Classic Russian Cooking: Elena Molokhovets’ ‘A Gift to Young Housewives’
All Russians are familiar with Lenin’s famous saying: “Every cook should know how to run the government.” One wonders what Lenin, who never boiled an egg for himself, could possibly have known about cooks? There was, however, one cook in Russia whose ability to govern her own diminutive empire Lenin himself might have envied.
In 1861, a young provincial Russian housewife, Elena Molokhovets, who knew how to prepare tasty meals, published a collection of 1,500 recipes. Hardly an event of any note, you might think. First of all, it was far from being the first and of course was not the last cookbook in Russia. Further-more, 1861 was the year in which the peasants were freed from more than three hundred years of serfdom, an era of stormy transformations in Russian society, of liberal reforms and hopes. The movement for the emancipation of women from traditional domestic dependence was gaining strength, and thousands of young women yearned to escape their patriarchal homes to freedom; they dreamed of the university bench and not of cooking.
Nonetheless, this very book, appearing at what might have seemed the most inopportune moment, was fated to acquire instant, unprecedented popularity, and to live for decades. Growing in size and complexity, Elena Molokhovets’s Gift to Young Housewives went through dozens of editions, and lived, together with its author, until the Revolution of 1917. It sold more than 250,000 copies, and the last edition contains almost 4,500 recipes, not counting information and advice on building a house, equipping a kitchen, daily schedules, the science of running a household and entertaining guests, as well as the planning of Lenten and regular meals (there are over six hundred types of non-Lenten dinners alone!), ordinary and holiday fare for servants and masters, and an estimate of the costs of each type of meal. After the Revolution, when cooking had been transformed from an applied art into a theoretical science and Molokhovets’s recipes and advice acquired a metaphysical character, her name became synonymous with the fabulous bacchanalia of gluttony that raged on those yellowing pages.
Nowadays, in those Russian families that have kept copies of this old book, no one cooks by it, or only on special occasions and even then only the simplest dishes. And not just because particular items no longer exist in Russia, or are very expensive, or because one has to contend with antiquated measures of weight and volume or the vagueness of instructions like “a hot stove.” The very style of life that Molokhovets took for granted vanished irretrievably into the past long ago, values have changed, the pace of life has accelerated, and despite Russians’ love of scrumptious, abundant fare, despite their hospitality and ability to create culinary wonders from a meager assortment of ingredients, people no longer consider a well-laid table to be the crown of creation, and gorging oneself on delicacies has ceased to be the self-sufficient process that it appears in Molokhovets’s book.
Russians now open this book to laugh to their heart’s content, in order, trembling with holy horror, to immerse themselves in that lost era of culinary titans, maniacs with cast-iron intestines as long as fire hoses, with stomachs of elephantine proportions, with the jaws of ancient Charybdis, who devoured entire ships and their oarsmen at one sitting.
Where is the creature who, rising at dawn, spends two and a half hours roasting chamois in time for breakfast? Or who tosses back a jigger of vodka in the morning and sits down to consume beer soup with sour cream (Rhine wines are served in the middle of breakfast, punch at the end; or the other way around), and with barely time to recover, again drinks vodka or wine for midday dinner (with hors d’oeuvres: marinated fish, smoked hare, stuffed goose or pears in honey, ninety versions to choose from), and applies himself to soup with champagne and savory pies (the champagne is poured in the soup!), upon which there follows yet another bountiful meat dish, and then a heavy desert, drenched in sugar and fat.
After that, it’s not long until evening tea with five types of bread, veal, ham, beef, hazel grouse, turkey, tongue, hare, four sorts of cheese. This is not counting rolls, different sorts of cookies, babas, jam, oranges, apples, pears, mandarins, dates, plums, and grapes; as if that were not enough, for “tea” one must offer rum, cognac, red wine, cherry syrup, sherbet (a kind of sugary fruit halvah or sweet drink), cream, sugar, and lemon. Plain butter and lemon butter, parmesan butter, butter from hazel grouse, with fried liver, with almonds, walnuts, pistachios. With green cheese. And shredded corned beef. (Molokhovets notes that this “may replace dinner.” What? Meaning, it may not replace dinner? Here, by the way, one remembers that the subtitle of the book is “means of reducing expenses in the domestic household.”) By Molokhovets’s reckoning, this evening tea in the spirit of Gargantua is suitable for a friendly conversation that does not go on much past midnight.
In the morning, presumably, one starts all over again: suckling pig, breast of mutton, pies, pâtés, stuffed eel. If you happen to be a “vegetarian,” then your voracity only grows in the author’s view, for after all, neither fried calf’s head and feet, nor wild boar roasted on the spit—alas—can be part of your breakfast. Therefore, you must eat more frequently and a bit at a time, for example: morning tea (including cream, butter, eggs), then breakfast (main dish plus tea or coffee with babas, cookies, rolls), then a dinner (Russian dinner is in the middle of the day, about three o’clock) of FOUR dishes, of which the last two in fact are sweet, and two hours after dinner—more food (after all, you’re hungry again, aren’t you?)—and in the evening, tea resembling the one described above, only vegetarian.
