My babushka's Creamy Borscht

A purple-ish taste of Ukrainian endurance.

The mother of my father, my babushka Rosa, passed away last July. A tall, bossy, and very persistent Ukrainian lady, she made it to 92 and ate incredibly well until her last day.

Born Filakosky in western Ukraine, she took the name Mackievicz from my grandfather after marrying him. She always made sure to keep her mother tongue sharp for both cursing her kids and blessing us grandkids.

Rosa & Antonio's wedding day.

She wasn’t much of a sweet woman, but she compensated for it by cooking delightful food, so we were never really bothered by it. Also because we all thought she was very unique — it was fascinating to watch her stride through life bossing people around and never needing to be sweet.

She enjoyed rye bread toasts with a thick spread of fresh cream and a generous sprinkle of white sugar on top of them. She wouldn't allow herself ever to miss the 5 pm Catholic Mass on TV, which she watched from her favorite couch spot, right under a hanging picture of a pretty Jesus. She also hung her grandkids’ achievements in frames all over her living room's green walls. And she was the best cook I've ever seen.

When I was a stubborn kid behaving badly at the table, my mom would call me Rosinha — babushka was famous for being short-tempered and moody when the food served didn't reach the potential she thought it should. I was famous for acting just like her. Back then, I hated my nickname, nowadays I bring it back myself.

She lived a tough life as a parent. Pregnant more than 19 times, she only saw 13 kids grow up. By the time she passed, only 3 were still there. She also lost my grandpa to cancer (very unexpectedly) a few months after I was born. My dad never really recovered from that. I don't think Grandma ever recovered from all she went through, either. But she managed to continue.

Rosa firmly believed she had been cursed at some point in life by a gypsy, as her parents would tell her repeatedly, but she never gave up believing God had a bigger plan for her, despite the curse. We'll never know if her curse was real, but just like her, I also find comfort in believing that no suffering lasts forever.

Food was always a serious topic around her. She grew up astonishingly poor and remained struggling with finances for the rest of her life. Whoever faces hunger in life once never jokes about food again. She most certainly wouldn't, as she would always tell us, grandkids, to be grateful for everything, as nothing hurts more than a belly if empty.

But she found pleasure in food with the same intensity she was serious about it, and always cooked with a deep sense of gratefulness sprinkled with easiness. She had to, with all the mandatory hours she spent by the stove pirouetting the sound of her crying babies. I like to believe she was gifted, as she cooked her whole life without ever reading or writing one single recipe. She made sure to pass that gift on to my dad, who in turn believed that gift was destined for me.

When my dad passed, Rosa became really close to me. It never bothered me to know that when she hugged me, she pretended she was hugging him, and I always did my best to make her feel like a part of her son was still there. Here and there, I would catch her eyes becoming a bit teary, so I'd joke about something silly, and we would laugh a really extravagant laugh, to which she would reply by saying, "when you laugh, it feels like your dad is still here."

I know, babushka. I think he is.

I love many things about Rosa. I love how decisive and meticulous she was about her crafts — she could sketch, paint, embroider, and create anything from scratch. She never once left the house to work, since she was always taking care of her abundance of kids, but I always admired her natural skills of running things like a CEO.

I loved how she made a salad of boiled zucchini and black pepper taste like a Michelin-starred dish, and how she enjoyed the taste of her homemade beer, the one she clandestinely shared with us grandkids.

I loved the movement she did with her strong arms when she tossed freshly boiled pierogis in butter in her lifelong large glass bowl, and how she could rapidly sew a beautiful flowery dress, another passion we shared. I loved how she combed her thin hair, and how she never missed a joke opportunity. I love how she loved life and how she instructed us to do the same, always through the pleasures of sharing a table. And a couple of glasses of her beer.

I've been thinking a lot about Rosa and about the suffering of her people in Ukraine.

One year has passed since the Russian invasion of Ukraine and this nightmarish horror started in the beloved land of my family. I can only think of the tenacity of the Ukrainian people in their fight for survival. I think of the tenacity of my grandmother fighting for survival — always persisting, persevering, enduring. My heart goes to everyone affected by the unexplainable evil they have to abide by in this world.

I think of how I saw my babushka, after burying a husband, or a son, or a daughter — a thing she went through too many times in a lifetime — would come back home and take, almost miraculously, her weary body to her kitchen.

