Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

Before Teodor collapses into bed, he pulls a chair outside for one last cigarette and to clean his boots. The boots have cracked and stretched from the sloughs of mud. Nicks and scuffs mar the surface. One shoelace has broken. The leather has molded to the shape of his feet like an ancient skin. Despite the grueling work, his boots have never inflicted any pain: not a blister, not a pinch, not even a chafe. They are good boots.

With his penknife, he scrapes off the chunks of caked dirt from the soles, then uses an old horse brush to vigorously scrub the edges and stitching before carefully fishing out the dirt plugging the eyelets. He rubs them down with a scrap of burlap, wiping away the residue of dust. Then he greases them with dubbin, rubbing the fat deep into the leather until the skin glows. He laces the boots back up, straightens out the tongues, and finally sets them beside the stove to dry. He always faces the toes toward the door. Only then can he let himself sleep.

That spring, Teodor and Myron break six acres.

3–4 beets with tops

1 carrot, thinly sliced

1 celery stalk, chopped

7 cups chicken broth, vegetable stock, or water

4 fresh mushrooms

2 tablespoons lard or chicken fat

2 medium onions, chopped

2 cloves garlic (crushed)

2 tablespoons flour

2 cups shredded cabbage

1 tablespoon fresh parsley

2 tablespoons fresh chopped dill

1 teaspoon salt

1 cup buttermilk

1 cup sour cream

2 small new potatoes per person

Peel and shred vegetables. Wash beets and tops well, then shred beets and chop greens. Place beets, carrot, and celery in large pot with 4 cups broth. Boil until soft. Wipe mushrooms with a damp towel, slice thin and cook in lard. Add onion and garlic to mushrooms. Stir in flour to make a paste, add a little broth, bring to a boil, then add to soup. Add cabbage, parsley, dill, salt, and remaining stock. Simmer until vegetables are soft. Mix buttermilk and sour cream, add to soup. Do not boil; the borshch may curdle. Taste. Sprinkle with dill and garlic mashed with salt. Cook and serve potatoes separately.

THE FIRST MEAL FROM THE GARDEN IS ON TUESDAY, June 14. Maria is up at five. The fire is stoked and hot before Teodor and Myron leave for the fields. The door of the shack is opened wide to vent the heat. Ivan, Petro, and Katya are told to stay outside and after their chores are free to play. They are given strict orders to be back at least an hour before supper so they can wash up and dress for the meal. The children are certain it isn’t a holiday but feel they need to be on their best behavior just in case. Once their chores are finished, they stay close to home, spying on the activities. Dania and Sofia are recruited for kitchen staff.

Anna and Lesya are next door preparing the house for guests. The house hasn’t been cleaned in six months, but Anna insists that everyone sit at her table tonight. She now frenziedly attacks the corners, walls, and shelves. Bedding and clothing are hung outside to air. The straw mattresses are shoved through the doorway and beaten with a willow stick, fluffed and shaken, before being hauled back inside. The table, chairs, and stove are scrubbed. Every plate, mug, spoon, and knife washed. The window wiped. The floor swept.

Lesya, who can’t remember her mama ever cleaning, hops around the house feeling such joy she thinks her heart might burst. In the last few weeks, Anna hasn’t been staying in bed all day. She gets up early and walks the properties, skirting the bush, her eyes scanning the ground as though she is looking for something. Sometimes she disappears into the bush and Lesya’s stomach gets tight, but she always returns. Often her path takes her along the low stone wall where she sits watching the woods. When she returns from these walks, her eyes are bright and she seems happy.

Anna opens the pine trunk and extracts an embroidered tablecloth and the porcelain pitcher adorned with painted roses—Anna’s own mother’s pitcher—and entrusts Lesya to carry it to the table. Lesya clutches it to her chest as if holding her own beating heart and tries to walk tall and gracefully with hardly a limp, so her mother will see there is nothing wrong with her after all.

Petro hides his excitement, plays the game, knowing the surprise. He knows what great event is upon them. He knows his father must be coming home.

MARIA HAS PLANNED THE MENU: WHITE BORSHCH, THE last jar of jellied chicken, three potatoes per person, a pickled cabbage salad, and, for dessert, halushky with wild strawberries and syrup. By noon, the temperature outside is seventy-three degrees; inside the shack is at least ten degrees warmer.

The morning is set aside for making the dumplings. The flour is sifted with the last few precious grains of salt. Dania stirs as Maria adds milk and water to create a light dough. Maria forms the soft elastic mixture into a ball and covers it to rise. Sofia returns with a pail of wild strawberries. Taking her mother’s warning seriously, she has guiltily only eaten half a dozen in the field. When she finishes hulling them, Maria sprinkles them with sugar. Sofia covertly dips her finger into the bowl, stealing a taste of the precious sweetness. The risen dough is placed on the floured table, cut in half and rolled into a rectangle. Then, using a small Mason jar as a cookie cutter, Maria carefully punches out round disks.

Dania heats the sugared strawberries on the stove, her fingertips light on the wooden spoon: to sense the thickening sauce. Maria supervises the final consistency and pulls them just as they begin to boil. Once cooled, she drops dollops of fruit in the center of the cutouts and shapes them into balls. The girls plop the halushky into rolling water, ten at a time, and wait for them to float back to the top, perfectly cooked. Maria sets them on her best plate. She sacrifices one halushka to be sampled between the three, then sets the plate on the highest shelf to prevent temptation.

By midday, Maria is in the garden selecting vegetables. Sofia and Dania follow behind, ready to carry the prized bounty. Each vegetable has its own distinctive greenery, still pert and fresh from the early summer rains, vibrant from the rich feed, not yet battered and bruised by summer storms. The rows contain successive generations, each a few weeks older than the next. Small plants, just learning to stand, look up to the larger ones whose stems and leaves are already maturing. Some burst with blossoms, others fan luxuriantly, others climb trellises twisting and spiraling around themselves, some sprawl lazily, basking in the sun.

Maria pulls the carrot first. She feels along the base of the tops, gauging the thickness of the root below. Finding the right one, she wraps her fingers around the greens and gently tugs. The earth loosens its hold and out comes a straight, vivid orange root startling against the brown earth. Still young, it barely spans her palm. Not a single insect mark tarnishes its beauty. She brings the carrot to her nose and inhales the newborn scent. She fights the urge to take a bite, swallows down the saliva that fills her mouth. She hands the carrot to Dania and proceeds down the row. She checks the ingredients off in her head. As she plucks each one from the earth, she whispers, “Diakuiu.”

Back in the kitchen, the girls are restricted to peeling and shredding duties. Maria is in charge of the borshch. She adds the vegetables to the simmering chicken stock, monitors them so they won’t become too soft, lifts them from the heat if the fire is too hot. She fries the mushrooms Dania gathered down by the well, adds just enough flour to create a paste but not so much that it would mask their delicate taste. She spoons the mushrooms into the borshch. The most crucial part is adding the buttermilk and sour cream. The girls gather around as Maria drops in thick dollops. The fire, now a low glow, emits a gentle heat. The cream smooths and blends beautifully into the stock.