Ukrainians and Their Food

I was born in southeastern Pennsylvania. It was there I took my first steps and it is there my palate was awakened. Some of my earliest memories are of food. I remember walking shoeless through the vines of our garden searching out the plumpest cucumber. I remember walking through the woods picking berries to make wine. I remember beautiful braided onions and garlic hanging in our cellar next to slabs of cured pork belly bacon we made from our own pigs. I remember trips to various farmer’s markets and sampling piquant marinated chanterelles and soused cherries. I remember sitting under the apple trees watching pasture cattle graze, swooning over the thought of how their creamy milk would be turned into cheese. I remember gathering eggs from our barnyard chickens and ducks to make some of the best omelets and pancakes I ever tasted. But my fondest memories are of time spent with Baba, my grandmother Theodosia, in her farmhouse kitchen.