Olia Hercules: ‘My hangover cure is a bit of pickle brine'
My first food memory is of my mum, Olga, chopping the first cucumber and tomatoes of the season into an enamel bowl. I remember it so well – the intoxicating smell and sound they made as they hit that bowl.
We cooked and ate with the seasons. We lived in the south of Ukraine with this beautiful, fertile black soil, so my family grew their own stuff. But there were no supermarkets, and it was really tough in the 1980s. I think one of the reasons why the Soviet Union finally crumbled was because of the huge food shortages. The queues for bread and meat were insane – people would sell you their places in them – but if you knew someone or grew your own food, it was fine.
When I was growing up, my mum did the lion's share of the cooking, but my dad Petro was an amazing cook, too. My older brother Sasha and I didn't cook – we just ate. But I was a really picky eater and, in extreme situations, my dad would step in and make his special broth: water, whole onion, carrot, some vermicelli, potatoes, chopped boiled eggs and lots of dill. I'd eat whatever he gave me when I was having those meltdowns.
I was at primary school when the Berlin Wall came down, and Ukraine became independent on the first day of my next school in 1991. I remember suddenly everyone was eating 'pizza', which wasn't really pizza at all, but rather Ukrainian dough formed into a small, thick round. It had marie rose sauce on top and some really bad frankfurter sausages, and it was the most delicious thing.
We never really had a culture of sweets and snacks. But in the early 90s, little kiosks began to pop up along the side of the road, along with babusi (grandmas) selling chocolate bars. If my parents gave me some money, I'd buy a Lion bar, which I loved so much I would stretch it out, taking a whole hour to eat it.
There are very few foods now that I don't like, but avocado is one of them. There was also the boiled milk we were forced to drink at school, with a skin on top – it would make me gag.
My comfort food is mashed potato, the way my mum makes it – loads of butter and milk, and served with pickled cucumber. The sourness and the comfort of the potato really whisks me back home.
I have a shedload of homemade fermented pickles in the fridge, much to my husband's dismay. Fermentation – which I teach classes in – is a big part of Ukrainian culture. We ferment everything, and so I always have lots of jars filled with anything from watermelon and tomatoes to aubergines and wild garlic flowers.
My hangover cure is a bit of pickle brine. It really sorts you out. My dad wasn't a big drinker, but if he came back from a wedding or something like that, the next morning you'd see him take out this massive three-litre jar of fermented cucumbers and just drink the brine. It's the best.
My favourite meal was probably the last summer in my parents' house, before the Russian invasion. We made hand-cut noodles, my mum cooked a goose and there were massive peaches and tomatoes from her garden, too. I'll never forget Wilfred, my youngest, eating a peach and being covered in its juice. It was sunny, wonderful and delicious, and a taste of a very different time.
FSB [security service] agents have taken over our house now, and our town is occupied by Russians. I don't know if we'll ever be able to go back. My parents lost everything and had to flee. My mum is in Berlin but my father refused to live there on benefits. He is back in Ukraine and turning an old tractor into a minesweeper. My dad always gives me hope.
My last supper would be my mother's varenyky [Ukrainian dumplings], made out of syr cheese, and swimming in butter and sour cream. That's my last dish on earth, for sure.
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When her husband went off to help defend Ukraine against Russia's invasion in 2022, Yulia stayed at home with their toddler. She describes being overcome by a feeling of 'numbness'. 'I'd been left alone with a small child. The worst thing for her was the thought that her father had left her and would never come back. The worst time was when she blocked her father when he tried to call. 'It took several months to get a connection again. I'm glad my husband didn't give up.' Amid a multitude of strains on life in Ukraine after three long years of war, Yulia's family have managed to survive the pressures, helped by a group that offers war-damaged families supportive counselling. Others have not been so lucky. While there are no official figures, anecdotal evidence points to a growing number of relationship stresses and families that have broken up under the pressures of war. From absence when wives and children have fled abroad, to the enforced separation when service at the front means men might only get home for a short period of leave once a year, there are a variety of factors driving relationship stress. Research from other countries, including by King's College London, suggests that in families where one member deploys for 12 months in a three-year period – considerably less than is usual in the Ukrainian military since the Russian invasion – relationship issues are 8% more prevalent than in families where soldiers deploy for shorter periods. How partners adapt and change to new circumstances, whether at home or on the frontline, can also test the closest of bonds. 'It's really a sensitive issue,' says Natalia Umerenkova, a psychologist at Ukraine's Institute of Social and Political Psychology who is involved in running the counselling sessions that Yulia attended. 'One of the main things is fatigue. The war in Ukraine has been going on for more than 10 years, including more than three years of all-out war. 'People are exhausted. We have a hotline for families who have members in the military and we see requests connected to relationships increasing. It's not only wives but also men in the military calling, asking for help because they need help with the feeling that their relationship might be ending,' she says. 'Everything is different in each family. But there are three broad categories. If things were bad before, the war is a catalyst and things will be worse. Then there are the families who were close and know how to deal with the experience, how to communicate and have the same values. 