilliant English conversationalist. “Hello. Who you are?”, I greeted Jane. “My name Maria. I am of Russia.” After having English lessons at school from grade 1 to grade 3, I was convinced that being able to conjugate irregular verbs into the past tense was quite sufficient for social brilliance in Toronto.

Upon informing my class that I will soon be a resident of Canada (and will no longer, EVER, have Russian grammar homework), I was immediately catapulted from relative obscurity to immense popularity. Drunk on all the attention, I inserted English words into conversations, promised to write to everyone about my exciting new life, and had no lack of choice of partners in any class activity. I was a grade-school celebrity. For all of one week, though, only, because that’s how much notice I got from my parents about the actual move date. I didn’t really have even a vague idea of what Canada will be like, and didn’t spend much time trying to figure it out – I was too busy being popular at school and packing my favourite books and toys at home.

Of course, both my supposed English brilliance and popularity were revealed to be products of grand self-delusion once I arrived in Canada. More on that later. But, this all is because today I realized that I’ve lived in Canada longer than I’ve lived in Russia. Actually, belatedly realized this, as it’s been quite a few years… but I’ve never really considered that before, that I am distinctly more Canadian than Russian now, as far as length of residence is concerned.

… *waves maple leaf flag*…

Matrimonial pursuits

Oh, royal wedding. No, I didn’t wake up at 4 a.m. to watch it. I really like my sleep. I think it could be fun, in a sleep-over kind of way, to get together with some friends at 5 a.m., wear fancy hats with pajamas, drink tea and provide running commentary on the proceedings. But, again, I like my sleep, don’t have more than good natured curiosity in the whole spectacle, and, sadly, don’t own even a single fancy hat.

That being said, of course I looked at the photos online when I got to work. And, you know: the dress was beautiful, she looked lovely, he was all balding and bashful, there were some ridiculous hats in attendance, and overall, it seemed like a nice, normal (royal) wedding. As in, media frenzy over the engagement, months of preparation, thousands of guards, multi-million pound pricetag, and serious formality to all proceedings.

Of course, this is just a lead-in for me to be all “In Soviet Russia wedding plans you!” But really, I get the impression that in Soviet Times weddings were delightfully simple. There weren’t even official engagements or engagement rings. You just decided to get married, went to register said intention, and a few months later had a civil ceremony and exchange of simple gold rings, followed by an hours-long dinner and dancing with close family and friends.

And, of course, with lots of alcohol.

Unfortunately for my parents, their wedding was during Gorbachev-era prohibition, a.k.a. “dry law”. Between 1985 and 1987, many liquor stores across the Soviet Union were shut down and those that remained had their hours severely restricted. Prices were raised, and no one could purchase more than two bottles at a time. When my parents registered for their wedding license, their received some vouchers, one of which allowed them to purchase a whole two cases of alcohol at once. When dad was leaving the liquor store with his cases of vodka and champagne, the snaking line-up waiting for hours to get their two bottles a person were less than kind towards him, verbally. (The stereotypes! They’re kinda true!)

Parents also received a voucher allowing them to buy from a special section in the produce store, the section that had good smoked meats, sausages, etc, for the reception dinner appetizers, and mom got another voucher for a special clothing store, where she bought her wedding shoes. The vouchers weren’t discounts, they just gave my parents permission to buy from these stores, or, in the case of the liquor store, to buy more than the permitted quantity.

After a brief civil ceremony at the ZAGS, the department of public service, they placed flowers and posed for wedding photos at the eternal flame of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier near the Red Square, a monument to Soviet troops who fought in WWII. And then everyone went to the restaurant and partied properly.

It was a nice, normal (Soviet) wedding.

Art criticism

Went to our nation’s capital over the long weekend, and visited the National Art Gallery. It was lovely, and, I have to say, a perfect gallery size. Just large enough to fit several interesting and varied expositions, and just small enough to look through in entirely without collapsing from exhaustion. So, good times were had.

However, I think some people would consider my art tastes to be very philistine. For example, I like paintings like this, and this and this. Which is considered kinda typical and boring, as far as art tastes go. No black rectangles on white background or crushed egg shells in an empty room for me, thanks.

