I spent four summers in these rural Russian camps, located three hours south of St. Petersburg, as part of a service project, helping teach kids English, getting them acquainted with the outside world. As American “ambassadors,” my teammates and I were required to eat everything put before us. And not just try the foreign, unidentifiable food, but to consume absolutely all of it. So when squares of baked curdled milk with raisins often strewed throughout the concoction—the “cheesecake”—appeared, my gag reflex operated independently of the strict orders we were given to not only be thankful for our food, but to show our appreciation by devouring it.
You see, along with the hundreds of Russian children at the camp, we cleared our tables, taking our mandatory-empty plates to the dishwasher, who also functioned as cook. It was imperative, according to our leaders that these plates also serve as a type of ambassador, devoid of incriminating evidence and sensitive to the history of the host country.
Russia has suffered innumerable hardships in the previous century, but St. Petersburg has survived one of the most tragic stories. For 900 days during World War II, known in Russia as The Great Patriotic War, Leningrad (the Soviet name for St. Petersburg) was besieged and blockaded by German military. The city’s access to the world beyond its borders was completely cut off. Their food supply was reduced to sawdust and in some cases, cannibalism.
The memory of those three starving years lives on in the guilty conscious of the survivors and in the stories passed on to their children. A common site in many Russian homes is old bread sitting on their radiators, drying out the stale bread to be made into suchari, a type of flavored crouton that translates as bone dry.
Many stories could be told about lack during Soviet times. Rationing, famine, coupons, long lines, and empty shelves were a fixture in most Russians’ lives. This constant lack has created a frugal, food-conscious people. Thus the empty plates at camp.
In lieu of creating a bigger scene in the cafeteria by accidentally throwing up the dessert of baked curdled milk, I found a better solution. I began sitting next to the ravenous teenage boys in my group. Fueled by a desire to eat everything, all the time, these boys’ taste buds were apparently insensitive to the sour white square, jiggling slightly in a pool of its own warm juice. In turn, I ate the boys’ unwanted vegetables, happy with my diet of salted tomatoes and cucumbers.
Because of these over-fed, adventurous Russian summers, I ultimately went on to major in Russian, study abroad in St. Petersburg, and receive a Fulbright Fellowship to teach in the country. Eventually, I learned the name of the dreaded dairy dish, zappikanka, and when I lived with a Russian host mother in the city formerly known as Leningrad, I could tell her I didn’t like this Russian favorite. Although, apparently this word not only means the type of dessert I detest, it is also the general word for casserole, so I inadvertently limited the type of dishes this generous woman would prepare for me.
Russian cuisine is still not my go-to food. I don’t prefer my meals covered in an excess of dill. I am not a fan of overly salted fish from a can, and there are only so many days out of the week I can stomach cow tongue. But my curiosity and love for this country’s literature and culture has expanded to include some of their fare. The hours I spent making dumplings was entirely worth the first dip of the greasy perogi into sour cream. The four simple ingredients and easy preparation of Russian apple cake make it a common appearance in my kitchen. I have only tackled borsht, traditional beet soup, twice, but every sip of the purple broth increased my appreciation of its country of origin, acting as a Russian ambassador to this enamored American.