Cranberry Soup Peasant Style (Broosnika Soop po Derevensky)

Oh, this little gem from Nothing Beets Borscht is going to be filed away for Thanksgiving dinner, you can bet...

Cranberry Soup Peasant Style
(Broosnika Soop po Derevensky)

This soup is a refreshing, tart -- but not too tart -- hot soup. It needs only 1 tablespoon of sugar, and even that can be omitted, making this one of the few low-calorie Russian dishes.

1 cup raw cranberries
4 cups water
2 medium onions, chopped
2 cups shredded cabbage
2 teaspoons salt
1 tablespoon sugar
Pepper to taste
1/2 cup beet juice and 1 cup canned diced beets, or 1 cup fresh diced beets

Garnish: sour cream (buy an 8-ounce container)

Wash the cranberries, and then put them in a pot with the 4 cups of water. Let the cranberries simmer, uncovered, for about 20 minutes, or until soft. Then take a wooden spoon and mush up the cranberries.

Add the raw, chopped onions and shredded cabbage to the pot. Season with the salt, the sugar, and then pepper to taste. If using fresh beets, add them now. Let simmer, uncovered, for another 20 minutes, or until the beets are just tender enough to be easily pierced by a fork or knife.

The soup can be refrigerated at this point until ready to heat up and serve.

If using canned beets, add them to the pot along with their 1/2 cup of liquid when you are heating the soup up just before serving.

Serve the cranberry soup piping hot with a dollop of sour cream floating in each bowl.

This soup subverts many of my soup-making expectations. First, you don't cook the onion before adding it to the soup. ...wait, really? Yes. You don't. As much as it pains me to say, being the kind of person who automatically adds oil to the pot, and starts the root veg long before any liquid is going in.

Also, that cranberry's got to be a DOMINANT flavor; there's only a cup of 'em, but they get star billing, even though there's more onion and cabbage, and equal amounts of beets.

I wonder how this would be cold. I wonder how this would be with more cranberries. I wonder how this would be if you let it go a little longer at a higher boil and ended up with a partially gelatinous soup...

I will find out, come this Thanksgiving, if not sooner.

This Is Not A Beef Pancake Pie; Brew Your Own Kvass: Bread Beer

I was going to post Nothing Beets Borscht's recipe for Beef Pancake Pie (blinchaty pirog), but the blessed recipe is 6 pages long. Six. pages. long.
Suffice to say, you make 6 big crepes, a beef/rice/hard-boiled-egg mixture, and a mushroom/cream cheese mixture. Put down one crepe, butter it, put on beef mixture. Stack on another crepe, butter it, and put on some mushroom mixture. Repeat until you have one crepe left, and use that as the top. Put the thing in the oven to bake, until it's all hot and delicious, and slice like a layer cake.

There's also a Georgian sweet preparation -- blinchaty pirog s eezyoomom ee oryekhamy -- with a filling of walnuts, raisins, sugar, and honey. Quoth Miss Blanksteen: "It tastes like baklava, although it is entirely different."

So, since I'm not keen on typing 6 pages tonight, how's about we attack kvass, the essential ingredient in okroshka, the cold beer soup we looked at yesterday.

Bread Beer
(Kvass)

Kvass is a nonalcoholic bread beer. It is made from leftover bread crumbs and stored in barrels kept in the cellar. In the Soviet Union, it is sold on the streets out of big tanks. A lady sits next to her tank and washes glasses as she serves people the kvass. One learns to forget hygiene as the lady hands you a grubby-looking glass filled with ice-cold kvass. It has a slightly sweet mint taste, and the natuarl carbonation from the yeast. I love the stuff.

Kvass is used not only as a beverage. It formst the base of an excellent soup, okroshka [page 72], and it is use for cooking boujenina [page 67], a braised fresh ham.

