During the summer, many Russians flock to their dachas for some hard-earned relaxation – and a cold bowl of okroshka soup.
On a summer day at the dacha, the overheated brain will resist the idea of cooking a hot meal, and yet the weary body demands some sort of nourishment. The food supplies line up for revision: young cucumbers threaten you in vain with the little spikes of their bodies, the hard-boiled eggs are uninviting, spring onions are so fresh they would make a barely audible screech under the knife and leave tiny drops of juice on the blade, the sausage may not make it to the evening, the kvass has miraculously not been drunk. Okroshka? Oh, yes!
Chopped, the greens and fresh vegetables and boiled potatoes and eggs and sausage mingle with each other in the big bowl; the cook wipes off the sweat and wonders: Why not just serve everything in its natural form? The voluntary slaves of tomato and squash and dill and parsley straighten themselves with an effort and walk the dusty paths to the table with the same mixed feelings: it would be so much easier to just buy the veggies at the store.
Sour cream crowns little hillocks in deep bowls; the kvass floods over the mixture, foaming slightly and whooshing indignantly, especially if the spice-loving eater has added a liberal dose of mustard. Slap! A mosquito dies; the neighbour’s radio mumbles something incomprehensible (it’s afternoon news time); the aluminium spoon reaches the mouth, and its contents drive away any worried thoughts about jobs yet to be done. Life’s good!
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Okroshka
