In dim light reluctantly released by the Government so the citizens wouldn’t bump into each other I was schlepping to kindergarten. It was 5 in the morning. I turned 5 just few months before and my sleeping in days were long gone. The System wouldn’t let me stay in bed past 7 for the next sixty years, when it will spit out my chewed up and worn out shell of a body patched up like Frankenstein monster by the torture they called free medicine.
I looked around. Zombie-like builders of communism were slowly moving past me. Same clothes, same faces, empty eyes. Years of being fed just bread and fat-free ideology drained the will to live out of people. At night, when the curtains were closed and my parents covered up the listening devices, they whispered about something they called meat. Once a year they tried to recreate meat out of contraband mayo and turnips. It was horrible but we stunned our taste buds with vodka to make it palatable.
It was early spring but one couldn’t tell just by looking at the Communist-controlled weather. Behind the barbwire fences, system’s functionaries, the apparatchiks, were frolicking in the sun and warmth. We got what was left. Used air contained hardly any oxygen. I stopped to take a deep breath.
The International Women’s Day – a holiday celebrating heavy women in cotton-stuffed waist jackets, head scarves and year-round galoshes was approaching. Communist cell in the kindergarten was preparing a concert where like trained monkeys we would attempt to entertain these never-smiling representatives of the weaker gender. Weaker? I evil-laughed on the inside, grinding my teeth. My face remained stoic and expressionless.
I was assigned to perform a Russian folk dance. The System knew I was Jewish and it was their way of putting and extra-painful twist on the torture that was dancing. My head yearned to be covered. My feet were itching to break out in Freilach. I craved gefilte fish even though I didn’t know what gefilte was. Or fish. Instead I found myself standing next to a girl, dressed in a Russian shirt and shorts. It was so cold inside that even ever-present Lenin’s portrait on the wall was covered with frost. My legs were slowly turning blue to match the shorts.
When the music started the headmistress’s eyes told me I had to smile and dance or I will be forced to read Das Kapital while marching around the room for the fifth time in a month. My smile felt like a grimace and my dance moves were awkward, but I couldn’t bring myself to read about the plight of the proletariat one more time.
Scary women in the audience did not smile anyway. They just didn’t know how. After the performance the teachers force-fed us disgusting chocolates filled with Marxism and Leninism. I willed myself not to gag. This came useful later when I lived on the streets of New York doing anything for a buck. Just like Marx predicted.
Standing there ashamed and smeared with chocolate, in a room where one could cut ideology with a knife, I had a dream that I, I someday will tearfully tell about my hardships to the American press and be quoted in every article about Russia.
Mushrooms are a big part of Russian cuisine, they are plentiful in milder climates and many people are experienced mushroom pickers. Mushrooms can be easily preserved by drying, marinating, canning or whatever else people do to store them and that makes them available year round. I like mushrooms in soups, fried, sauteed, marinated, in stews, in salads, etc. Like Pavlov’s dog I buy every jar of mushrooms I see in front of me, most of the time just to be disappointed because someone just decided to drown them in vinegar and make them inedible. Most of the local grocery stores sell regular white mushrooms or champignones. For a better variety of canned mushrooms you need to head to your local Asian store. There you’ll find a whole aisle filled with cans of exotic mushrooms. Yesterday I picked up a large can of straw mushrooms at the 888 Market in Overland Park.
Straw mushrooms have a more rubbery, chewy texture, I usually like them peeled, although some sources say that they are better and more nutritious unpeeled.
When buying and eating mushrooms you need to decide for yourself if you trust underpaid Chinese children to pick the right mushrooms for you. This blog will not be responsible for your untimely death from mushroom poisoning to which there is no antidote.
This giant can cost me six dollars. The mushrooms are packed in slightly salted water which is pretty much tasteless. First thing to do after opening the can is to drain the water.
After the water is drained the mushrooms look like this.
For this recipe you will need onions, garlic, black peppercorns, bay leaf if you have it, salt, oil and vinegar.
Slice the onions and peel the garlic, put as much as you feel like – you cannot over-onion this recipe. Then put your ingredients in the jar. You can do it in layers or not, especially if you are not taking pictures.
In retrospect, a better idea would be to mix it up before putting it in the jar. Oh well. The marinade is not supposed to be over salted or too acidic. That’s why I am not giving any measurements, adjust it to your own taste by mixing salt, oil and vinegar. It should be slightly more vinegary than you’d like because the taste of vinegar weakens a little bit. Do not try to be Rachel Ray – olive oil solidifies in the fridge and I cannot guarantee the result with any specialty vinegar. Regular corn or vegetable oil and plain white vinegar will do just fine.
You are done. The marinade should cover the mushrooms.
Do not hesitate to try the mushrooms and see if you like the taste. If not, add more of whatever is missing, usually salt or vinegar.
Leave in the refrigerator for few hours or overnight. Then add as a condiment to any dinner, for example, freshly cooked BBQ riblets.
So I am standing on the corner of Westport Rd. and Pennsylvania, minding my own business, when KC Mayor is walking across the street, without a posse. Then his wife finally caught up with him, because he makes giant steps and she has to run just to keep up, and they walked into Harpos.
* disclaimer: I have no idea who Bob Shaw is, and I was too lazy to Google him.
As an outdoor advertising collector and billboard connoisseur I especially appreciate the home-made signs frequently seen along the streets and state highways. Judging by the effort and expense needed to produce these signs, someone has a real problem with that Bob Shaw guy. The least I could do was to get out of my car somewhere on the NW Barry Rd. (I think) and take some pictures.