That’s not to say I don’t like modern, post-modernist, etc. art – I do, frequently a lot, provided it meets my main criteria: art I am most drawn to (hah) is that which exhibits incredible skill or creativity on the part of the artist. For example, Rembrandt’s portraits – how does he make them so realistic, how does he manage to both have harsh shadow-light contrast and yet also this gentle softness in every line?? (Please don’t mind my amateur and uneducated art analysis. I won’t pretend that I know even vaguely what I’m talking about).

I look and I look and I can’t conceive how these were possibly painted by a human hand. I tend to stand right up near a painting, trying to discern the layers of paint, trying to compute how he mixed the hues and brushed them on to produce the final result (until a guard yells at me to back away from the art).

Or, there was this…thing… at the Art Gallery of Ontario, a slowly spinning statue of sorts, suspended from the ceiling and made of of life-size cellophane deer, all piled and entwined together. It clearly took a lot of time and effort, and was delightfully weird and unique. I liked that a lot.

Anyway, what I’m getting at, is Ivan Aivazovsky, a.k.a. Иван Константинович Айвазовский, a Russian painter of Armenian descent. Six or seven years ago, on my last trip to Moscow, mom and I went to the Tretyakov Gallery, and I. Love. His. Stuff.

He mostly paints water, storms, shipwrecks… but HOW he paints them! I don’t understand how he can make the water so translucent. I just love it. These pictures won’t do him justice, because these paintings need to be seen in all their real, large, beautiful glory, but anyway, here’s a sample:

Anyway, he’s terrific. Also, his paintings remind me of all these adventure books I loved as a kid, like Treasure Island, and Count of Monte Cristo.

My Perestroika

Generally, the stereotype is either that pre-Soviet Union collapse Russia was all bread lines, oppression and :(, and post-collapse is all capitalism, freedom and :); or, that pre- was all Olympic gold medals, space flights, strength and hurrah, while post- is corruption, mafia, terrorism and alcoholism.

Really though, it wasn’t and isn’t either one of those, I think, at least not fully. Much like most of North America wasn’t just like 50’s ads sixty years ago (I hope not). But, really, what do I know? I was born just before the collapse and moved to Canada when I was ten. I’ve been back once since. My only real first hand knowledge of this comes from my parents. So, though I know it’s not one big commie stereotype, it would be interesting see some different perspectives. Especially as far as it concerns ordinary people like my parents growing up in communist Soviet Union, and then going through all the changes that made the Russia of today. Did it suck consistently to live in SU? When the Iron Curtain fell, did everyone cheer, then frolic in the streets drinking Coca-Cola and burning rubles? I’d like to feel more informed.

On that note, watching TV tonight, I stumbled on “Russian Waves” on OMNI, where they were doing an interview with documentary filmmaker Robin Hessler. The interview was in Russian, and despite being very non-Russian, she spoke fluently (albeit with a delightful accent… man, I love hearing non-Russian people speaking Russian). Robin is the director/producer of My Perestroika, a documentary about five people’s lives in Soviet Union then and Russia now.

I super really want to see this documentary. I missed it at HocDocs last year, and unfortunately, the home DVD isn’t yet available (and there’s no telling if it’ll be anytime soon), or else I’d order it in an attosecond*. Right now they’re trying to raise $50,000 to get a theatrical release across US happening. Meanwhile, I need to figure out a way to watch it, somehow, somewhere.

(Okay, so “somehow, somewhere” just means online, as it seems to be available on YouTube. I feel like I should still support this documentary in some way, even if I’ll watch it for free… maybe I’ll donate to the theatrical release effort. And post more once I actually watch it).

“My Perestroika follows five ordinary Russians living in extraordinary times – from their sheltered Soviet childhood, to the collapse of the Soviet Union during their teenage years, to the constantly shifting political landscape of post-Soviet Russia…

In this film, there are no “talking head” historians, no expert witnesses, no omniscient narrator telling viewers how to interpret events. Instead, Borya, Lyuba, Andrei, Olga and Ruslan share their personal stories. They were the last generation of Soviet children brought up behind the Iron Curtain. They take us on a journey through their Soviet childhoods, their youth during the country’s huge changes of Perestroika, and let us into their present-day lives.”