The following is Gorky's grandmother's advice on kvass making:

If you want good kvass, then you must insult it, make it angry. Kvass can't stand sweet things so throw in a few raisins, or some sugar -- a small teaspoon to a bucket will do.
-- Gorky, My Childhood

1 pound black bread, dark rye, or pumpernickel (For heaven's sake, don't make the bread; buy an old junky loaf!)
16 cups water
2 packets dry yeast or 1 ounce compressed yeast
1/4 cup lukewarm water
1 1/2 cups sugar
2 tablespoons fresh mint leaves or 1 tablesppon dried mint
2 tablespoons raisins

Equipment:
A sieve and a piece of cheesecloth
Bottles -- about 3 of the 1-quart size

Bake the bread at 200° F. until it is dried out; slice it first to speed up the process. Then chop it coarsely and put it into a huge bowl or pot.

Bring the 16 cups of water to a boil (that's 4 quarts), and pour it over the bread. Mash it around with a spoon to make sure that all the bread is getting soaked.

Cover loosely with a towel and leave in a warm, draft-free place for at least 8 hours.

When the 8 hours are up, take out another large bowl or some type of vessel. Set a sieve over it. First pan the liquid, if any, off the top of the bread. Then start spooning the wet bread into the sieve, squish it thoroughly with the back of a spoon so that all the juice -- or a lot of the juice -- drips through. Do only a little bit of bread pulp at a time, so you get as much juice as possible. The squeezed-out bread will still be wet and mushy. Don't worry about it, there's a limit to how long you can squeeze the stuff: just throw it away.

When you have extracted all the bread juice you can, sprinkle the yeast over 1/4 cup lukewarm water, add 1/2 teaspoon of the sugar, mix, and then set in a warm, draft-free spot to foam and froth for 10 minutes.

When the yeast has doubled in bulk, mix the yeast into the bread juice. Add the chopped or crumbled mint. Cover the pot or bowl with a towel, and set in a warm, draft-free place for at least 8 hours.

When your 8 hours or so are up, line a sieve with a piece of cheesecloth. Strain the bread juice again, into a big bowl or pot. Using a funnel, pour the strained juice into bottles, filling each one two-thirds full. Divide the raisins amongst the bottles, and drop them in. to get the kvass good and angry.

Cover with a piece of plastic wrap or a towel, and let sit in a cool place, but not a refrigerator. A wine cellar will do, or the basement of a house. It should sit for 3 to 5 days, until the raisins have floated to the top of the bottle, and the sediment has sunk to the bottom.

Pour the clear golden liquid into other clean bottles, taking care to leave the sediment behind. (The raisins don't have to be left behind -- it's up to you, although I've never found a raisin in a glass of kvass).

Keep the kvass refrigerated for at least 2 days, until all the sediment has sunk to the bottom.

To serve: Pour the cold kvass through a cheesecloth-lined strainer into a pitcher.

You know, I think if I knew of a high school student who was making her own beer in her spare time? I'd be somewhat obligated to report it. That being said, this sounds much more appetizing that the stuff we used to do with grapes and sugar during Talented and Gifted camp at the University of Oregon...

Don't believe Miss Blanksteen when she says kvass is "non-alcoholic." It's low in alcohol, but it does, in fact, have alcohol. As long as you're okay with that, you're fine going forward.

One thing that stands out in this 1970s cookbook is that it takes the time to interpret and define standard measurements. So, "16 cups" is also listed at "4 quarts." Odd that they don't just say "1 gallon," but hey. In case you didn't know it before, 16 cups = 8 pints = 4 quarts = 1 gallon. Handy-dandy conversion, just for you.

Okroshka: Cold Beer Soup

It's sticky with humidity here in DC today. I just got back from a run to Whole Foods for some tomatoes to make a salad, and ended up getting more than a little beer. When I was a kid, sticky humid days meant Kool-Aid and Popsicles; now, it means beer.

Nothing Beets Borscht agrees with me, and shares this strange little recipe.

Cold Beer Soup (Irina-Style)
(Okroshka)

Okroshka is a cold soup -- refreshing, unusual, and ideal for a hot summer day.

The base of the soup is kvass, Russian bread beer, which tastes like a milk beer. Some people might shy away from making the beer from scratch. But let me assure you, it is not so difficult to make. As a matter of fact, it isn't difficult at all -- it's just a question of setting aside the time. When I make it I start it in the evening and then do the next step in the morning; later that evening I bottle it. From that piont on it's just a question of waiting for the kvass to mature. If you still are not excited by the idea of making your very own, delicious kvass, however, substitute soda water, or a dry champagne.

