Pretty much all of my Russian friends know how essential it is for me to be ready for Orthodox Easter in the proper way. I am by far not the best Orthodox Christian out there and don’t even try to pretend to be the one (I don’t know whether it’s even possible or not, when you mostly live as a secular person in their middle 40s): my visits to the church are fairly irregular, I gave up keeping the Orthodox Lent many years ago (which is strictly vegan, but not in a cutsie millennial way: it’s hard, unless you’ve been doing it for a while), my knowledge of Old Slavonic biblical texts is patchy, and I am a well-known grumpy valetudinarian.
But, despite all my flaws, the splendour of the Holiday, its pure glory captivates me each and every time—and also takes me back to my childhood. Although Easter at that time wasn’t recognised officially (the late USSR was still atheistic par excellence, though the restrictions that were so excruciating even in the 70s, were loosened up quite a bit during the 80s, the time when I was a pre-teen), the actual holiday had always been celebrated by my family.
In the early morning of Holy Saturday, Babushka woke up promptly: she was a bit agitated, and I knew that it wasn’t a good time to distract her with my chit-chat. She anxiously checked for bags of flour, cartons of eggs, a bottle of fresh milk and a packet of fresh yeast (which was hard to obtain; her friend and neighbour shared it with her) prior to the celebration. And cinnamon and cloves! Never forget cinnamon and cloves: that is why Babushka’s Easter cakes (kulichi) had that amazing distinctive taste, and all our friends (mostly neighbours) called them “those dark kulichi of Valentina Alexandrovna: she is the one who knows how to do the thing!”
Babushka knew about that and it made her happy: but the day of baking them was no joke. The whole house had to keep silent: otherwise, Babushka said, the dough would not rise properly. If I dropped something, she gave me a special worrying look, shaking her head. I crawled away as quietly as I could, anticipating something absolutely delicious.
Babushka was a wizard in the kitchen: she put together all the ingredients, whispering “oh, I don’t know, I don’t know if I’m managing!..”, then she was kneading the beautiful dough as long as she could, and I was trying to help her, and sometimes (especially in later days) she agreed. Then the dough was resting and rising, and there was that type of silence in our house which could be perhaps called majestic: however, birds were screaming their heads off behind the windows.
Then, there was a time to challenge the dough and to distribute it to the forms. Now, I have whatever form of baking tin I want, but back then it was a hassle to find the right one. That is why Soviets who baked kulichi used metallic cans from preserved peas, or corn, or tomatoes: those did the trick. And my Babushka was no exception, of course.
When the dough had risen enough, there was the main—and my favourite—part: baking. Usually it took up to one hour, and the aroma was absolutely scrumptious. Babushka, I said, please, gimme a nibble. No way, she replied and laughed, come on! We have to wait until tomorrow. Until Sunday and Easter. And so we did.
Her kulichi were the best praise to the Holiday of Holidays. And maybe the most Christian I have known so far. That is why every year I try to recreate that joy I felt many decades ago. For Easter, and for our beloved ones, who are not dead while we remember them and love them.
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