A long while ago, in a neighborhood far far away…
I was 23, dressed in black and checking out what was still open at 4am in the East Village of NYC. While there was a lot going on in the rest of Manhattan, my favorite area for late-night fun and people watching was this neighborhood, historically working class and at the time rapidly gentrifying. My friend Liz and I wandered around after a show, bar-hopped, chatted with people, and eventually got very, very hungry.
The natural place to stop at was Veselka, a Ukrainian comfort food resturant famous for being open all night with food hearty and delicious enough steady a lady after quite a few beers and hours of walking around. I remember pierogies and sausage; that amazing food made me go from dizzy to stable in a half hour.
I believe that due to Covid-19 Veselka is no longer open 24/7, but they are still open which is a huge win in these uncertain financial times. It’s a testament to how good the food is there and to Veselka’s being a beacon of deliciousness in the neighborhood. They’ve also raised money for Ukraine and very vocal about what’s going on:
I am ethnically completely Polish; my mother immigrated to the USA when she was 16. My Dad was a 3rd generation Polish-American. It always amazed me that even with their common ancestral background how different my parents were in their outlooks and behaviors. My mother and Grandmother, who also live with me nearby in Seattle, had it rough during the communist years before deciding to leave their home country. Mom was told by relatives to never come back when she left in the late 1970s, and Grandma followed a few years later with the hope of stable employment, food and housing.
My grandmother now lives in our guest bedroom turned apartment. I can gauge her emotional state about current events by how many empty jars she insists on saving from the recyling bin. The rest of us get mildly annoyed; random glassware starts to fill the cabinets to the point where we can’t put mugs on the lowest shelf. She’ll take them downstairs, and simply say, “I like these jars.”
“Why are you saving so many jars Babcia?”
“War changes you, I’m a child of war.”
So lately both my mother and grandmother are quiet, worried, anxious about the news in Ukraine. It’s so close to where they grew up. The compassion overwhelms, the empathy and the fear of history repeating itself. Europe is overflowing again with refugees. It is hard, and scary to think about how to take care of so many people but scarier still is to think of living in fear, starving, dying. I’ve been reading so much about Poland accepting the migrants from Ukraine and trying to help, but helping is hard when there are so many. I wish them strength, resources, and compassion to keep helping.
I follow Anne Byrn, and she’s been very active with World Central Kitchen and the fundraising going on for the millions of women and children migrating rapidly out of Ukraine.
In the meantime, put Mamuska on backorder,
look at the bottle of sunflower oil likely sourced from Ukraine on your shelf, and think about how you feel about your right to choose the destiny of your country.