Another Borshch marathon

I made Borshch again and I made my family happy.

Over the years, I've translated our family Borshch recipe. I've posted it. I've used it to illustrate lectures in my folklore course. I've ranted about it. And of course, I've cooked it innumerable times.

My own recipe has at least 4 variations.

It's the quintessential recipe of the Russian cook. However faithfully you follow your teacher's instructions (whoever your teacher may be -- grandmother, mother, aunt, cousin, friend, even cookbook) it will never taste the same as the original. It's one of those country recipes that take on the spirit of the cook and reflect the cook's qualities in the flavor and the body.

Don't ask me what it means. Taste someone's Borshch and learn from them, and then try to duplicate it. Right away, it will be Borshch (not borsht), but it will be yours, not the original.

Why? I don't know.

Maybe because chopping the onions into 3mm chunks instead of 4mm chunks makes a difference. Or not. Because I've substituted potatoes for beans and back again, depending on my mood and what was in the pantry -- and it was still MY Borshch (not borsht), unmistakably, and I choose the meat according to what looks best in the meat department, not by name or price. It's usually a roast, though.

This is the magic of traditional recipes.

They're fluid, none any more right than others, but some are still "righter" than others.

No, I'm not posting the recipe here. Maybe, once I finally (SIGH) solve my site issues the recipe will appear there once again (shortly, so be on the lookout), but I won't leave it on my blog.

It's MINE. MINE, I'm telling you.

I'd rather feed you than tell you. I'd rather teach you and show you, than tell you and leave it to languish in the archives of a blog.

A traditional recipe is a living thing.

Puppy Bliss

I always fantasized of writing with a dog at my feet.

Why?

I have no idea. It's just one of those images you have that represent something close to perfection.

A sleeping dog more or less at my feet, and me working steadily at my computer.

Well, tonight, for a moment at least, my dream is realized. Exhausted by his play, Percy the Puppy crashed two feet away from my chair and is sleeping the sleep of the innocent while I work at my countless little writing projects. What's more, I'm having a glass of wine, my second child is happily watching TV at an acceptable volume, my elderly mother has retired, my husband is home and reading -- the vibes in the house are peaceful and relaxed. Everybody is self-contained and satisfied.

(The oldest is out doing her Friday night thing after giving us an update on her plans to keep us relaxed and happy. She's a good kid.)

Nights like this are rare. Nights like this with a relaxed, sleeping puppy, blissful at the feet of his human Alpha are even rarer. Nights like this are what happiness is made of.

It's not the big achievements -- that's exhilaration. It feels good, but it's not happiness. It's the little moments. The puppy sleeping and twitching in his dreams, collapsed in exhaustion right on top of the soda carton he's shredded into microscopic bits.