Borscht Quotes

“I guess everyone likes praise for what they do, but that night I enjoyed cooking for the Olekseis more than I ever had before. Everything about the ingredients, the smells, the textures, everything delighted me.
Maybe I should specialize in Russian food.
I sliced the garlic and dropped it into the pan. It started to sizzle, and I turned the heat down and began slicing the onion. It was very fresh, very pungent. My eyes watered, and I got sniffly. Then I smelled a hint of burn on the garlic and hurried back to the stove and shook the pan. Just in time. The slices were brown but not too brown.
I was getting good at this. I could detect the smell of burning just before it happened. That had to be some sort of superpower.
As I put the rest of the dish together- dicing deep, ruby beets; slicing carrots and Yukon gold potatoes, sizzling spicy sausage in the pan; spicing and tasting, and mixing, and finally pureeing the whole thing into a savory maroon liquid- I continued to marvel at the perfect ripeness and freshness of every ingredient I'd picked out.”
― Beth Harbison, When in Doubt, Add Butter

“I have just taught Soli to make borscht! Yesterday I bought beets with big, glossy leaves still caked with wet soil. Naneh washed them in the tub until her arthritis flared, but she's promised to make dolmas with the leaves. After we closed Soli tucked the beets under coals and roasted them all night. When I woke up I smelled caramel and winter and smoke. It made me so hungry, I peeled a hot, slippery one for breakfast and licked the ashes and charred juices off with my burnt fingertips. Noor, bruised from betrayal, remembered borscht, remembered stirring sour cream into the broth and making pink paisley shapes with the tip of her spoon, always surprised by the first tangy taste, each time anticipating sweetness. Her mother had called it a soup for the brokenhearted.
She marveled at her father's enthusiasm for borscht, when for thirty years each day had been a struggle. Another man would've untied his apron long ago and left the country for a softer life, but not Zod. He would not walk away from his courtyard with its turquoise fountain and rose-colored tables beneath the shade of giant mulberry trees, nor the gazebo, now overgrown with jasmine, where an orchestra once played and his wife sang into the summer nights.”
― Donia Bijan, The Last Days of Café Leila

“He ladled the borscht into bowls and topped each with a dollop of sour cream and a sprig of fresh dill- very attractive, Rachel thought, both the presentation and the look of concentration on his ridiculously handsome face.
That thought made her struggle to hold back her smile as he brought the bowls to the table. The meat had been arranged on the platter in an elegant swoop of mushroom sauce with more drizzled over the top. He'd gone to some trouble to think it through and make it restaurant-worthy. The fact he'd given it so much effort only put more weight behind her smile.
He swept his hand toward the table and pulled her chair out for her. "Shall we eat then?"
"This looks amazing." She was rewarded with a pleased smile from him.
It was amazing, actually, especially considering he claimed he didn't cook. The borscht held just the right amount of sweetness, the beets tender but still fresh and bright, finely diced pork giving it further flavor. The dumplings, colored green from the spinach in the dough, were tender with a delicious filling.”
― Carla Laureano, The Saturday Night Supper Club

“Here is a detailed report from the Walter Reed pathology lab. Their examination was most helpful in giving us a lead for identification."
The President looked at him in surprise. "You identified them?"
"It was the analysis of the borscht paste that opened the door."
"Borscht what?"
"You recall that the Dade County coroner fixed death by hypothermia, or freezing?"
"Yes."
"Well, borscht paste is a godawful food supplement given to Russian cosmonauts. The stomachs of the three corpses were loaded with the stuff."
"You're telling me that Raymond LeBaron and his crew were exchanged for three dead Soviet cosmonauts?"
Emmett nodded. "We were even able to put a name on them through a defector, a former flight surgeon with the Russian space program. He'd examined each of them on several occasions."
"When did he defect?"
"He came over to our side in August of '87."
"A little over two years ago."
"That's correct," Emmett acknowledged. "The names of the cosmonauts found in LeBaron's blimp are Sergei Zochenko, Aleksandr Yudenich, and Ivan Ronsky. Yudenich was a rookie, but Zochenko and Ronsky were both veterans with two space flights apiece.”
― Clive Cussler, Cyclops

“Sweet, tart, tangy soup. Slim strips of boiled cabbage. Carrot. Potato. Cubed and stewed. A single chunk of beef chuck, boiled so long it dissolved in the broth. Beet, cubed and blanched till its color faded to pink and dyed everything else in the pot maroon. Something zesty, below and above--- tomato paste? Pizza sauce? Oh, gross--- ketchup (?!!!) and a swirl of (blasphemy!) Miracle Whip. Borscht. With unorthodox trimmings.
"Who puts ketchup in borscht?" Kostya wondered aloud. "Or Miracle Whip?"
The petite brunette gasped.
"Babushka Fira! But how did you---" she began, though Kostya wasn't listening.
The kitchen seemed to go dim, everything muted but Viktor's face across the island, stunned surprise registered in his raised brows, a smirk.
"Now we're in business," Kostya said.”
― Daria Lavelle, Aftertaste