February 23rd has a special meaning for people who grew up in the Soviet Union. Originally started in 1918 as the Red Army Day, then renamed “The Soviet Army and Navy Day” and now “Defender of the Motherland Day” this holiday became a de facto Men’s Day when all men were celebrated even if they never served in the military. Starting at the young age it was a day of anticipation for boys, when girls would bring them small presents and souvenirs to school just so the boys could brag, compare and play with them for the rest of the day (the favor was returned on March the 8th). For those who served it was a highly anticipated day off, with delicacies such as two boiled eggs and buckwheat for breakfast and maybe a rare day on the town (if you happened to serve near one). For the rest of the people it was another reason to have a drink.

Over the years my opinion about my military service has changed from a wasted years of my life, two years of missed opportunity and needless sacrifice, to a fun and careless time when all I had to worry about was escaping any semblance of work and exercise at all costs. Although I was one of the most worthless soldiers the Soviet Army had ever seen, they got exactly what they paid for with their 7 rubles a month, which was just enough for a lunch and a few packs of cheap cigarettes. I made sure of that.

Even though the Soviet Army is long gone, I still get a few messages from friends and relatives on this day. Mostly it’s a connection to the innocent days of our childhood when a simple souvenir and a card made us feel like men (slide show of old holiday cards below).

Much has changed since the days of my military service. In the video below the Choir Of the Ministry of the Internal Affairs performs with the duo Ottawan, something that couldn’t have happened 25 years ago, when people from the same ministry were busy banning Western music.

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This post is about pickles. Not your regular brownish-green vinegary mouth-puckering pickles. It’s about bright-green, crunchy, slightly salted pickles that taste fresh, slightly garlicky and with a hint of dill – pickles of my childhood. The closest thing to these that can be found in your regular grocery store is the Claussen Pickles but they are a far cry from the real thing. Rarely you can find excellent Ba-Tampte Half Sours usually in the kosher refrigerated section. For a better version head on to the Russian Store, they are sold by weight at the counter (grab yourself a couple of pickled apples and tomatoes while you are there).

Sometimes you can find a pickling spice mix at a Russian store, or if you have friends who will smuggle it for you illegally from Eastern Europe.

In the absence of pre-made spice mix I always use dill weed (fresh or dry) or dill seed, lots of garlic, some black peppercorns, maybe a hot pepper (be careful how hot), if you have cherry leaf or two, a horseradish leaf (which I’ve never seen sold here) and a few bay leaves.

Yesterday after a downtown lunch I stopped by the City Market and bought about 5 lbs of fresh pickling cucumbers.

These are not gigantic-looking things sold in Wal-Mart, they are small, light-green,bumpy and crunchy. In this area they are available only during the summer. I brought them home and soaked them in the kitchen sink to let all the dirt come loose. I also cut the ends off and pierce the cucumber with a knife in the middle. This way the brine has more surfaces to penetrate the cucumber.

From there on the process is simple – wash the cucumbers and put them in the jar, adding garlic and spices at the same time. The hard part is to guess the amount of salt. The general rule of thumb is 1 tablespoon of salt dissolved in 1 liter (quart) of warm water, I think it has to be a regular tablespoon heaping with salt. Lately I’ve been using 2 measuring tablespoons of salt per quart of water.It doesn’t have to be extremely salty, maybe slightly saltier than you’d like to taste. The whole point is to keep the fresh taste and crunchiness and not to over-salt the pickles. Fill the jar to the top, cover and leave on the counter. You can start tasting the pickles the next day or two. When they reach desired taste, place them in the refrigerator.

They are good with any food or drink, a hot dog, a sandwich, a shot of vodka or just by themselves.

They are good when you are eating with great friends…

…or when you it’s just you, pickle and this song….

 

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I was going to write a reply to the discussion about the Jews and Christmas trees, but then I thought that there is no point in doing so: everyone who wants a tree in their house probably will have one, and all others will probably find a reason why they won’t. My only contribution is that you haven’t lived until you smelled a real pine tree inside your house. Just call it a winter tree, New Year’s Tree or a wreath and bring one into your living room.