This is a do-it-yourself soup. The kvass is served in a bottle. Then, there are four bowls of goodies to put in your soup bowl. The kvass is then poured over your pile of goodie, and your soup is ready.

1 quart kvass (see page 173)

Bowl 1:
5 small cucumbers, peeled and grated
2 hard-boiled eggs, chopped
4 new potatoes or 2 large potatoes, boiled and mashed

Combine the above ingredients, prepared as indicated.

Bowl 2:
Scallion greens
Salt and pepper

Coarsely chop the scallion greens. Then sprinkle with salt and pepper, and hammer them so that they're very flat. This makes the scallion juice flavor the soup as soon as it is put in.

Bowl 3:
Precooked frankfurters and/or sausages, cut into bite-sized rounds

Bowl 4:
Chopped fresh dill

To serve okroshka, put the bowls out on a table, with a serving spoon in each, and the kvass, well chilled in its bottle or in a pitcher. Each person will help him/herself to the goodies from the bowl, in whatever proportion he/she wants, and then pour kvass over it.

I know that I have heard of milk beer before (and not Japanese variety that seems to have some web traction these days), but can't find a good reference. However, we can intuit from both the recipe for kvass and the context here that milk beer is a light beer that has little in the way of hops or aging. Good ol' Wikipedia points out its low alcohol content, and says that it's considered suitable for kiddies to drink. I remember kvass being sold on the sidewalks of Moscow... I was freaked out by the common "glass" which looked for all the world like a cross between an old trumpet mute and a diaphragm, so don't remember actually partaking. Plus, face it, at 18, I was a prim little thing, and didn't drink.

If people are interested, I can post the recipe for kvass as a bonus post. [[ETA: Recipe for KBAC/kvass up, here!]

Wikipedia suggests that you can substitute light kefir for the kvass, which makes me think that if you're going for something creamy, you could also use buttermilk. Why not! Wikipedia also tells us how much should be in that pile of goodies: "The ratio of chopped food to kvas is similar to that of cereal to milk." Good to know!

I think most "he/she" constructions are awkward beyond believe, but I like the usages here, as this is a 1974 book -- I like the idea of a teenaged girl not only writing and publishing a book, but also being aware of her choice of gendered pronouns. (And, no, I would not prefer the author use the gender-neutral pronoun "they" or any of its offshoots; it's plural, damn it.)

I am tagging this "vegetarian" because the sausages/frankfurters look entirely optional -- if anyone strenuously objects to that, do let me know. I want the tags/labels to be useful, but not over the top (yeah, there are two potatoes in this dish, but it doesn't seem like a potato dish, so no potato tag... etc.)

My dinner tonight isn't anywhere near as exciting as okroshka; an English ale, a slice of cheese on a piece of whole wheat bread, and eventually, the tomato salad that launched this post.

Stock for Dummies; Ukrainian Borscht

It has to happen: at least once during a week focused on Nothing Beets Borscht, I have to include a borscht recipe. There are pages and pages in the cookbook about different styles of borscht, including exhortations to use fresh beets, to make it at least a day in advance, to garnish with sour cream, etc. Jane Blanksteen also says that of all the different borscht recipes, Ukrainian Borscht is the favorite.

Ukranian Borscht

(10 to 12 servings)

Stock:
3 pounds ham hock
1 bay leaf
1 onion, peeled and studded with 5 cloves
1 carrot, peeled
1 celery stalk
Salt and pepper
3 quarts water

Stock Method:
1. Put all the ingredients in a large soup pot and bring liquid to a boil.
2. Turn off the heat and skim off the scum on the surface of the soup. The scum is that foamy, muddy stuff reminiscent of the foam you are likely to find at a polluted beach.
3. Now, cover the pot -- partially -- and let the soup simmer for 3 hours.
4. After 3 hours are up, let the soup cool. When it is cool enough not to scald your fingers, remove the vegetables and bay leave and the ham hock.
5. Throw out the vegetables and bay leaf, but save the ham hock. Remove all the meat from the bones and shred it with your fingers; throw out the bones.
6. Put the shredded meat in the pot.
7. Refrigerate the stock and, before you are about to use it, skim the fat off the top. It will be a solid white layer covering the stock.

