Growing up, my mother used to tell me I should have been Italian because my favourite meals were (and still are) spaghetti and pizza.
Certain foods are often associated with various cultures and my Ukrainian heritage is no exception. Ukrainians follow the Julian calendar and celebrate Christmas Eve Jan. 6 with a traditional 12-course meal with foods such as borscht (beet soup), perogies, pickled herring, kutya, cabbage rolls and braided egg bread.
Such a feast impresses most people, but the problem was I never liked any of these foods growing up. I remember spending Ukrainian Christmas at my grandparents’ house and while everyone enjoyed the huge meal my grandmother undoubtedly slaved over for hours, I would have a simple bowl of spaghetti, hold the sauce.
I slowly outgrew some of my picky eating habits, although I still don’t like most of the 12 courses and have been told on more than one occasion this precludes me from being a true Ukrainian. However, a couple of trips to Ukraine in my adulthood allowed me to discover some dishes I do like, including the best deep-fried perogies I have ever tasted.
Last year for Ukrainian Christmas, thousands of miles away from home, I found myself alone making borscht (beet soup) for my colleagues and material for a future cooking column. That night of kitchen mishaps was my first and only time making borscht and my inexperience was evident.
Not thinking to boil the beets to soften them, my arm nearly went numb from chopping and grating them with a small handheld cheese grater. The beets were so hard I broke a hand chopper I had borrowed from a friend. The final result was better than I had expected, however, I do recall warning my taste-testers at work there were likely a few small pieces of bone I wasn’t able to fish out since I left the pork chops in too long and they started to fall apart.
This past weekend, I was lucky to be able to spend Ukrainian Christmas with my parents. While there was no slaving away in the kitchen, we went skiing, an activity we always did as a family growing up. I think all our hearts were a little heavy that day — as there were over the entire holiday season — because it was the first one we spent without my grandfather, the vibrant patriarch of our family. We say he is continuing to pursue his passion for music by singing with the angels and perhaps that day he was able to more closely watch over us atop the majestic Rocky Mountains, pleased we were together.
We ate good Alberta beef that evening instead of 12 Ukrainian courses, but it didn’t make any difference to us. After all, what gives traditions meaning is not the food you eat or any of the pomp and circumstance, but the time you spend with your loved ones. Food gets eaten, fancy trimmings get removed and presents get forgotten, but a family’s love and bond is forever.