'Between those two are the families where there are differences in outlook, and some trust issues. The war can bring them together or break them up. But there's a feeling that both of them have changed. 'When you don't have enough strength to deal with issues that appear, to talk about them, then it becomes a vicious circle.' For men, the immersion in a military culture can create emotional separation from home. 'It's like a closed male club, where certain initiations take place,' says one woman who recently separated from her partner. 'They are surviving dangerous tasks. The men are physically together most of the time. They become emotionally closer to them than their partner because of the different shared experiences. 'And it takes a lot of empathy from the soldier who's dealing with life and death issues to empathise with the issues his partner is dealing with in civilian life.' The war, she says, has tilted the balance in Ukraine society's gender politics. 'There is more of a tendency to excuse men's behaviour. It's considered bad if people feel you are talking shit about your partner.' The issue of trust can be one of uncertainty, and difficulty in communication, corroded by uncomfortable truths: including the awareness that some soldiers visit sex workers, a reality much in evidence in areas adjoining the immediate frontline. 'It's normal when in combat conditions,' says Umerenkova. 'Your brain switches to survival mode to try to cut off emotions not connected to war. 'You put all emotions into your survival and the survival of the group. Lots of wives say that communication with their husband changes because they are communicating the same way as in their military group. Short unemotional communications. And the wives are asking: 'Are we OK?' They see it as rejection.' Mutual misunderstanding compounding a sense of doubt is a common theme. 'I came to this group,' says Yulia, 'because I felt I had no choice. I could go crazy or learn to find help from other people. I was worried something was wrong with me.' For Marina, 41, the stress responses became physical over the separation from her husband of 22 years, a combat medic who was injured during the conflict. 'We have never been apart for more than a month. We worked to find ways to communicate but it was really hard for me to understand why he wasn't here. It was like losing a limb and I had a physical reaction – rashes – when he left. 'I couldn't understand if my emotional reactions were correct. In the beginning I thought the war would last one year at most. Then life will be the same but it's not. '2022 was a bad year for me,' she adds. 'I started therapy and then I heard about the support group. I found it hard to stay in touch with people whose life didn't change as much and didn't have the huge stress of a husband in the military. 'One of the things I understand now is the right time to talk about certain things. Because my husband is a medic it's sometimes hard for him to talk about a lot of things, including the loss of colleagues. Now we have special words when he doesn't want to say something. Now I understand.' Umerenkova says the necessary level of social support is lacking in Ukraine. 'Everyone needs some support but its not easy to get with so many people in the army. As a society we need it, and it's important to start to talk about this now while the men are still in the army – because after the war, our veterans will need to deal with it.'
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5 hours ago
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When her husband went off to help defend Ukraine against Russia's invasion in 2022, Yulia stayed at home with their toddler. She describes being overcome by a feeling of 'numbness'. 'I'd been left alone with a small child. The worst thing for her was the thought that her father had left her and would never come back. The worst time was when she blocked her father when he tried to call. 'It took several months to get a connection again. I'm glad my husband didn't give up.' Amid a multitude of strains on life in Ukraine after three long years of war, Yulia's family have managed to survive the pressures, helped by a group that offers war-damaged families supportive counselling. Others have not been so lucky. While there are no official figures, anecdotal evidence points to a growing number of relationship stresses and families that have broken up under the pressures of war. From absence when wives and children have fled abroad, to the enforced separation when service at the front means men might only get home for a short period of leave once a year, there are a variety of factors driving relationship stress. Research from other countries, including by King's College London, suggests that in families where one member deploys for 12 months in a three-year period – considerably less than is usual in the Ukrainian military since the Russian invasion – relationship issues are 8% more prevalent than in families where soldiers deploy for shorter periods. How partners adapt and change to new circumstances, whether at home or on the frontline, can also test the closest of bonds. 'It's really a sensitive issue,' says Natalia Umerenkova, a psychologist at Ukraine's Institute of Social and Political Psychology who is involved in running the counselling sessions that Yulia attended. 'One of the main things is fatigue. The war in Ukraine has been going on for more than 10 years, including more than three years of all-out war. 'People are exhausted. We have a hotline for families who have members in the military and we see requests connected to relationships increasing. It's not only wives but also men in the military calling, asking for help because they need help with the feeling that their relationship might be ending,' she says. 'Everything is different in each family. But there are three broad categories. If things were bad before, the war is a catalyst and things will be worse. Then there are the families who were close and know how to deal with the experience, how to communicate and have the same values. 'Between those two are the families where there are differences in outlook, and some trust issues. The war can bring them together or break them up. But there's a feeling that both of them have changed. 'When you don't have enough strength to deal with issues that appear, to talk about them, then it becomes a vicious circle.' For men, the immersion in a military culture can create emotional separation from home. 