Finish the following phrases: mashed potatoes and …?; peanut butter and …?; buckwheat and …? Oh, that’s right, you don’t eat buckwheat by itself or with anything else.

Recently while browsing the Russian store with Dave and explaining what some of the foods are, I realized that many of the items are just not well-known or undeservedly forgotten in this country and the American people are missing out on a huge list of tasty and nutritious products. So I decided to feature and item or two and hopefully get some people interested in trying it out.

Buckwheat was apparently very popular in the United States in the 18th and 19th century but since then its consumption went down to nothing while Americans switched to TV dinners and hamburger helper. Considering that buckwheat is easy to cook, tastes great, and contains pretty much every nutrient in the book it’s a shame that this ancient food is not in every pantry in this country.

Sometimes buckwheat is not easy to find on the store shelves; Wolff’s Kasha may show up in the kosher aisle at the grocery store, other brands may be located where the grains and flours are sold, or at the Russian store where they sell buckwheat actually grown in Russia and Ukraine. Technically buckwheat is the grain itself and kasha is a cooked product similar to porridge. Not all kasha is buckwheat and not all buckwheat is cooked into kasha. When buying buckwheat  I prefer whole grain, roasted or not is your personal preference.

Making kasha is fast and easy and there are multiple ways to do it. This is how my now-famous Mom does it.
The ratio of grain to water is 1:2. Place one cup of buckwheat and a pretty good amount of kosher salt into a heavy-bottomed pan, cast iron pot or a skillet. Don’t worry about it being over-salted. Set heat to medium or little higher.

Let roast, mixing occasionally. I usually go by smell, when it starts smelling like it’s beginning to burn you need to stop. It takes 5 minutes or so.
While the buckwheat is roasting, boil a full kettle or pot of water. Pour enough water to cover buckwheat when it’s done roasting. I cover it with a lid immediately because it starts boiling and splattering violently. When the boiling, steaming and noise subsides, move the lid off just enough to drain water and proceed to drain as much water as you can without dumping the buckwheat. The water will be slightly brownish and this is the reason why you have to drain it. Repeat adding water and draining it one more time. Now add about 2 cups of boiling water and a chunk of butter; the amount of butter depends on your taste but consider an old Russian proverb that goes like “You can’t spoil kasha with butter”. Adjust salt to taste, since most of the salt used during the roasting was probably washed off.

Now reduce heat to low, cover and cook for 15-20 minutes without mixing. Turn the heat off and let rest. Fluff with fork before serving.

There are tons of variations and recipes with sauteed onions and/or mushrooms, buckwheat soup, buckwheat with milk, etc.; it goes good with meat stew, can be used in place of rice or macaroni products and whatever else you can imagine. Buckwheat is also gluten-free and is safe for people who are intolerant to gluten.

Next time you want something simple and delicious, think buckwheat.

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This photo attracted my attention with a sign in the window “Whiskey Sold By Case”:

Then, upon closer examination, I noticed a poster in the window promoting V-Mail.

V-mail stands for Victory Mail. It was based on the similar British “Airgraph” system for delivering mail between those at home in the United States and troops serving abroad during World War II. V-mail correspondence worked by photographing large amounts of censored mail reduced to thumb-nail size onto reels of microfilm, which weighed much less than the original would have. The film reels were shipped by priority air freight (when possible) to the US, sent to prescribed destinations for enlarging at a receiving station near the recipient, and printed out on lightweight photo paper. These facsimiles of the letter-sheets were reproduced about one-quarter the original size and the miniature mail was delivered to the addressee.
I didn’t find the exact same poster, so here are few other ones.

Visit Smithsonian online exhibition about V-Mail.

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Yesterday marked 35 years (very old I am) from the launch of the Soviet-American joint space mission Souyz-Apollo.

And now we dance: “We will leave our footprints on the dusty trails of far-away planets”

httpvh://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-KM_rhyqE40

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The Jewish Federations of North America are conducting a campaign under the title “What’s your #ish”:

Being Jewish means something different to everyone. Whatever it means to you is your #ish.

(For those who are not familiar with Twitter, “#” denotes a tag that they can easily track and display the content on their website)

Cutesy marketing but the question is something I think about often. What does it mean for me to be Jewish, or Russian-Jewish, or even Russian-Jewish-American as the top of my blog announces to the visitors? This post has been stuck in my head for a couple of weeks, I thought how to make it non-offensive and given up; I made some mental notes, then some written ones and I am still not so sure what it will look in the end. All I know at this point that it will contain a lot more “I dont’s” than “I do’s”.

