There is a Russian Market in Providence about a 30 min walk from where I live. I almost cried as I strolled through the aisles (or rather, aisle) of tvorog, sour cream, pickled deliciousness, strange candies, miscellaneous meats, mayonnaisey salad concoctions, and my beloved ushki.
Yum, yum, действительно да.
It's funny how much taste and smell link up to memories--when asking for markov salat instantly reminded me of the huge outdoor market in Simferopl, where I got plastic baggies full of different salads and fresh delights before hopping an 18 hour train across southern Ukraine. Markov salat is mixed in with the smell of Ukrainian trains, the unexpected comfort of their lurching, the chilled wind slipping through the cracked upper bunk window, lively conversations over vodka and kvas with Ukrainians about nationalism in the post-soviet world, about their children, their pasts, their fates. The taste of ushki calls up February afternoons, bitter tealeaves, in Petersburg, with its gray and yellow sun clinging sullenly to the horizon at just 2pm. It is now impossible to hear the word tvorog without being transported to the shady avenues of Odessa at 6am when I arrived to this city on the sea--wandering the still sleeping, empty streets, it seemed as if I had dropped into a century dislodged--a voice rang out in the morning silence, accompanied by the resounding clang of a handbell: "TVOROG, MOLOKO, SMETANA!" ring, ring, "TVOROG, MOLOKO, SMETANA!" ring, ring. Cheese, milk, sour cream. A woman dressed in white was tracing the alleys and prospects of Odessa, rousing its people.
As I was at the cash register today buying my slavic treats, the woman there smiled at me and told me in Russian, while handling one item, "You know, these only cost 50 kopeks in Russia." Do I ever. Hopefully I'll soon be living in kopeks and rubles again. Till then, I've got some 4 dollar tvorog sitting in my mini fridge at Brown University to tide me over.
Strangeness.
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