Flaky layers of puff pastry are filled and topped with whipped pastry cream to make this classic Russian Napoleon. Plus a round up all my favorite desserts from the past year.
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Light and tender sponge cake and baked apples combine the best of both worlds in this Russian Apple Sharlotka.
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To my readers and those who reached out to me after last week’s post, thank you. Thank you for making me feel heard. When I write a blog post (and I don’t mean to sound self-deprecating), my expectations for anyone to actually read it is quite low. Who has time these days, I think, to do more than scroll through the pretty pictures of food? Putting my feelings and thoughts to paper is catharsis enough, but to realize I have an actual audience for them is truly…moving and heartening. Many were quick to point out that bravery isn’t simply weathering the bad things in life, but more how we choose to respond to them. Whether I feel brave on a day-to-day basis or not, I’m glad I’ve chosen to write about this phase of my life— if only because you all know how to make a girl feel loved and cared for. Again, thank you!!
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Whenever I tell others that I’m Russian, I often find myself responding to the same old stereotypes: cold, harsh winters, burly men knocking back shots of vodka, and a penchant for “that soup with the beets.”
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It’s been a little over three months since my accident and after spending most of that time with family in Rhode Island recovering, I’ve finally returned to Charlottesville—my other home of the past six and a half years. I’ve quickly realized, though, that my life here is no longer quite the same and the experience has reminded me of something the narrator says in the movie The Curious Case of Benjamin Button: “It’s a funny thing coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. You realize what’s changed, is you.”
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Many have asked how I keep myself busy and yes, I've been reading, binging-watching tv shows and keeping up with my favorite food blogs and websites. However, not as much as I’d initially have thought. The amount of mental energy that goes into thinking and worrying about my hand, the focus required for rehab exercises, the mental fog that comes from constant pain and its partner, pain meds, has left me surprisingly pretty unproductive.
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If I had to choose one dish that embodied home for me it is my mother’s borscht, a traditional Eastern European beet soup. There is nothing like sitting down to a piping hot bowl of it, a dollop of thick sour cream slowly swirled in, and for the heck of it, another dollop (or two) smeared on a hearty chunk of bread. Just looking at its gemstone color warms my soul, but one bite—spicy, sweet, sour, rich and creamy—fills me with all sorts of cozy, comforting feelings.
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When I call my mother to ask her for a family recipe, I always make sure to have a pen, paper, and at least a hour set aside for the conversation. You see, more times than not, there is no recipe—not one written down that is. These recipes, born in the Soviet Union and passed down from woman to woman over the years, have simply been put to memory and rely more on basic know-how and techniques than on rigid instructions.
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