Here we go:

• I don’t believe in God, I don’t do anything religious, I don’t attend a synagogue and when I do on some occasions like weddings, I feel uncomfortable seeing how people are asking and thanking God for things. I don’t feel superior, I just don’t get it. I grew up with the notion that the “Religion is the opium of the people” and so far haven’t seen anything to change my mind.
• I don’t cover my head, I work every Saturday, I go out on Friday nights (if I am lucky); I spend most of the Jewish Holidays at work, and fast on Yom Kippur mostly to see if I can stay away from food for a day. Long time ago when I still lived in Ukraine, I went to a synagogue with a group of friends during a holiday, I think it was Simchat Torah; a group of men was dancing there like it was the best day of their lives. We looked at each other and left. Since then (late 80’s) I only visited a synagogue once (without being invited to a wedding or Bat/Bar Mitzvah)
• I eat whatever I like. My kitchen is the opposite of kosher. At any time I have enough pork in it to make a small pig. My Dad used to pack a slab of salt-pork when I went on trips – it didn’t require refrigeration. I like ham and cheese sandwiches; I mix meat and dairy at will. I have no interest in finding out which foods are kosher and what’s not allowed and why. If it’s tasty I’ll eat it, kosher or not.
• In my whole life I’ve only dated a Jewish woman for two months; I never made a point of looking for one (which cast a lifetime of not-so-well hidden-sadness on my Mom). My short experience was filled with drama, but I am sure both of us being Jewish had nothing to do with it. Sometimes I think it would be neat to try, but so far it didn’t work out this way. Lately, I’ve been thinking that only a Vietnamese woman who knows how to cook Pho can be my true love. Every week I go to the Vietnam Cafe hoping to get noticed.
• I don’t get conversions to Judaism. Things like this (watch the clip) don’t make me tear up with joy. To be fair, I don’t get any religious conversions; sometimes I try to guess the reason, most of the time I just shrug. Maybe we need someone to observe the rules we don’t like, pass around those righteous “I stand with Israel” emails and fight our battles on Facebook and Twitter. Whatever.
• I don’t stand with Israel, I don’t feel that it’s my country even though I have relatives and friends there. Israeli Independence day does not invoke any feelings in me. Let me correct that, I don’t stand with Israel automatically because I am a Jew. I stand with Israel because I am a thinking person who can see through the provocations and lies which are so transparent, you have to be an idiot not to see what’s really going on. I can go back through the last 100 years reciting episodes like this for hours. There are less and less people like me even among the Jews. It’s everybody’s loss, not because I am so smart but because the rest of the world may see it when it’s too late, but what’s new. In the meantime, I do what I can, just little things.
• I still prefer the sound of the Yiddish language to the Israel’s official Hebrew. I remember my Grandma speaking Yiddish with her friends in the little town where she lived and although I don’t speak and hardly understand either, Yiddish with its schlimazels and meshuggeners sounds like music to my ears, while Hebrew sounds foreign and cold.

That should be enough for now. The “I do” part is not nearly as extensive:

• I like Jewish food, more precisely Eastern European Jewish food, and even more precisely my Mom’s cooking. I am sure some of these recipes were passed down through generations, others were made up on the spot to use what little food was on hand, but it’s my comfort food. I don’t think I ever identified it as Jewish, just like I never identified spaghetti with Italian. And most of the time there is a box of Matzos in the house.
• I play the Jewish national sport – guessing who else is Jewish. It was a lot more fun in the USSR since many famous people hid their Jewishness as well as they could and during movies and concerts every Jew in the country was pointing them out.

I can’t think of much else. In my childhood it was easy, my Jewish nationality was stamped right there in the “fifth line” on my passport. Tens of thousands of people strove to have this line changed to something else, so their kids would not be subjected to the antisemitism and discrimination. Then the same people paid big money to change it back so they can emigrate to Israel or the USA.