Molokhovets notes specifically that her recipes and advice are calculated for a family with a normal appetite, of average means, and modest budget. But she sees the plainest, most ordinary “fourth-rate” dinner as a feast of four dishes. (December, Dinner No. 11: Wallachian white soup, cold salmon, capercaillie with salad, boiled custard with caramel syrup.) The fanciest diners consist of eleven courses, or even more, for in these cases two soups are served and the endless small meat pies and cheeses after dessert are not even counted, just mentioned like something that goes without saying, in small print. On these grand occasions wines, vodka, and liqueurs are changed seven times…and the contemporary Russian reader, leafing through the thousand-page folio in horror, begins to guess why Chekhov’s early, comic stories sometimes end with the words: “Then he was seized by an apoplectic fit and died.”
Chekhov, Gogol, Bunin, Shchedrin, and countless memoirists have devoted no small number of pages to descriptions of oblivious gorging, a process that literally becomes orgiastic, virtually a sexual activity. Russian literature’s reserve in regard to eroticism and carnal love is compensated for many times over by the lengthy unbridled epic poems devoted to the joys of the stomach. It suffices to read Chekhov’s story “The Siren,” or Gogol’s “Old World Landowners” to believe in the “economy” of Molokhovets’s meals and in the ordinariness of her household.
From a contemporary point of view, Molokhovets’s housewife (actually, a cook under the housewife’s supervision) prepares not only huge quantities of food, but extremely filling meals, to put it kindly: for instance, in order to make babas, a type of sweet cake, you need to beat ninety egg yolks without stopping, for two hours. Eggs, cream, butter, sour cream—all are generously poured into doughs, sauces, and soups: a chicken soup for six contains a cup of cream, meat broth, a cup of sour cream. Molokhovets skims the foam and fat from soup, but “for those who like things greasier,” she proposes boiling the skimmed fat and pouring it back into the soup. A “manorial table” uses up two pounds of salt a week. Reading Molokhovets’s general instructions, one feels oneself a pathetic, feeble dwarf: thus, for a “small dinner or evening gathering” she proposes a guest list of fifteen to eighteen people, for whom one may prepare, not counting everything else, ninety cups of cranberry drink.
For greater economy a huge number of stores are supposed to be prepared at home: holes must be dug in the cellar for preserving turnips, pike must be dried, nettles planted in order to make threads for repairing stockings, and many, many other things, not to mention well-known preserves and marinades. One should make rose groats, beet coffee, April birch sap vinegar, chestnut starch, pear mustard, pine shoot beer, cucumber jam, and violet syrup. There is, it seems, no object on land, air, or sea that does not find itself in frying pans, casseroles, jars, barrels, sacks, and clay pots. Everything is used, and aside from complex but familiar dishes, one encounters on the pages of Molokhovets such exotic items as cornflower mousse, water ice from currant buds, cream custard with mignonette flowers, and boiled fermented milk with silver leaven.
It is, of course, unimaginable, impossible, to run such a household alone or with the help of merely one cook; and in Molokhovets there’s no question of this. All the work is done by servants, though the author doesn’t say how many. At any rate, the recipes for servants’ meals are based on calculations for four persons. The servants certainly don’t starve, but when one reads the menu intended for them, angry class feelings begin to seethe in the soul. Thus, for example, a break-fast for these round-the-clock laborers frequently consists solely of milk or yogurt; dinner of soup and kasha, and dinner leftovers are proposed for supper. It’s amusing, following the diagram for butchering a cow, to note which parts—third- and fourth-rate—are meant for the servants’ soup. Here’s a soup for a holiday dinner: boil beef tripe, add potatoes and secondrate flour. That’s it. No greens, no spices, no joy. There’s no mention of fruit: common people should eat common things. Here’s a Lenten breakfast: smoked herring. Or: grated turnip with Lenten butter on black bread and tea.
One wonders whether it was gratifying after such a breakfast to prepare stores of barberry: “Each pretty branch of barberry, held by the stem, should be dipped in syrup, and immediately rolled in very finely crushed and sifted sugar of the best sort…” etc. It makes you want to gather in a group and sing revolutionary songs, or join a band of terrorists, or steal. But Molokhovets won’t allow stealing: her housewife sits in the china pantry or in a “warm maid’s work room” at a table and though “because of frail health” she avoids the larder in cold weather, she nonetheless watches keenly to make sure that nothing is carried past her other than what and how much she has earmarked for the table—whether truffles, cream, and pineapple for the masters, or ox lips, legs, and heart for the servants. She is a delicate lady, and, “seeing as the butchering of a boar is a rather unpleasant thing and not every mistress will want to be present during it,” she is given only a general idea of the process. Even so, it contains details that might horrify our tender housewife: how to cut off the head…boil the lower jaw…how to sever the legs at the knee…She even does a little work herself: “The mistress may occasionally give herself the pleasure of skimming cream or sour cream, or direct the servants to beat the butter in her presence,” etc.