Note:
Stock can be kept frozen for ages. It can also be kept on the back burner of your stove for a few days, if you bring it to a boil once in the morning and once in the evening to prevent any bacteria from being fruitful and multiplying.

Borscht:
1 medium onion, minced
1 clove garlic, minced
2 slices bacon or some butter or shortening
2 small carrots or 1 large, peeled and sliced into small disks
1 peeled, diced turnip or parsnip
1 cup peeled, chopped tomatoes or 4 small ones (can be canned)
Salt, pepper, 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
1 pound beets, making 2 1/2 cups when peeled and grated
1 pound white cabbage, shredded
1 pound potatoes, peeled and diced
1 pound kolbasa sausage or any cooked sausage you like (If you use raw sausage, first broil it or it will fall apart in the soup.)

Optional:
Russians usually add a grated parsley root and a celery root along with the grated beets. If you can find either or both -- throw them in.

Borscht Method:
1. Prepare all the ingredients as directed.
2. Sauté the onion and garlic (until they are limp and white, not browned) with 2 slices of bacon or just butter.
3. Sauté, adding to the onions and bacon or butter, the carrots, turnip, tomatoes (parsley and celery roots), salt, pepper, and vinegar.
4. Add 2 cups of stock to the frying pan with the vegetables.
5. Then add the beets. Cover the pan and simmer for 45 minutes.
6. Meanwhile, bring the 2 quarts of stock to a boil, then add the shredded cabbage and diced potatoes and simmer for 15 minutes.
7. When the beets are ready, dump the entire contents of the pan into the stock.
8. Simmer, partially covered, for 15 minutes to combine flavors.
9. Season to taste -- salt, pepper, sugar, vinegar.
10. Fifteen minutes before serving, add the sausage cut into the small, round slices, and simmer for 15 minutes partially covered.

Garnish: A dollop of sour cream in each bowl and some chopped dill sprinkled on top. Serve with pampooshky.

It sounds so good, it seems worth all the typing out.

Pampooshky are Ukrainian garlic rolls. The recipe for that is next in the book, but basically, it recommends buying "great, soft, eggy dinner rolls," heating them up, and serving them with a dressing of oil, garlic, salt and parsley poured over. Sounds delicious to me.

Not as appetizing: the polluted beach reference. I think "polluted beach," and I think Lake Erie in the 80s, or medical waste on the Jersey shore. When I think of foam on the beach, I think of a beautiful, grey day on the Oregon coast after a storm. So, if "polluted beach" doesn't do it for you, feel free to use my "beautiful coast after a storm" metaphor.

Though it's a long, wordy recipe, ya gotta like what basically becomes a "stock for dummies" recipe. The scum skimming, the definition of the fat layer... it's a recipe that a novice soup maker could take, use, and produce a completely-from-scratch masterpiece. Though, I'd say you'd probably want to include the ham you pulled off the hocks, adding it when you add the kielbasa.

Adapt to a vegetarian recipe by using vegetable stock, using butter instead of bacon, and leaving out the kielbasa.

Norma's Shchee

I was in the Soviet Union for a bit less than a month back in 1990. I remember eating a lot of soup, and wondering why none of it had any beets in it. I was pretty darned happy there were no beets, as I had not yet learned how backwards I was on that point yet, but remember wondering where the iconic beets were.

Turns out, there are lots of iconic Russian soups. Nothing Beets Borscht has a recipe for a shchee, which looks to be just what I remember having all over the USSR.

Norma's Shchee

This recipe for shchee, given to me by a good family friend, was the recipe of somebody's grandmother. It is one of the easiest recipes I have encountered, and also one of the best.

