Traditions

We don't have family traditions on my father's side; unless you call drinking, cursing, and fighting a tradition. But my dad learned to make borscht from his grandmother and I've bothered him for years on how to do it. He sort of mumbles at me and walks away. My CSA box today was freakin full of cabbage, tatoes, carrots, beets, and onions. Borcht! I bellowed and researched recipes and remembered some memories.
"Do you know how to make borscht?" Uncle Mark asked.
"NO Bolshevik! But it's in my BLOOD!!! In my home, borscht has you!"

I dug out my grandma's Cuisinart, my apron, and went to town. In the time it takes to listen to 1 Gogol Bordello album, it was done.
So I now have 5 gallons of "traditional" beef borscht that tastes really close to my dads. And 3 gallons of chicken buffalo sans onions borscht for John that tastes like some borscht somewhere I suppose.

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gows is a gift ninja. Some of the time they arrive at standard gift-giving times and of the "normal" sort. A rug, some wine, a massage, pasties. The rest of the time, given her proximity to food, they are food-based gifts. I think the first one was half a Valencia orange. I was confused but delighted when I discovered I really needed it later that day. Mangoes. Cheese sauce. Kale. A gallon of unpasturized goats milk. A side of goat. Chutney. Uncle Mark was sort of confused as to why she brings food over until I explained that this is what she does, she knows we'll eat it and it won't go bad, and it REALLY amuses me. The funnier part is that Uncle Mark did the same thing back when he was only visiting. Veal. Smoked Salt. Beer. A cherry pitter.
When I got home from my trip, I opened the fridge and screamed, there were turkey feet and its insides in a ziploc bag. "What is this?" "Guess." I already knew before I asked.