Man Cheese: Part II

         Often, eating is one of those things that we do just for ourselves. We, not the hungering homeless person on the street, receive the nourishment from our food and enjoy the wave of pleasure as sweetness or saltiness or a complex savory flavor washes our tongue from front to back. Maybe the dinner table used to be a place for socializing and community building, but soccer practice, late meetings, and television get in the way of that now. In Russia, I have experienced an attitude towards food that we in America lack.

            Overall, the Russian people still recognize that eating is a necessary part of survival, and hold a certain respect for hunger that is rarely witnessed in the States. Collectivization, strict rations, and sweeping famines are still fresh in the minds of many here. On top of these unpleasant memories of hungrier times, to say that the country’s wealth is unequally distributed would be an understatement; poverty runs rampant while rich Muscovites enjoy their feast. Meanwhile, the collective focus of the American people is pointed towards the prevention of childhood obesity. Russia’s rather recent history is responsible for maintaining the idea in the minds of the Russian people that food is more than a luxury, it is a necessity, and this has granted the Russian people a higher appreciation for the sustenance that we sometimes take for granted. While I know people who heed expiration dates to a nearly religious degree, here a small patch of mold can be scraped off a bit of cheese without fuss. Not every dish is вкусный- delicious, but a lot of value is placed on the полезность-usefulness- of food. Maybe you cringe at the thought of eating liver for dinner, but a Russian would advertise it’s high iron content even if they share your point of view on the dry, crumbly texture and cat-food-like flavor. The food on the table is appreciated for what it is, even if it is not particularly appetizing.

            While food nourishes the individual, sharing food is an important part of Russian food culture. Family members usually dine together, despite demanding academic schedules and the sixty-hour workweek. When receiving guests, invited or otherwise, it is customary to offer “tea”, but “tea” consists of more than just the hot beverage. It is a spread of fresh fruit and vegetables, cakes, and cookies. On special occasions, “tea” can also mean soup and blini—Russian pancakes. As a guest, sitting down to tea with your host is a sign of respect, and neglecting to do so is regarded as disrespectful. The older Russian generation (the beloved babushki and scarce grandfatherly types) fiercely looks down on the entire concept of fast food because the core of it’s being—food cooked quickly to be eaten on the go-- does not agree with the conversation and socializing that is almost as important as the food in a Russian meal. I have noticed that McDonalds in Russia has tried to adapt to this cultural difference. The most popular one in Kazan, located on the main pedestrian street, is a two-story establishment where youths hunker down for an hour or more to enjoy their burgers and fries that were ready in just minutes. I believe that the importance of dinner table conversation goes beyond the dining culture here; no matter how trivial the topic, engaging in conversation over a meal is therapeutic and makes the family community stronger.           

In my time here, I have adjusted my eating habits to match those of my host family. I can’t imagine finishing a meal in less than an hour, because that is how long it takes to enjoy the company and appreciate the food regardless of its taste. To me, the jam bowl that sits on my host family’s kitchen table day and night, never empty, is the perfect symbol of Russian food culture. It is depended on, it is constant, it is shared, and it is eaten by the spoonful with hot tea.

 -Abby

Man Cheese: Part I

            When I was four years old, my family spent a year living in a green house on Cape Cod. Most of my memories from that year are blurred against the background of the deserted winter beach, but certain memories stick out as vivid photographs in my mind. I remember watching my sisters make “sand cakes” and eat them, “crumbs” sticking to their fat fingers and cheeks. I remember what our living room carpet looked like, and I remember my sisters taking their first steps on that carpet on Thanksgiving. I remember nursing my wind-whipped hands as my father walked my bike home from the beach one winter afternoon. I remember that our Christmas tree that year was decorated not with ornaments, but with seashells. Perhaps most vividly, I remember sitting alone for what felt like hours at the kitchen table, adamantly refusing to drink my milk. Milk was a point of conflict between my parents and I for years. Now, I pride myself on being rather adventurous when it comes to exotic cuisine. I am always willing to try the spinach, the sushi, the cow tongue, or the asparagus ice cream, but I have never been able to get over my detestation of dairy.

