symbiotic

thanksgiving

The word my son Brendan just used when I described how a bear had broken into the vegetable garden while we were away and then how the doe who haunts our place these days found the gap in the fence and made short work of the beautiful Findhorn-sized red cabbages, all the kale, the raspberry leaves, the roses, and anything else that caught her eye. (The bear didn’t eat much, I don’t think, but it dragged two garbage cans off to see what might be in them. Nothing edible—kitchen garbage is kept in the garden shed until we go to the landfill once or twice a year. Nothing interesting to a bear; just stuff that can’t be recycled.) I was saving the cabbages for Doukhobor borscht  and planned to cook one with apples and red wine vinegar to have with the Fraser Valley duck we’re having for Thanksgiving dinner tonight. And the kale! Nipped right to the stem. The Tuscan black, the Russian red, the Redbor, the strange hybrids that have evolved in my garden over the years I’ve been growing kale and letting some of it go to seed. (There’s a collard-ish one that is delicious in soup.) John fixed the gap and I dragged a big slab of cedar, left-over from the big tree we had milled years ago and whose boards frame the raised boxes in the garden and provide a beam to take wisteria over the patio, well, I dragged that slab to the gate and propped it across the opening because it seems that the doe figured out how to shimmy under the wire.

So a duck for dinner, stuffed with cornbread and dried cherries and even some salal berries I dried by just leaving them in a dish on the worktable. Wild rice. No red cabbage, whiffy with vinegar and sweet with palm sugar. No kale salad (but there are still lots of tomatoes and basil). A crumble from the freezer, made when the rhubarb and raspberries were ready. A bottle of either Wild Goose Autumn Gold from our stash or else the single bottle of Desert Hills 2016 Helena Rosé that looks like a sunrise.

And at least the doe wasn’t hungry enough for zinnias.

 

soup

The other day we drove to Grand Forks for lunch. We were staying in Osoyoos and part of what we do when we’re in that area is drive up into Boundary Country for the long views, the golden fields, and the pleasure of Russian food at the Borscht Bowl in Grand Forks. Every fall I make a huge pot of that borscht, using this recipe. (I have wonderful cabbages in the garden right now, begging to be shredded and used in this soup.) My grandmother made borscht, a red barszcz, probably in homage to her first husband, who was Polish. And for my parents, that was the benchmark of borscht. I tried making the Doukhobor one for them once, thinking it would be a good thing for my mum and I to do together, but they simply couldn’t hear that it was also a borscht. Nope. Borscht was beets and maybe some thin slices of beef, whiffy with vinegar, and served with a dollop of sour cream. Smetana. They kept saying, “It’s a good vegetable soup but it’s not borscht.” And in the way of family history, it’s a phrase we use every time I make this soup.

autumn borscht.jpg

The borscht in Grand Forks is delicious. Everything is diced or shredded very finely and the surface of the soup is ferny with dill. It’s thick and the colour of ochre. I had a big bowl and had to restrain myself from ordering another. We were also having vareniki, large ones, stuffed with beef and potato, and served with smetana and grated cheese. My grandmother’s, called pedeha, in homage to her second husband (my grandfather), who was more or less Ukrainian, were smaller than the ones we ate in Grand Forks. Hers were almost always filled with homemade cottage cheese and potatoes, with flecks of green onion. She also made dessert ones filled with golden plums. She kept heaping them on plates and showed delight as we asked for more.

I can understand why the Doukhobors were drawn to the Grand Forks area. Everywhere we saw those fertile fields, roadside stands with boxes of squash, huge tomatoes, cabbages, strings of garlic, bags of red and yellow-skinned onions, even bags of Russian noodles called lapsha and which my grandmother also made, though I don’t remember what her version  was called. My father said that when he was a child in Drumheller and the family was very poor, she made them to sell, using eggs from her chickens and butter from her cow. My father said it was rare that they ate butter themselves because my grandmother could sell it and supplement my grandfather’s sporadic income from coal mining. I hoped to buy flour from the Pride of the Valley Flour Mill but it was closed and none of the grocery stores we looked it had it for sale. (But then I found Red Fife flour at the McMynns Store in Midway, milled at the Heritage Flour Mill in Rock Creek. So later in the week, I’ll bake bread with a taste of that Bounday wheat.)

For years I never thought about these foods. We ate them when we visited our father’s family in Beverley (then a community near Edmonton and now part of the city itself) and they were foreign, though eating them meant that we were too. (I never felt foreign, apart from the first day of school when teachers used to struggle with the pronunciation of my surname!) And now I want to know how to cook them. I want to eat them on these cool fall days and think of the generations of women in my family who grew cabbages and churned butter and carefully peeled potatoes for the pedeha, tossing the peels to the chickens who waited by the kitchen door. Sometimes they are so far away, in time, in geography, in language (my grandmother’s English was so heavily-accented that I could barely understand her), and sometimes they are in our hands as we cut and dice, they are in the faces of our children and grandchildren (where else do the blue eyes come from?), and in the way we drive long distances to see a landscape both familiar and nourishing, and to eat the bowls of soup that called us there.