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B O W W E M A D E B O R S C H (Translated from Ukrainian by M. M.) Sonia Bay Ours is a modern marriage. Modem in the universal sense, when it comes to treating such problems as cooking, serJant® and the like.' So my husband and I, like most of the' newly-married couples in our circles engaged m full-time professional work, meet at dinner at restaurants and have supper at home. These suppers areprepared with minutest care, accompanied by much unneces sary confusion caused by wo people totally unaccustomed to this sort of work. In spite of this, we are a do- mestic «Нфк, we love our httte home. Besides, my husband feels best when telaxed in his own home. Once, during dinner at a restaurant, he said to me. know, I have a hankering for borsch, but real Ukrainian borsch the home-made kind. Perhapswe could have it some time? Sunday, maybe? What do you think?” And to lessen the boldness of his request, he added: “I know how to cook borsch, cross my heart, I do. I used to cook it of ten during the lean war days. It was good, too! If you would just buy the necessary ingredients,^ I d .take care of the whole thing. I did not answer immediately. My thoughts raced and I weigh ed the success of the proposed project against my limited know ledge of cooking, the smallness oi our kitchen and the lack of prop er cooking facilities. In the bal ance I threw the thought: What joy if the borsch is really a suc cess—and so I agreed. We picked the following Sunday for the pro- ject. That night, my husband shoved a book into my hands. I looked, — a cook boko. On the fly-leaf, in a bold masculine hand was his inscription: “To many appet izing menus, for you and for me. I laughed and my husband apo- j logized. “Something I picked up on the way home. But you don’t have to use it yet, because Sun day I’m going to cook. I chose to take offense. “I sc ytou have no faith at all in my culinary talents. Well then, go ahead and be cook by yourself.” And I thought : Wait, my dove, Г11 help you. “But no/' says my husband, “It would be even more fun together, only, I didn’t want you to exert yourself on your day off. Aha, I thought, more fun. “Cood,” he says. “We will cook the borsch together. Because, you see how it is, — you will remem ber one thing, I will add another and so with our joint efforts, we will cook borsch.” I agreed. "V/мі know what ? I already bought something. Guess.” “Beets ?” “No.” “Meat?” “No. Two pounds of onions. “Two whole pounds? Why so much?” “Oh, you need a lot of onions for borsch.” “But two pounds?” “Of course. Take a look in that book, just look. Look under В — borsch. Here it is. Read it: Beets, meat, etc., etc., and onions. There! Onions. Aha!” “I see. But not two pounds.” “Well, we'll see how much we will need. I bought enough to meet any requirement. Now, you will get the rest of the things to morrow, won’t you?” Sunday came. Morning barely ligted up our windows when my husband woke me: “Good morn ing! We cook borsch today!” “Today? Uh-huh, today.” “Now don't fall asleep again. We have to get up right away.” “Oh? And what for? This is Sunday, we can sleep till 9.” “Oh no, this isn’t an ordinary Sunday. You know, by the time we prepare breakfast, then this, then that — then it will be time to prepare borsch.” “Oh yes — the borsch.” I felt myself slipping off to sleep. Warm, peaceful, so pleasant. Noises in the kitchen woke me again. My husband was pre paring breakfast. The smell of coffee permeated the morning air. No more sleep. I got up and went to help my husband. On this 'unusual’ Sunday, we somehow could not dawdle over our usual post-breakfast talk. Both of us became impatient and plunged* immediately into the preparations for that borsch. “You cut the beets,” said my husband, “then clean the parsley and the carrots. I’ll prepare the* meat.” Without a word I began obey ing his commands. I felt that this was not the time to argue with the chief cook. We cut and rinsed. The table quickly was transformed into a borsch laboratory. In place of the vase of flowers, there appeared a primus-stove. Near it on the cut- ting-board were the diced beets. The scraped carrots shone near the newly-washed, dripping pars ley. The knife in my hands kept time to the hissing of the primus- stove. ^Well, everything’s ready,” fin ally said my husband. “I put the meat in the pot, covered it with *a little water and put it on the stove.” “Wait. And the beets?” “The beets go in later. Don’t worry. I know what Гйі doing. Now you cut