            While I still strongly dislike milk and much of the dairy world, in the U.S. I have adapted to dressing my salads with oil and vinegar, spreading mustard on my sandwiches instead of mayonnaise, and ditching the “dollop of Daisy” when it comes to tacos. In the past few years, I have even grown to accept certain dairy products like various cheeses into my diet. Russian cuisine is a little less flexible, though, and dairy is an important staple. Mayonnaise, in particular, makes its way into everything from soup, to salad, to entrees. It’s rare to find a pizza in Russia that isn’t smothered in mayo. At home with my host family, I am usually able to avoid the constant stream of creamy stuff. But whenever we have guests I am introduced as “Abby, our American who doesn’t eat mayonnaise!” I do come across the occasional unlucky situation where the mayonnaise-monster just can’t be avoided. In these situations, the best-case scenario is that the dish in question is something baked. When the mayonnaise is baked, it becomes brown and crispy on top. There is no way that a congealed mess of mayo actually resembles cheese, but so far, the only way that I have learned to cope with the necessary ingestion of this ungodly sauce has been to call it “cheese” in my head. Mentally disguising baked mayo as “man-cheese” (short for “mayonnaise cheese”, of course) doesn’t change the weirdly sweet flavor or the slimy texture, but somehow it helps to keep the gag reflex at bay.

            In Russia, eating is a sign of respect. Most of the time, the worst-case scenario is the tummy ache that accompanies that “too full” feeling. Sometimes though, you come across a gastronomical challenge that is just too much and you have to be creative and use your problem solving skills. Sometimes you can sneak some of your leftovers onto a friends’ plate, and it’s not your problem anymore. Perhaps you are left alone for a moment in a room with a trashcan so that you can get rid of the meat dumplings that make you queasy without anyone noticing. You have to be careful when taking advantage of an open window, because a babushka doused in soup from above is not a happy babushka, but an option is an option. Calling mayonnaise cheese? It’s just another creative solution. Unfortunately, I have not found such a solution for the absolute treat that is meat jello (holodets).

Until next time,

Abby

Shake Your Groove Thang

As a child, I was always somewhat skeptical of the idea of Santa Claus. Of course the elves and flying reindeer all seemed a bit too far fetched even for my imagination, but the most difficult thing for me to believe was that, in just one night, Santa could make it down the chimneys of children all over the world. When I was seven, I raised the question of Santa’s existence with my parents. That Christmas was my introduction to the infamous “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus” letter. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this letter, it was written in 1897 by Francis Pharcellus Church (then editor of the New York Sun) in response to eight-year-old Virginia’s query regarding Santa’s existence. His response can be summed up in the sentence “He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.” This year, Santa Claus did not visit my house. In fact, I doubt that he visited many Russians’ houses this year, or any other for that matter, because Russians do not celebrate Christmas the way that we do in the United States. Even the Russian Orthodox Christians who do observe Christmas celebrate on the Orthodox Church’s date—January 7. The more popular winter holiday here is New Year’s. Families all over Russia spend the day cooking together, and spend all night eating together. After helping my host family to prepare an enormous feast, they sat me down at the table on New Year’s Eve and told me, “Now we will eat until morning.” Much like the winter holidays in America, food, numerous toasts, fireworks, and gift exchanges characterize the Russian New Year. Those last ten magical seconds of the old year are counted down here much the way that they are in America, but rather than watch a massive orb work its way down a skyscraper (a tradition that I have, admittedly, never really understood), here we listen to the president’s address to the Russian people. Never once during this holiday did I regret that a fat man dressed in red did not break into my apartment while I was asleep. Celebrating with my host family, I experienced so much love, generosity, and devotion, and I couldn’t have possibly asked for anything more.

            Since the university was on break for the week after New Year’s, I spent some time at a winter camp (much like an American summer camp) where Russian students go to rest, play, and prepare for their state exams during the winter holiday. While I was considerably older than many of the other students, this immersion experience was wonderful language practice and I certainly enjoyed the games, skiing, and a particularly interesting history class that I attended while the other students were preparing for their exams. The dormitory-style housing was not a five-star hotel, but it was certainly comfortable enough. I am generally not a very picky eater, but I was glad to have packed some emergency Snickers bars. When I was a kid, I used to love books about orphans (Oliver Twist, The Little Princess, Jane Eyre, and the like). The word “gruel” was used in all of these books to explain the food that the poor protagonists were forced to eat. I don’t think I fully understood the term “gruel” until I spent a week eating grey mush three times a day. Sometimes a small round black thing would appear in the middle of my bowl and, while I am sure that it was probably just a burned bit of something, I would wonder to myself “Is this a weevil? Because I’m not really sure what a weevil is, but I didn’t know what gruel was either until now.” Every evening after a full day of studying and activities was “discoteka”—a word that seems to describe any time a roomful of people dances for an extended period of time in the dark. Unfortunately for me, I have the moves of a middle-aged librarian, a problem that might be cured either by bigger hair or by a bigger bottom. Eventually the rich Russian cuisine might help the latter, but my hair is incurably straight.

            Well, after a fun week at camp, I am very happy to be home in Kazan. The new semester has begun and classes are going well so far! Best wishes to my friends and family back home!

Abby