I think about it a lot. Do my multiple “dont’s” betray the memories and dreams of my ancestors, who carried their Jewish identities through a lot tougher times than I could imagine? Would they be proud of me? I don’t know. When I think about my connection with my people, there is no place where I feel it more than at the Jewish cemetery. I wrote about it before, but the Kansas City cemetery I was writing about is faceless and sad. The Jewish cemetery in Odessa, Ukraine where some of my relatives are buried is full of life; it has faces, it tells the stories. Life stories, love stories, tragedies, achievements, accidents, births, deaths, emigration, relationships, memories. My Dad took me there once or twice and we walked around visiting our relatives, his college professors, famous restaurant singers, doctors, teachers, criminals; he knew many people there, too many. Now during my rare visits I walk around as well; I don’t know anyone, but it doesn’t matter: I come to feel my roots, or as some marketing schmuck would put it “my #ish”

Maybe it’s better that my parents let me figure this out on my own. It’s taking me a long time but some day I’ll get there. My daughter is a lot more decisive with these things, I never push her one way or another but she seems to have a pretty good idea who she is.
Maybe this #ish thing is just skipping a generation.
*I knew this would turn out long, and I didn’t even get to include the video of dancing Jews.

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Cue the soundtrack:

So I was driving around yesterday, getting some bugs embedded in my windshield on the rural highways of Kansas. Now is a time to do it: it’s not too hot to roll the windows down and let the smell of prairie spring fill the stuffy cabin of your car, turn the radio full-blast and hit full speed hoping that the local Barney Fife is relaxing after the church on Sunday. The sheer size of Kansas is hard to comprehend, several hours of driving is still a local trip and although it’s mostly endless farmland, there are many points of interest along the way.

But first things first – a Lawrence strip-club now features an Ed Hardy room. Gentlemen, start your engines!

Little further down the road there is an establishment called “Tee Pee”:

One of the “tee pees” is marked with flood marks from various years on the nearby Kansas River.

Turning North on Hwy 59 it’s a short drive to Oskaloosa, KS – home of the Old Jefferson Town – a collection of old buildings and structures moved to one place from all over Jefferson County.

There is a school and a church, a lonely bandstand replica…

…a rusty bridge…

…and a jail where a local Otis Campbell could’ve spent a night or two.

I had to take a second look at this work of art:

Turns out this sculpture commemorates a Wind Wagon builder from Oskaloosa – Sam Peppard.

This is how Sam Peppard sailed the prairie:

The ship hove in sight about 8 o’clock in the morning with a fresh breeze from east, northeast. It was running down in a westerly direction for the fort, under full sail, across the green prairie. The guard, astonished at such a sight, reported the matter to the officer on duty, and we all turned out to view the phenomenon. Gallantly she sailed, and at a distance …not unlike a ship at sea In front is & large coach lamp to travel by night when the wind is favorable … A crank and band wheels allow it to be propelled by hand when wind and tide are against them.

Today Sam Peppard would’ve been able to sail right to the next fence. Kansas ain’t what it used to be…
Oskaloosa City Square is not very different from other small Kansas towns like Burlingame or Ottawa.

People in the 19th century believed in stability so much that they didn’t hesitate to chisel the word “Bank” on the building. Bank wasn’t moving anywhere.

They would be surprised to see a “Chunkie Dunker’s” diving pig occupying one of the windows.

Although “lending with a heart” is still residing in the building.

An old water tower dominates every view.

Masons built this building in 1886.

HWY 92 is being guarded by the local post of the American Legion (brought to you by Coors).

Overlooking the shores of the Perry Lake , the city of Ozawkie,KS is mostly famous for its sign.

Nearby you can grab a monster burger…

… and get a New Kids on The Block -styled haircut from the stylist/owner Gail Dillenbeck.

HWY 4 takes you all the way up to Valley Falls.

Is it me or is it really the State of Texas hanging over the cowboy on the right?
Valley Falls turned out to be a neat little town, with its own downtown…

…where “Buy American!” turned into local “Shop Valley Falls 1st”.

No New Kids on The Block here, Punk cuts hair in this town.

Valley Falls has its share of historic buildings…

…but many are no longer in use…

…and wrenches are not clanging anymore behind the friendly window signs.

Here is a piece of unsolicited advice to the KC Star: you want people to buy your paper? Name it “The Vindicator”. You can’t not subscribe to “The Vindicator”.

Cows are peacefully grazing where the Battle of Hickory Point once raged.

Nowadays there is no time for battle, Kansas Farmers are busy feeding “128 people + you”, or did “Kansas Agri Women” figure this out when we were all still skinny?

And why fight if this is what you see out of your window every morning.

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