Latest news with #UkrainianCuisine
New York Times
05-07-2025
- General
- New York Times
Quote of the Day: Fuel for Ukrainians on the Front Line: This Man's Borscht
'Considering where we are now, this meal might be the last one.' PVT. YAROSLAV BREUS, a Ukrainian soldier who cooks on the front line for the First Assault Battalion of the Third Assault Brigade. He was preparing pork steaks fried in batter and borscht for several hundred soldiers.
Daily Mail
28-06-2025
- General
- Daily Mail
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.
New York Times
24-05-2025
- Business
- New York Times
In the Midst of War, a Tale of Hot Dogs
The hot dog statue wore tennis shoes and held a Ukrainian flag in its left hand and an American flag in its right. (The hot dog had hands.) Standing outside the flagship store of the Ukrainian gas station chain Socar, the statue displayed a sign advertising 'Nathan's Famous' hot dogs in the same green curlicue script that promotes the chain at its original location in Brooklyn's Coney Island and Nathan's outlets everywhere. On a recent Wednesday afternoon, Ivan Pozniak, a 35-year-old airline pilot, walked past the statue and into the store connected to the gas station. He was about to try his first Nathan's Famous hot dog. 'Overall, it's delicious,' Mr. Pozniak said after his first bite of the so-called New York hot dog, with mustard, ketchup and sweet pickle relish. 'I usually prefer more classic sauces like Tabasco or the standard ketchup and mayonnaise — that's what I'm used to. This pickle relish surprised me, but in a good way.' Hot dogs are ubiquitous in Ukraine. But for a long time the market has been dominated by a kind of hot dog encased in a tubular panini and described, for a reason no French person seems to know, as the 'French' dog. The story of how Nathan's dogs — settled in their open, messy buns — found a foothold in the country is in many ways a reflection of how much Ukraine has tilted toward the West in past decades. There are now 27 Nathan's Famous outlets in Socar gas stations in Ukraine. Despite the war, as much as possible, the lights have stayed on. Business is not booming, but it is OK. Want all of The Times? Subscribe.
Washington Post
20-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Washington Post
As war rages on, a Ukrainian chef fights to save his country's cuisine
'Ready to cook?' Standing behind the island in his studio kitchen, looking at me through the screen, Yevhen Klopotenko is getting ready to teach me how to make Ukrainian dumplings. The sun streams through his expansive windows; the space feels peaceful. If you were in my kitchen observing the Zoom, you'd never know that on the other end of this call is a war zone.
