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
mmmm, meat jello!
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