Soup for the Soul
Hot steam billows out of the bowl. The slight tingle of burning skin spreading through my fingers. Feet padding across the carpet, quickening as the contents slosh around, inching closer and closer to pouring over with every step. A release of breath as the bowl is placed on safer ground, the sloshing slowly calming down like the sea after a hurricane. I plop down on my bed, criss-cross-apple-sauce like a child waiting for show-and-tell, eagerly reaching for the hot bowl, breathing in the distinct smells.
Home. Comfort. Family.
The kitchen of a grandmother I will never know. Distant memories, black and white and distorted, but still poetic, meaningful. I dip my spoon into the rich broth, blowing gently on it, trying to avoid another body part burned. Sipping slowly, the flavor invokes a more familiar feeling.
Modern. Reinvented. Mother.
The liquid drips down my throat, coating my insides with a warmth like no other. A warmth only familial bonds can create. I feel the love of generations of strong, Ukrainian women who were masterminds in the kitchen, witty at heart and the kindest souls one can stumble upon. I carry their strength, their memories with me even thousands of miles away. The soup may not be the same as the one my grandmother would make. The clucking replaced with roots and the stars of my childhood have now grown into body parts. But I still see their faces, hear my imagination of their voices calming me down, telling me it will all be okay.
Eat, breathe, conquer.
My eyes close as the soup cools and I scarf down the rest, ready to feel at home again. A single bite and my face contracts, mouth burning with an overwhelming taste. I can hear them laughing as I took the bait. A reminder to slow down and look before diving in.
I come from a long line of Ukrainian women who were soldiers in the kitchen. They came from nothing, growing up on the farms of Ukraine, and later Connecticut, where they had to grow and raise their own food. They could make an amazing meal out of practically nothing. Their recipes scribbled on index cards showcased simple, fresh ingredients and often didn’t contain exact amounts. Ukrainian food is simplistic in nature and uses a lot cabbage, potatoes and all parts of the animal. My ancestors’ cooking was based on pure instinct and tradition.
My Bartchi (Ukrainian for grandmother) learned from observing others and reading cookbooks. She would watch through the windows of small bakeries and memorize how they decorated cakes; then she would go home and practice what she saw. Eventually she made every birthday, wedding and anniversary cake for the family, all looking like they came from a fancy bakery. She didn’t need instructions, she could always figure things out.
My mother grew up watching my Bartchi in the kitchen. Out of anyone in the family, my mom was the only one who had to patience to learn the traditional recipes and to write them down. After my Bartchi passed away, my mom took over making the borscht for Christmas Eve dinner and the tiered wedding cakes.
And following in the tradition, I spent my childhood in the kitchen with my mom, learning all the skills that were passed down to her. My Bartchi died when I was five, but I’ve always felt close to her when I’m in the kitchen. I’ve been told I have her instinct- rarely measuring things and experimenting with flavors- and her steady hand when piping type onto a cake.
I have changed a lot since I was the four-year-old in the tiny kitchen helping to roll meatballs. For one, I no longer eat meat and a slew of food allergies has made my relationship with food complicated. At first, I was scared that I would no longer feel close to my heritage, to the food-centered culture I grew up with. But my mother passed down a lesson from my Bartchi that I will always remember: everything is adaptable. My mom said that my grandmother would have made sure that I could still eat a variation of my favorite dishes; and with that in mind, my mom set out to re-create my childhood.
My favorite soup when I was little was my Bartchi’s chicken noodle, complete with tiny star-shaped pasta and freshly grated parmesan cheese. By substituting a few ingredients like veggie broth and gluten-free elbow pasta, my mom was able to once again make my favorite soup. The seasonings and methods are still the same and the tradition lives on in every bowl. Bay leaves and peppercorns infuse the broth and sometimes hide, not to be found until an accidental bite and an overwhelming flavor flood your taste buds.
And when that happens, I can hear my Bartchi laughing, reminding me that even after they’re gone, family will always be in your heart.
