For all these years I’ve been living in the UK, only few things have seemed to be completely inaccessible to me here—Borodinsky bread (was found online), halva covered in chocolate by Rot-Front (was found online as well), Russian pastila (a traditional type of fruit confectionary, which has no equivalent here: was found online as well) and zephyr (a Russian analogue of marshmallow, but better: fruit and berry purée with sugar, egg whites and agar: finally, was also found online). The list could be continued, but we all understand that, when you move to another country you simply cannot re-create your own cuisine in your new place, because 1) it’s impractical for many reasons, 2) it doesn’t make a lot of sense, despite nostalgia and certain other bittersweet things from the past.
Yes, but of course, also fruits and veggies: I completely understand that I live on an island where I cannot find proper Ukrainian apricots and peaches, the size of a medium melon and tasting divine, simply because it’s the wrong climate overall. You can’t change it, right? Also tomatoes from my Ukrainian childhood: June-July, it’s scorching hot outside, you can’t eat anything but some chilled berries and fruits—and also tomatoes. They were sold on the little impromptu market near our block of flats: people were coming back from their dachas and bringing buckets of tomatoes home—for eating and making preserves (home made tomato paste, pickled tomatoes, lecsó etc.).
Those tomatoes though. Man, they were unforgettable: enormous, juicy, colourful—mostly dark brown (Black Prince), bright rosy pink (Bull’s Heart), classical red ones, scarlet oval, and also yellow and orange, they were everywhere: men and women, worn out by the heat, gave them away for a few kopecks, and 12-years-old you splashed them under cold water and devoured them with a pinch of coarse salt. If there is the best ever food in the world, it might be this one.
There is no such thing as those tomatoes in England. I’m already used to those delicate plum/cherry/always wrapped in plastic thingies that I buy at Marks & Engels, Tesco, Waitrose etc. They are nice, but they have nothing to do with that rich goodness from my childhood.
Until yesterday. We came across a modest-looking stall on the Market Square, where I suddenly spotted something that I was unable to confuse with anything else: tomatoes from my past. They smelled beautifully, with soil and dirt, they were colourful and big, but I was still in doubt: but what about the taste? We bought a few (damn, I should’ve bought more, silly me!), and were they magnificent!...
I chopped them, and they burst with sweet juice. I tried to be civilised and splashed them with balsamic vinegar and olive oil, and gave them a bit of salt and pepper. Divine. Divine. I had no clue where they came from, but I will surely visit the market every Sunday since now and try not to buy a ton.
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