* An attosecond is one quillionth of a second (which isn’t even a made up number, somehow). Wiki says that an attosecond is to a second, what a second is to about 31.71 billion years. One attosecond – the time it takes for light to travel the length of three hydrogen atoms. THAT’S how fast I’d buy that DVD.

Salivating, sadly

What is the most difficult thing about immigration? The language barrier, feeling deaf-mute, misunderstood, and having to resort to gestures and dumb shrugging because you don’t speak English (/French/Mandarin/whatever)? The culture shock of being transported into a place with new rules, customs, and traditions while leaving your own behind? The financial burden of starting a new life from scratch while fruitlessly trying to find a job in your profession?

No.

The most difficult thing about immigration is the food nostalgia.

Nothing makes it quite clear that Dorothy isn’t in Kansas anymore like a lack of food you’re used to. Grocery stores are full of alien variation of food you thought you knew – strawberries, chicken, even ketchup taste mildly, oddly different. The water, too. Products that you considered a staple of your diet are nowhere to be found, and delicacies you once took for granted you would now give half a leg to just lick.

While in Canada we’re relatively lucky that there are thriving immigrant communities – and, by extension, not only specialty food stores, but racks of ‘ethnic’ food in regular grocery stores – nevertheless, everyone has that one thing that they’ve been craving for years.

For my mom, it’s plain сушки (suchki), small crunchy bread rings traditionally eaten with tea. The only kind she can find in specialty Russian stores in Toronto are the sweetened kind, which while an okay substitute, aren’t quite good enough.

For my dad, it’s сало (salo), which is cured, salted pork fat, eaten raw on dark bread (I know, I know… sounds disgusting. But it’s so delicious.)

For me, there are three things:

1. Chocolates with creamy lemon filling. I’ve sampled every single possible lemon-chocolate candy combination I’ve ever some across in Canada, and so far, no luck. Not even close.

2. Сливочное мороженное – Cream ice cream. Here in Canadaland, plain ice cream means vanilla ice cream. It’s the you-can’t-get-more-flavourless default flavour. However, what I’m craving is just plain cream ice cream. No vanilla. Just slightly sweetened cream. It’s so light and refreshing and delicious, that if I could I’d eat a tub a day and become rotund and happy and cry joyful tears as I shovel spoon after spoon into my ice-cream-longing face.

3. Pickled wild garlic stems. Also knows as ramps, ramsons, wild leek, bear’s garlic. What to say? They’re like thin asparagus stems, except salty and garlicky and indescribably delicious. I can’t even type this without my mouth crying a little. (Side note: why are there all of these ramps festivals in the States and not a single one in Ontario?? Not fair, not fair, not fair!) However, they’re also delicious fresh, or sautéed, or cooked in any and every which way. Mmmmm…

There was a fourth – Buns with apple jam filling – but it has been resolved successfully enough. Much like the lemon chocolate, I had tried innumerable pastry-apple jam combos, and the result wasn’t even vaguely what I was looking for. The jam was just too… apple-y. UNTIL. Until I accidentally stumbled on the secret when I sampled a clear pear jam at a fall fair. It tasted exactly like those buns. So, either my taste buds are playing havoc with me, or what I’ve always known as apple jam was really pear jam inside those buns. Regardless, using fresh croissants and pear jam, I can now cobble together a pretty close approximation, vanquishing the food nostalgia, for once.

Some six years ago, the first and last time I visited Russia since The Immigration, I basically lived off Russian chocolate, cream ice cream, buns with apple filling, red currants and pickled ramps for the entire two weeks. Oh, and maybe occasionally a beer and a skewer of shishkebabs. I don’t even think I’m exaggerating. The only three real meals I remember eating were ones we were served when visiting friends of my mom’s and my grandpa. Otherwise, I remember my grandma once trying to convince me to eat some soup she made and I was all like “Don’t you see I have a whole chocolate bar and a giant bunch of pickled wild garlic to eat?? I NEED TO EAT MORE OF IT BEFORE I LEAVE.”

*sigh* All this reminiscing about unattainable food made my soul sad. I’m going to go cry into a bag of ketchup chips.