Way Better than Trail Mix!

Our intrepid Crimean correspondent, Peace Corps volunteer Barb Wieser,  continues to update us on life and food in Crimea.  An avid outdoorswoman,  Barb has found incredible hiking in the mountains of Crimean and in this post,  shares a mid-hike meal, Ukrainian style.  Thanks to Barb, for sharing, and thanks also to Cheryl Pratt,  a fellow Peace Corps volunteer, and Lilya Emerova, a colleague of Barb's, who each took some of these great photos.

 

One of the things that has amazed me about food in Ukraine—and continues to amaze me after three years of living here—is how Ukrainians never hesitate to turn an ordinary meal into a banquet.  Weddings, holiday gatherings at work, birthday dinners at home, relatives visiting, breaking of religious fasts, guests from a different country—the list is endless of the opportunities to turn a typically “good” meal into a true feast.

But nowhere do I see this phenomenon so dramatically as out on the hiking trail. More than once I have been travelling with a group of Ukrainians, carrying all of our food and water on our backs, only to sit down for lunch and watch them pull out a vast array of different dishes to share with everyone—a true trailside banquet. This past weekend was a case in point. My hiking partner, fellow Crimean Peace Corps Volunteer Cheryl Pratt, and I joined with our newest Ukrainian fellow hikers for a day trip into the Crimean mountains. Our group was composed of:  Lilya, a young woman who works at my library; Anton, a young man we met on our last hiking trip (where he helpfully guided us back to the right trail as we had gotten a bit lost); his mother Olga, an attractive, very fit looking woman in her forties who works as a psychologist in two local schools; and two individuals we met on the trolleybus on the way to our starting point—Pavel, a 60-something TV technician, and his 13-year old son, Boris. Pavel had heard Cheryl and I speaking English on the trolleybus while looking at a trail map. He gave us lots of friendly advice on future trail possibilities, and then asked if he and his son could join us that day. But, in truth, we ended up joining them. Pavel turned out to be a very experienced hiker and had been on the mountain many times and knew the correct route (which I was a little hazy about). We also realized he was an excellent English speaker, a rarity in a Ukrainian of that age. He told us that in his earlier life he had been a professor of English at a local university. 

As we began the long trek up to the high plateau of Chatyr Dag (“tent mountain” in Crimean Tatar), Pavel pointed out the vegetation along the way, frequently giving us the Russian, Latin, and Crimean Tatar names, and told us some of the history of the area --how the plateau was at one time used as a pasture for Crimean Tatar shepherds and later Soviet collective farms--and also how to find some of the fifty caves located on the vast plateau. What a wealth of information he had, and oh so wonderful, he spoke English and I could understand him! 

After struggling up some very steep inclines, we finally reached the plateau and made our way to the lowest of the two peaks on Chatyr Dag, marveling at the views all around us as we were on the second highest mountain in Crimea. To the south was the Black Sea, to the east and west the peaks and plateaus of the Crimean mountain range, and far to the north, the city of Simferopol. Somewhere in those distant northern ridges was my village of Ak Mechet, where I so frequently gazed at this very place we were standing on.

The fog from the sea rolled in and out, temporarily obscuring our views and the warmth of the sun. This sea fog is the reason that the Crimean mountains, though not high, are considered dangerous, as the frequent and sudden fogs result in several deaths every season when inexperienced hikers become lost and stumble over the steep precipices on the edges of the mountain plateaus. 

Deciding to take a break after our steep climb, we all settled down on the soft carpet of alpine grass and got out lunch. As usual, Cheryl and I pulled out our standard lunch fare—cheese, bread, hard boiled eggs, cucumbers (in season now), apples, and cookies. Pavel and Olga, however, had other things in mind. First, Olga got out a flower print plastic tablecloth and spread it on the ground. Then she started hauling out food from her and Anton’s backpacks: a plastic container of cheese pancakes (made from the local cottage cheese called tovorg which is frequently sweetened with sugar); another container of cutlets (ground meat mixed with onions and herbs and fried in the ubiquitous sunflower oil); a large bag of cucumbers; bread (“baton” in Russian, what Americans call French bread);  pre-made sandwiches (egg salad I think) on two types of bread, white and dark; and apples and juice. Pavel added salo (cured slabs of fatback, an Ukrainian national food) that he cut into small pieces with his hunting knife, fried pieces of fish, and “blinchikis” (thin crepe-like pancakes wrapped around some kind of filling) filled with a meat/spice mixture that was quite tasty. 

Both Olga and Pavel assured us that all the food was “domashne”—made at home from scratch, as it always is in Ukraine. Pavel even made sure that we knew his mother (whom I’m thinking must be at least 80) made those blinchikis. And also, as always, food was brought to share and in large quantities and was laid out in the middle of the tablecloth where we all gathered around and chose from the many offerings.

I think about our typical American hiking lunches—each individual having their own sandwich and maybe an apple and a couple of cookies (something I have learned NOT to do here in Ukraine)--and think, “yep, these Ukrainians really have this food thing figured out.” What a wonderful meal in the middle of what turned out to be a long and arduous hike. It provided nourishment for our bodies and also a chance to share with other people, who before that day were mostly strangers, the fruits of our labor. 

