Kasha

I adore kasha, but I wonder if my personal memories of it are too strong for me to be objective. In my late teens and early twenties, whenever I visited my aunt and Russian uncle, they would fill their table with Russian counts and princes of imperial blood, then serve pheasant cooked in 100-year-old Madeira, perched on nests of wild rice and kasha. The fact that these meals usually occurred in the dripping 100-degree heat in Washington, D.C., in August, only added to the surreal quality of