RECIPE: OLIA HERCULES. FOOD PHOTOGRAPH: SEAN CALITZ. FOOD STYLING: JESS MEYER. STYLING: SARAH BIRKS RECIPE ADAPTED FROM SUMMER KITCHENS BY OLIA HERCULES (BLOOMSBURY £26)
Every single morning in March and April I would send a message to my parents: How are you? If they replied, it was a fairly good day. If they were silent, it was not, so I would give them space and ask the same question the following day.
And then one morning a hopeful answer came from my mum: “Today we made borsch, and it nourished us and made us feel stronger. I really feel like it’s an element of our DNA.” Immediately, I knew there was a turning point, maybe a shift from the initial shock and trauma into the next stage, whatever this may be.
I admire how strong and stoic my parents were at that time. Especially because I myself could no longer eat and could not cook. A friend of a friend started sending me a medicinal Chinese broth every week in the post. It was the thing that saved me, as I could only manage to drink, not chew.
Losing my ability and desire to cook felt strange, like losing a part of myself. Before, whenever I felt stress or a hint of depression approaching, I would cook. Something bread-related usually. The soft dough under the ball of my palm, its stickiness, its comforting sweet-sour aroma, the repetitive movements… It’s the ultimate act of mindfulness. The sensory repetition that forces you to observe the moment, to let go of the insistent buzz of anxiety – preparing food was not just work for me or a quotidian family chore, it was an act of self-care.
When Ukraine was invaded, cooking suddenly felt painful. Instead of healing me, it made me hurt. I realised the act of cooking was interwoven so tightly within my brain with my family and my homeland that simply chopping through a cabbage made me burst into tears. And how dare I feel comforted by cooking when my loved ones and my countrymen are in danger and I am not? It just didn’t feel right.
I begged my parents to leave Kakhovka, my home town. They resisted for so long – why should they leave? How could they leave? Their lives were there: their house, their garden, fruit and pine trees, animals, employees, their livelihood and roots. But finally, after they witnessed my panic attack over a video call, they agreed. I told them if anything happened to them, I would never forgive myself for not convincing them. It took them 16 hours and 19 check points to make the initial part of the journey out of the occupied Kherson region, and then five days of driving to northern Italy, where my mum’s nephew, Ihor, a critical-care surgeon based in Berlin, was able to offer them the sanctuary of his empty holiday home.