Rested, satiated, filled with the pleasure of eating delicious food surrounded by the beautiful scenery of Crimea, we were ready to trek on to the highest peak on Chatyr Dag, a few kilometers away, and then down and across the lower plateau to our final destination of the village of Perevalnoe and the trolleybus back to Simferopol. Daylight had faded by the time we arrived in the village after our 11-hour hike, but despite our tired and sore bodies, I think we were all filled with wondrous memories of the day and the gladness of finding new friends to share it with. And of having eaten some really good food.

I Can Almost Taste Them: Food Memories of a Peace Corps Volunteer

By Kim McCray, Peace Corps Ukraine 2006-2008

We're pleased to welcome another guest blogger.  Kim McCray was a Peace Corps volunteer in Ukraine several years ago and is now  This is the first of three posts about those food memories that stand still stand out,  several years on.  Kim is from Staunton, Virginia and currently lives in Raleigh, NC where she is completing a dual-degree between North Carolina State University's History Department (MA in Public History) and The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill's Library and Information Science School (MS in Library Science).  Come May, she'll graduate and be seeking work as an archivist. And of course, if you've a food memory to share of Ukraine (or Belarus, or Georgia, or Moldova, or...) we'd love to hear it!

Ask any returned Peace Corps Ukraine volunteer to make a list of the most vivid memories of their time in Ukraine, and somewhere in the top five recollections, probably sandwiched between “crowded marshrutka rides” and “bundled up starfish babies” will be a mention of a Ukrainian dish – of where they were when they first tasted it, of who prepared it for them, and what was going on in their life at the time.  This only makes sense, as just as Ukrainians take great pride in their traditional dishes, we Peace Corps volunteers take great joy in eating them!  In the middle of winter, when it gets dark by 4:30, the temperature dips to zero and without internet or television a book seems your only companion, there is little that can warm the heart of a Peace Corps volunteer quite as much as a neighborly invitation to come enjoy a hot cup of tea and a slice of tort.  And in the hottest days of summer, when school is in recess and traveling from summer camp to summer camp and hosting visiting friends and family from the States starts to wear thin, nothing can beat escaping from a stiflingly hot bus at the end of a long journey to find a kind babusya waiting to sell you a bucket of the most juicy and sweet strawberries you have ever eaten for the high price of about 50 cents.

Now, more than three years removed from my Peace Corps service in the village of Priyutivka (Oleksandriya Region, Kirovograd Oblast), these memories are every bit as rich as they were during my service.  Three particular food memories stand out above those already stated and trigger memories so rich that “I can almost taste them.”

1. THE FIRST SUPPER 
As I am sure is true for most former Peace Corps volunteers, my memories of the day I first met my host-family are a bit fuzzy.  It seems that my brain spent so much energy feeding the anxiety and anticipation of the day that it was not able to properly store the memories as it did later Peace Corps events.  The snippets I do remember well are scattered - I remember looking out the window and watching other volunteers pour off the bus when it reached their site.  I remember having difficulty shutting my suitcase in the back of the rickety Lada car that carried me to my house.  I sort of remember sitting on the sofa and sharing a family photo album with my new host-siblings.  The rest of the afternoon is a blur.  It was all so daunting after all - encountering the people I would be living with for the three months of training before my departure to my permanent site.  I did not know what to expect of them, of their home, and especially had no idea how I was going to communicate with them in anyway using the four or five Russian sentences I had managed to learn so far.  I was excited of course, but also quite afraid.

Yet, although most of the first day has now vanished, one more memory sticks out - the first meal I ate with my host family (above with Kim)  I will never forget it.  In fact, I can honestly say that the meal was what set me at ease and alleviated the stress of the day, and it was the meal the symbolized my true entrance into the family.  

 I was summoned from my room by my 17 year old host sister Zhenya with calls of “Kushat! Kushat!” (“Eat! Eat!”), spoken as she moved an invisible spoon towards her mouth. I got the hint and followed her into the kitchen.  I sat down to the table with some hesitation, not having any idea what to expect and fearing the worst, (word on the street among the volunteers was that Ukrainians liked this thing called “salo”, raw big fat…), but I was pleased when Natasha, my host mother, set the table with a spread that I found completely agreeable – pounded pork cutlets, fried to a golden brown, homemade “puree” (mashed potatoes), brown bread and butter, and yes, homemade pickles.  The steam rose off the serving dishes and met with the colder air in a billow as my host mother piled my plate high. I watched as my beautiful host-sister Zhenya ate her food daintily, as any young woman should, and as my 15 year old host brother Sasha dunked his mashed potatoes into a ketchup-mayonnaise dipping sauce and ate ravenously, as any young man should. I ate at a pace somewhere in between, devouring everything I could while taking breaks to flip through my pocket dictionary in mostly vain attempts to answer Zhenya’s questions about “what Americans eat.”  My host mother asked me at least three or four times if the food was good and if I wanted more.  My brother wanted to know if I’d ever had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  And so began the tradition of gathering in a warm and cozy kitchen for the nightly exchange of Ukrainian and American culture.

Of course I later came to learn that the meal I’d eaten that night was a very typical Ukrainian meal, and in fact, by the time I moved to my permanent site in late December and moved in with another host mother with a penchant for mashed potatoes and cutlets, I began to get tired of the dish as I craved for the out of season produce that most Ukrainians do not have access to or cannot afford. But I always looked back fondly on that first meal with my host family, during which I felt such an offering of sincere hospitality and affection that I never again felt completely alone in Ukraine. I had a family. They are still my family.

Above:  Pork cutlets via Ukrainian Cuisine