I have trouble with butter when I live in Russia. I don’t like margarine. You can’t use margarine in a rich tart pastry - it just doesn’t work. Butter exists in Russia, but you have to know people who know things in order to find it. Sometimes I come home with margarine and my hopes are crushed and I get angry. When I get angry in Siberia and think about butter I think of the peasants Dave read about in the archive, who in 1899 pitchforked a new milk separator machine to death because they thought there were devils inside taking the cream out of the milk. Other times I come home hopeful, sure that this foil package with the word for butter on it and a picture of a cow had to be butter. Then my anger boils up once again when I open the package and find something brown and chunky. It turns out to be “forced meat,” a.k.a. ground beef. People who know things will tell you, you can’t buy Russian butter because it’s not butter, it’s margarine. And, yes, the word for oil, butter, margarine and fat is all the same, but you just have to accept that. You have to buy Finnish butter if you want the good stuff.
Now, I thought I had this problem all ironed out. This time around I was gung-ho to prove to the rest of the neighborhood, “hey, I’m a local, I know you have to go Finnish” (insert cocky snap of the finger and wink here). I did find the Finnish butter the first week we were here, but the store abruptly stopped selling it. It has not returned. Milk separator devils. The search continues. Where’s the pitchfork?
Really, though, I enjoy the quest. I like the mystery and newness, the adventure of finding and experiencing food in Russia. There is a huge variety of yogurts with pick-your-own fat percentages, same goes for sour cream, milk, kefir (sour milk), yogurt drinks. It puzzles me that in the cheese aisle there are probably 50 different white cheeses all neatly lined up, each priced and marked accordingly, but all taste exactly the same. When I asked my Russian friend how she shops for cheese she just shrugged her shoulders and said, “I just feel it. If it’s too soft I don’t buy.” This really gets me excited. Why? Why put each cheese in its own spot with its own price when it tastes just like its milky white neighbor?
We (Dave) have to go to the grocery store at least four times a week because for one thing you have to carry all your groceries home using back strength, and for another, milk is only sold by the liter and… we’re Americans, we love milk. All of this is exhausting and takes some re-orienting when it comes to meal planning. The nice thing is that I can get from my front door all the way into our grocery store, through the check-out line, and back home without ever having to unbuckle Gretchen from the stroller. When it comes to Russia, this is out-of-control convenience. I never would have dreamed it could be so easy!
Another great place to buy food is at our local rynok (REEnok). This is basically a Russian-style farmer’s market. If you’ve never experienced a true garden-fresh carrot, one that has very recently been dug up and only wiped (not washed) clean of the soil, you really need to give it a try. It’s a simple pleasure of mine, probably harking back to my childhood growing up bare-footed in Oregon. Garden carrots are so different from store bought ones. They have the spice of life in them and you can’t really find this in any other place except the garden. I can buy garden fresh carrots in Russia. They are dirty – and most of you know how I feel about dirt.
Every Saturday morning about 30 vendors gather together and set up booths at the rynok. You can buy carrots, wild mushrooms, Siberian berries, fresh eggs and honey. You can also buy cow hooves, but I’m just not there yet. Then there’s the guy leaning on his table smoking a cigarette holding a meat cleaver in front of a massive side of beef. I’m not there yet either.
The other day I was down at the rynok with the girls. As we were walking, Hazel stopped in her tracks and said, “Mom, look at that giant bowl of dead bees!” Now, I wish I had some medicinal explanation for this, (and I wish I had a picture to prove I’m not making this up). Even after consulting our Russian friends, however, exactly what was going on remains a mystery. Why would anyone pay good rubles for a plastic scoop-full from the giant bowl of dead bees? Sasha thought they were hibernating. We can only hope, Sasha.
I love the mystery. One week we saw a crowd of (mostly) babushkas gathered around a beat up old van with its back door open. Now, when you see a crowd of babushkas you have to check out what’s getting their attention. It’s bound to be worth your while – maybe not good, but definitely worth your while. The first time I felt the pressure of the babushka was back in 2007 during a trip to Moscow. I noticed a group of ladies all huddled around what looked like a huge gas tank on wheels with a small spout coming out of the end. A man sat under an orange and red umbrella diligently filling bottle after bottle with brown liquid. I figured it must be some sort of home brew and had to wait my turn to find out what this stuff was like. Maybe I was extra thirsty that hot day, or maybe I just got caught up in the flurry of excited babushkas all around me, but I’ll never forget that icy cold kvas. Kvas, it turns out, is a slightly sweet, sort of carbonated, and barely fermented drink made from black bread. It was and still is the best cold drink I’ve ever had. Another babushka moment happened a couple weeks ago. I was at Ikea and noticed a group of them buzzing around a bin of felt slippers that were really cheap. Naturally, I had to get a pair for Dave and me.
So, back at the rynok and the beat up old van: I swam through the crowd to see what was in the back of the van. Sure enough, another gas tank with a spout. I got in line. This time it was filled with fresh milk, sold by the liter. They couldn’t fill the bottles fast enough. I waited my turn and bought one, along with a bag of berries all for two bucks.