'It's like a closed male club, where certain initiations take place,' says one woman who recently separated from her partner. 'They are surviving dangerous tasks. The men are physically together most of the time. They become emotionally closer to them than their partner because of the different shared experiences. 'And it takes a lot of empathy from the soldier who's dealing with life and death issues to empathise with the issues his partner is dealing with in civilian life.' The war, she says, has tilted the balance in Ukraine society's gender politics. 'There is more of a tendency to excuse men's behaviour. It's considered bad if people feel you are talking shit about your partner.' The issue of trust can be one of uncertainty, and difficulty in communication, corroded by uncomfortable truths: including the awareness that some soldiers visit sex workers, a reality much in evidence in areas adjoining the immediate frontline. 'It's normal when in combat conditions,' says Umerenkova. 'Your brain switches to survival mode to try to cut off emotions not connected to war. 'You put all emotions into your survival and the survival of the group. Lots of wives say that communication with their husband changes because they are communicating the same way as in their military group. Short unemotional communications. And the wives are asking: 'Are we OK?' They see it as rejection.' Mutual misunderstanding compounding a sense of doubt is a common theme. 'I came to this group,' says Yulia, 'because I felt I had no choice. I could go crazy or learn to find help from other people. I was worried something was wrong with me.' For Marina, 41, the stress responses became physical over the separation from her husband of 22 years, a combat medic who was injured during the conflict. 'We have never been apart for more than a month. We worked to find ways to communicate but it was really hard for me to understand why he wasn't here. It was like losing a limb and I had a physical reaction – rashes – when he left. 'I couldn't understand if my emotional reactions were correct. In the beginning I thought the war would last one year at most. Then life will be the same but it's not. '2022 was a bad year for me,' she adds. 'I started therapy and then I heard about the support group. I found it hard to stay in touch with people whose life didn't change as much and didn't have the huge stress of a husband in the military. 'One of the things I understand now is the right time to talk about certain things. 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a day ago
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Olia Hercules: ‘My hangover cure is a bit of pickle brine'
My first food memory is of my mum, Olga, chopping the first cucumber and tomatoes of the season into an enamel bowl. I remember it so well – the intoxicating smell and sound they made as they hit that bowl. We cooked and ate with the seasons. We lived in the south of Ukraine with this beautiful, fertile black soil, so my family grew their own stuff. But there were no supermarkets, and it was really tough in the 1980s. I think one of the reasons why the Soviet Union finally crumbled was because of the huge food shortages. The queues for bread and meat were insane – people would sell you their places in them – but if you knew someone or grew your own food, it was fine. When I was growing up, my mum did the lion's share of the cooking, but my dad Petro was an amazing cook, too. My older brother Sasha and I didn't cook – we just ate. But I was a really picky eater and, in extreme situations, my dad would step in and make his special broth: water, whole onion, carrot, some vermicelli, potatoes, chopped boiled eggs and lots of dill. I'd eat whatever he gave me when I was having those meltdowns. I was at primary school when the Berlin Wall came down, and Ukraine became independent on the first day of my next school in 1991. I remember suddenly everyone was eating 'pizza', which wasn't really pizza at all, but rather Ukrainian dough formed into a small, thick round. It had marie rose sauce on top and some really bad frankfurter sausages, and it was the most delicious thing. We never really had a culture of sweets and snacks. But in the early 90s, little kiosks began to pop up along the side of the road, along with babusi (grandmas) selling chocolate bars. If my parents gave me some money, I'd buy a Lion bar, which I loved so much I would stretch it out, taking a whole hour to eat it. There are very few foods now that I don't like, but avocado is one of them. There was also the boiled milk we were forced to drink at school, with a skin on top – it would make me gag. My comfort food is mashed potato, the way my mum makes it – loads of butter and milk, and served with pickled cucumber. The sourness and the comfort of the potato really whisks me back home. I have a shedload of homemade fermented pickles in the fridge, much to my husband's dismay. Fermentation – which I teach classes in – is a big part of Ukrainian culture. We ferment everything, and so I always have lots of jars filled with anything from watermelon and tomatoes to aubergines and wild garlic flowers. My hangover cure is a bit of pickle brine. It really sorts you out. My dad wasn't a big drinker, but if he came back from a wedding or something like that, the next morning you'd see him take out this massive three-litre jar of fermented cucumbers and just drink the brine. It's the best. My favourite meal was probably the last summer in my parents' house, before the Russian invasion. We made hand-cut noodles, my mum cooked a goose and there were massive peaches and tomatoes from her garden, too. I'll never forget Wilfred, my youngest, eating a peach and being covered in its juice. It was sunny, wonderful and delicious, and a taste of a very different time. FSB [security service] agents have taken over our house now, and our town is occupied by Russians. I don't know if we'll ever be able to go back. My parents lost everything and had to flee. My mum is in Berlin but my father refused to live there on benefits. He is back in Ukraine and turning an old tractor into a minesweeper. My dad always gives me hope. My last supper would be my mother's varenyky [Ukrainian dumplings], made out of syr cheese, and swimming in butter and sour cream. That's my last dish on earth, for sure.