During the first half of my life, we always had a tree for the New Year holiday. My Jewish Father, who spent a part of his childhood in the ghetto, made sure to find the biggest tree to fit through the door. Having a tree doesn’t make you any less Jewish, and, for certain, it doesn’t reduce the amount of antisemitism directed at you. Not the “someone looked at me funny” antisemitism, but a real, hardcore, state-sponsored harassment.

The tree of my childhood wasn’t associated with anything religious (definitely not for me), but it still had lights, presents and a five-point red star on top.

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My previous post reminded me that learning English (or any other language other than your own) takes a lifetime. I feel pretty comfortable with where I am now but almost daily I pick something up or correct something that I already know.
When I started many years ago one of the biggest revelations was that when a person says “How Do You Do” they don’t expect a short blurb on the state of your affairs. You just say “How Do You Do” back. Over the years I learned not to answer in length to “How Are You”, “What’s Up” and “Did You Find Everything You Need?”. These and other words lost their original meaning and became something you say to a person walking towards you in the narrow hallway when just silently passing them is awkward. Many foreigners who don’t know these secret English handshakes always complain that Americans are insincere, they ask how are you, but they don’t really want to know. Literal understanding of the language leads to cultural misunderstanding. Another common foreigner gripe is that Americans are always smiling with those false evil smiles while probably hating your guts. I am guilty of betraying my immigrant brothers and starting to smile some more although it took me years to get used to it. Unfortunately years of soviet evil dentistry don’t allow me to look like Howdy Doody.
This brings me to my main subject. Does it bother me when people wish me Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays or Happy Hanukkah? Not at all for several reasons. One of the main ones is that these words pretty much lost their meaning. Does a Walmart cashier really care if my Christmas is merry, or do I even celebrate Christmas. Probably not. I just don’t understand the people who get mad. This clerk has to say it so Walmart doesn’t have to endure another year of being pounded on by blowhard O’Reilly. Some people may say it sincerely but by the end of their shift I doubt their desire to add to the merriness of my holidays. I understand. I just hope that they wish at the same time that O’Reilly goes to hell. I also understand that this is a long-standing American tradition, something that people did since they were children, and who am I to challenge it. I understand that for many people religious meaning is long gone and I don’t judge. Once in awhile it’s fun to reply “I am Jewish” and watch well-wisher squirm, but I’d never do it to a working stiff. There are plenty of snooty people who deserve it.
When people say nice things to me I like it, even if they don’t mean it. When people smile at me I smile back even though I know that it’s more of a reflex than their excitement to see me. It’s always better than meeting one of the students of The D or Emaw who can tell me to fuck off, or even to fuck myself. If I only could…

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Over my years here I discovered that some Americans shy away from tasty foods because they may seem exotic and unknown. I am not advocating eating anything weird here and I have my limits too . Snakes, turtles, coffee crapped out by monkeys, and other strange things are not normally found in my menu. However, as a public service, I always try to introduce my co-workers and anyone who would listen (I don’t have any friends) to some foods that are truly good but may not be well-known for one reason or another.
Today I would like to talk about persimmons. Persimmons are apparently very popular in Asia but I’ve known and loved them since I was a child. There are two kinds of persimmon – astringent (which means it will pucker up your mouth so bad, you will curse me when you can start talking again) and non-astringent which you can eat like a crunchy apple. The astringent kind seems to taste more sophisticated while the other kind is sweet,juicy and tasty. If you purchase astringent kind which is actually called hachiya make sure you let it ripen until soft before eating it. You can also freeze it overnight and the let it thaw to get rid of mouth-puckering tannins. Hachiya persimmons have pointy shape and are easy to spot.
The other kind of persimmons is called fuyu.They are flattened on the top and bottom. These are bright orange when ripe and I eat them with skin just like an apple.

Locally you can buy persimmons at Chinese and Vietnamese stores around City Market, any other Asian store and for little more money at your grocery store and Costco.
They are currently in season and about 99 cents for a pound. Try to get some without blemishes and visible soft spots.
Read more about persimmons and enjoy.

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