the onions.” “All of them?” “W ell4— no, just enough for this pot, this much, see?” I cut up half the amount he in dicated. My husband busied him self at the primus-stove. “It’s boiling!” he yelled. “Throw in the beets. The lima beans. Where’s the cabbage? Throw it all in ! So. Now some water. Water!” yelled the man. “Right away, right away! I can’t find the water pitcher. Where is it?” “It’s under the table. There it is. Hurry!” Finally the pot was covered, the flame raised and — we exhal ed. My husband lit a cigarette, sat down by the table and gazed at the stove. “Listen, what about mushrooms ?” “They go in at the end.” “What are you talking about? Mushrooms must cook a long time.” “Must they?” “I know for a fact that they < do?” The mushrooms were quickly dropped into the pot. “Aha! Spices! Where do you keep the spices?” I looked in amazement. “But, dearest! You don’t use, spices in borsch.” “What do you mean, you don’t use them? I always use them. Go find them, please do. Pepper- corris, qloves...” “Cloves?” “Of course, cloves.” “Oh no,” I protested. “That I refuse to put in. You just look in the book. I can assure you, it does not even mention cloves.” “What if it does?” “But it doesn’t.” “Maybe it does. I’ll look.” “Please do. I know that spices are not used in borsch. Besides, we don’t have any cloves in the house, anyway.” My husband looked and could not find any mention of it in the book. We finally compromised by throwing in one small pepper corn. The borsch began to boil. My husband sniffed and said: “Mm. Smell it ?” “Yes. Borsch all right.” “Wonder how it tastes.” We tasted it. “You know, it seems to me — it really smells like borsch.” “But it has no taste. It needs salt and vinegar.” “Net vinegar, kvas.” “Oh yes, have we any?” “Of course, I bought some.” My husband smoked another cigarette. He sat in his pajamas, a spoon in one hand, cigarette in the other. He looked like a 20th- century alchemist. From time to time he diligently stirred the contents of the pot and the smoke of the cigarette mingled with the aromatic steam. (Continued on page 12) WOMEN OF THE . WORLD MEET In a little farming town of South Kortright, N. Y., the In ternational Assembly of Women, attended by 100 delegates from fifty four nations, met recently. Among the women were members of foreign parliaments, an Iran ian princess, a French journalist — Louise Weiss, known to La Resistance as Valentine No. 1014. The women meet in an old car riage house on the estate-farm of Mrs. Alice McLean, a strong believer .incthe Assembly. The meeting was planned last spring by nineteen American wo men’s organizations who believed that “Women in the poet-war луогМ will outnumber men will hold tremendous power, “and think that it would be a good idea ' for women to pool their know ledge for the world’s benefit. The week of October 19, the women discussed such topics as the dangers of fascism and the problem of Germany. Although the siteering committee of the Assembly has announced that no recommendations are to come out of the ten-day convention, several groups have met indepen dently and drafted statements for the press. In one, Valentine No. 1014 asserted that the "UN was not proceeding very progressive ly,” but had faith in it and hoped it would solve present difficulties. The women all agreed, after learning for the first time and ac cepting the differences in customs of all nations, that the standards of living of all nations must be raised by a greater distribution of wealth, that all nations -should co operate witih the International Trade Organization, in lowering of tariffs and that all govern ments implement the Breton Woods agreement. The women were warned not to smoke because of the hay in the loft above them, and ate well at Mrs. McLean’s (the hostess had four steers slaughtered for the occasion), drank tea. in the afternoons. UKRAINIAN LITERATURE COURSE AT COLUMBIA Conducted by Prof. Clarence A. Manning, author of the recently published book on the subject, a couhse in Ukrainian literature is being presented at New York’s Columbia University. The lectur er, who is acting executive direc tor of the Department of East European languages at Columbia, is also the author of a book on the life and works of Taras Shev chenko. Action may not always bring happiness; but there is no happi ness without action. Disraeli. Видання C оюзу Українок A мерики - перевидано в електронному форматі в 2012 році . A рхів C У A - Ню Йорк , Н . Й . C Ш A.
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