Rosa would peel beetroots letting the juices permeate her wrinkled hands. Then she would dice them and spread them on a sheet pan, mingling them with other diced vegetables and some oil — her hands orchestrating it. She'd put the tray in the oven to roast and sit with a mug of tea by the kitchen window, on the chair she always sat on. She would, sometimes, rest her head on the table, as defeated as one could. Then she would stare at the nothingness of those 50 roasting minutes.

When the vegetables were soft, she would hand blend them into a creamy soup, seasoning it really well with salt and red wine vinegar. She would serve us, in her white enamel plates, ladlefuls of her warm, crimson-colored soup with dollops of immaculate sour cream on top.

By the time the soup touched our lips, her semblance had already changed — she'd look hopeful as she could see a future ahead. She would say that cooking, once again, had shown her that she could try to survive one more day.

I hope people in Ukraine have been finding refuge and the nourishment they need to survive. I know they share Rosa's hope for a brighter future, too.

Please consider donating to World Central Kitchen.

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Rosa's Creamy Borscht

Makes 8 generous servings

Sweet, sour, and creamy. This is my favorite soup, the one my Ukrainian grandmother used to make. It's versatilely vegan without the sour cream, too. While you might come across more traditional Borscht recipes that add tomato or season with a touch of pepper, there are countless ways to make this iconic dish. This version I make so often at home comes really close to what I tasted from my grandma's spoon. She blended hers, and I blend mine, as well, but you can skip this step completely if you prefer it chunky — it tastes as good. The real secret, she'd say, is to roast the vegetables until really tender and caramelized. The prunes she added to roast with the vegetables are a bit of a secret, too.

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• 2 medium beets (or 3 small ones)

• 2 medium carrots (or 3 small ones)

• 1 large red onion

• 1 head of garlic (I know it sounds like a lot, but trust me)

• 4-6 prunes (Rosa's secret for depth of sweetness)

• 4 bay leaves

• 1 tbsp olive oil

• 1 1/2 to 2 tsp table salt or 2 1/2 tsp kosher salt (to be used in two stages)

• 1/2 head of green cabbage

• 8 cups of water or vegetable broth (this vegetable base works well, too)

• 3 tbsp red wine vinegar

• Sour cream & dill to serve; sourdough to dip.

1. Preheat the oven to 400°F (200°C).

2. Cut the beets, carrots, and onion into 1 1/2-inch chunks, halve the head of garlic, and place them on a baking sheet with the prunes and bay leaves (line it with parchment to avoid stains). Drizzle with olive oil and season with 1 tsp of salt.

   *If my beets and carrots are organic, I don't even bother peeling them.

3. Roast the vegetables in the preheated oven for 45-55 minutes, or until, if tested with a fork, they are tender and caramelized (especially the head of garlic).

4. About 15 minutes before your timer for the roasting veggies goes off, in a large pot, bring the water or vegetable broth to a boil.

5. Quarter the half head of green cabbage, discarding the hard part of the center. Add the cabbage to the broth, stir well, and bring it to a simmer. Let it simmer for about 10 minutes, or until the cabbage looks translucent and thoroughly cooked.

6. When your veggies are done, take the tray out of the oven, pick out the garlic, squeeze it into the pot of simmering cabbage, and discard the peel. Transfer everything else from the baking sheet to the pot, including the bay leaves.

7. Cover the pot and let the borscht simmer for 10 minutes, or until the flavors have melded together. Skim the top to remove any foam.

8. Remove the bay leaves from the pot and use an immersion blender or a regular blender to puree the soup until smooth. If using a regular blender, be sure to allow the soup to cool slightly before blending to prevent burns.

9. Stir in the red wine vinegar and season the soup with an additional 1/2 tsp of salt, if needed. Be careful with the salt, as it should not compromise the natural sweetness of the vegetables combined with the prunes. Taste and adjust as you go—I never had to use more than 2 tsp of salt. 

   Babushka always served us her borscht while still hot with a dollop of sour cream and dill when she had it. I like it cold, too, with sliced cucumbers and radishes if summertime.

   It keeps in the fridge for up to 4 days and reheats really well, both on the stovetop and in the microwave. Store it in individual containers and freeze some for weekday lunches with grilled cheese, as I do.