Notes:

1. If boneless chuck or brisket is used, take the meat out of the pot when it is ready -- check after 1 1/2 hours -- and when you serve the soup, serve the meat, heated and sliced, as the main course. The meat can also be used to fill piroshky to serve with the soup.

2. Carrots, parsnips, and turnips can be added to the soup. First peel these vegetables, then dice them, then brown them in butter, then dump them into the pot when you add the cabbage.

3 pounds flanken or shin beef or chuck or brisket
3 pounds cracked marrow bones
8 cups water
1 head cabbage (3 to 4 pounds), shredded
1 large onion, diced
3 tablespoons butter
4 cans tomatoes (8-ounce size)
10 pitted prunes (optional)
1/4 cup raisins (optional)
1 tablespoon salt
3 tablespoons lemon juice
6 tablespoons brown sugar (optional)
2 tablespoons honey (optional)

Garnish: sour cream and chopped fresh dill

Boil the meat and bones in the 8 cups of water for 1/2 hour. Skim off the scum.

Meanwhile, sauté the shredded cabbage and the diced onion in the 3 tablespoons of butter, for only 3 minutes. Add a can of tomatoes and continue to cook the cabbate until it is limp.

When the meat has finished its 1/2 hour, and the scum has been skimmed, add the sautéed cabbage-onion-tomato mixture to the beef.

Then add the rest of the tomatoes, the prunes and raisins, salt, lemon juice, brown sugar, and honey.

Bring the soup to a boil and then lower the heat and let simmer, partially covered, for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, or until the meat is tender.

Remove the meat from the pot and let it cool. When it is cool, either cut into cubes and return to the soup pot, or put it on a platter to be reheated and sliced, and served along with the soup.

Shchee tastes better at least a day old, so either refrigerate it or leave it on the stove and bring it to a boil twice a day (to prevent any bacterial growth that would make the soup toxic).

To serve, bring the soup to a boil and ladle it piping hot into soup bowls with a dollop of sour cream in each bowl. Then sprinkle with freshly chopped fresh dill.

Also served cold, in my experience. And you have to love any recipe that includes the word "toxic." But, hey, a good life lesson: how to keep large amounts of soup edible when you lack proper refrigeration!

When I had shchee there was never any meat in it, nor on the side. Meat was not plentiful where we were, and when someone offered you meat, you accepted it graciously. Usually, when asked, people would say that it was veal.

It was never veal.

It was this way that I had camel, horse, dog, cat, and various other animals. Truthfully? The camel gyros were delicious.

Beets Braised in Sour Cream

There was a time when I didn't like sour cream. It's hard to imagine it now, really, but I was highly suspicious of the white, smooth, gloopy substance. If it was mixed with something else, if it was part of a sauce, well, fine. But sour cream on its own? Ick! Yogurt? Ick! They weren't a part of my growing up, and I resisted them mightily (until I grew some sense, or went to college, or both -- sour cream on everything in the dining hall made the dining hall palatable).

I was sure I hated sour cream. I also was sure I hated beets.

Nothing Beets Borscht would have scared the heck out of me back then, especially with this recipe.

Beets Braised in Sour Cream
(Svyokla so Smyetanoy)

This recipe should satisfy all those people who thought Russian cooking was synonymous with sour cream and beets. It will also surprise them, because this doesn't have any of the ghastly connotations that sour cream has for many Americans. The beets color the sour cream, and the dish is a bright magenta. It's such an incredibly brilliant color that even if you hat beets, and despise sour cream, try this just to see that fantastic color!

1 pound raw beets
1 tablespoon butter
1 teaspoon lemon juice
A little bit of water
Salt
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 cup sour cream

Peel the beets and slice them thinly.

Melt the butter in a frying pan that has a cover. Add the beets, lemon juice, and enough water to keep the beets from burning (a few tablespoons).

Cover and simmer for about 40 minutes, or until beets are tender. Remove from heat.

Add the salt and sugar, and mix. Add the sour cream and heat the pan, but do not let the sour cream come to a boil, or it will curdle. When the cream is warm, serve.

Make sure the dish you serve it in shows off the beets' color. Black is very nice; so is white.

Evidently, my 1970s self was not alone in being highly suspicious of beets and sour cream. What was it, I wonder, about sour cream that seemed scary back then, but now seems so completely normal?

I would probably not call these "braised in sour cream" as it seems they are cooked in water, and then served in cream, but that's just me. I'd use the highest-fat sour cream you can allow yourself to buy, because the higher fat will stand the heat longer without breaking.

I haven't tried this yet, but I'd bet you can do this more quickly and with less mess by turning it into a pantry cooking sort of thing: a can of sliced beets (not pickled! not sweetened!), drained, with a few tablespoons of the liquid reserved (to stand in for the few tablespoons of water). Warm that up in a pan with the lemon juice, and then proceed with the recipe. No peeling raw beets, no slicing raw beets, no waiting for the raw beets to be cooked through. Might be a nice thing on a hot August night when you've been away at work and just want something easy, fast, and relatively healthy.

Nothing Beets Borscht, by Blanksteen; Beet Preserves

In case you are wondering why I decided to write a Russian cookbook, the original reason was to make my last semester of high school more interesting.

Don't hate Jane Blanksteen because she was a young thing... a young thing with a publishing deal. Don't hate her because, when her book Nothing Beets Borschts: Jane's Russian Cookbook hit the bookstores in 1974, she was a student at Yale. Hate her cutesy pun in the title, if you must, but otherwise? Jane seems like the sort of person you'd want to sit down to tea (and/or vodka) with.

Beet Preserves

(From Louise McGrath, who got it from Katherine Alexeieff)

This is like a marmalade except it is made with beets. I would like to give this recipe a star, or something, because it is not just another jam -- it is...

Sorry, I've been trying to think of an uncorny word to describe something that tastes good, but I haven't come up with anything. Let it suffice to say: Try it.

(2 cups)

2 pounds beet (large, tough beets can be used)
Boiling water
4 cups sugar
1 tablespoon ground ginger
1 cup slivered or coarsely chopped almonds
2 juicy lemons (medium-sized)

Put the washed, but unpeeled, beets in a pot, cover them with boiling water, and simmer until they are tender. This will take about an hour -- more or less depending on the size of the beets.

Rinse the cooked beets with cold water until they are cool, so that you can handle them without causing any serious damage to the skin on your hands. You should then be able to slip the beet skin off the beet without much trouble.

When you have skin the beets, dice them into 1/4-inch cubes.

Put the beets into a waterless pot with the sugar, ginger, and almonds. stir this mixture so that the beets are evenly coated with the sugar and ginger and the almonds are well distributed.

Put the pot over a very tiny flame and cook uncovered for 1/2 hour, stirring every now and then to keep it from burning.

After the 1/2 hour is up, chop the lemons very fine, peel and all; discard any seeds. Add the lemon to the pot. Continue cooking for another 1/2 hour.

Give this mixture a jelly test at this point: Put a tiny bit of jelly onto a plate and let it stand for 5 minutes. If it jells -- test by running your finger through it; if it wrinkles up it is jelled -- then pour the jam into hot, dry jars. Let stand until they cool, then cover and seal the jars. If you know nothing about sealing jars, use old jars from commercial jellies and jams, or just keep it refrigerated.

Russians serve this in little glass saucers with their tea, or it can be used to spread on delicious white bread, such as the one in the preceding recipe.

The cutesy pun in the title is the only one of its kind in the book. Otherwise, Jane Blanksteen is conversational, a bit chatty, and very easy to understand. She'll weave in stories of her time in the Soviet Union -- because, yes, it was still very much the Soviet Union when this was compiled -- but also cultural history, religious traditions, and frank honesty about when she's just winging it to make it come out right. There's even multiple-page spreads of Jane's own drawings to show different techniques. It's a fine book, and, yes, we'll get to the borscht this week.

I came by Nothing Beets Borscht in the best of ways: passed on to me by my sister (who helpfully corrected my remembering -- note to self: write down where I get new cookbooks for the future...).

Dinner for me tonight is a can of soup; this week, though, we'll have scads of soup recipes to drool over, many of which are served cold, and so will be perfect for mid-August Olympics-watching suppers.