six kinds of cabbage
We went to the market today, a trip of raised expectations and dashed hopes for both of us. The market little resembles US farmers' markets or French produce markets. But our hopes were dashed by far more innocuous reasons: to begin, while our apartment is quite lovely (in a guady, contemporized Louis Quatorze kind of way), it lacks a functioning kitchen. I asked for a stove and got two electric burners and a microwave. Complicating factors are a complete lack of bowls, no knives or cutting board, and a dearth of cookware. This made the market trip an exercise in restraint.
The market itself wasn't obvious to the untrained eye--no tarp-covered stalls to indicate a market, no french-style arcade. But from some memory pocket, I recognized the little footpath between a row of permanent kiosks and we followed it into the market itself. The main part of the market is indoors: rows and rows of stalls, a random arrangement which puts vegetables next to cookies next to dried sausages, or fruit or cookies. Save for the cookie stalls, which were vast spreads of at least fifty different cookies sold by the gram (and, curiously, each of the many cookie stalls sold exactly the same variety, displayed in more or less exactly the same manner as the other cookie stalls), the stalls sold a haphazard assortment of dairy, produce, meat or packages goods. While some stalls seemed to be primarily one product, most sold other items alongside.
The cookies stalls were the site of Axel's dashed hopes and expectations. He immediately recognized the cookie that he'd been given the day before by the nice bank ladies, during our long attempt to get Ukrainian cash. He pointed them out, told me that he wanted "bank cookies," and gripped the bag of cookies tightly the whole morning. But the treat I got for him--a "keiks," which seemed more like a muffin, was a complete bomb (and which later he mixed it in with his macaroni and cheese at lunch).
Other than that, the market was great: we watched a man clean and gut a fish bigger than Axel, while others flopped about in what looked like gas canisters. The flying scales mingled with the falling snow; blood gushed off the plywood counter into the dirty slush below. Inside the market, a guy hacked at a hunk of meat with an enormous ax, bits of animal flying off the blade. A trio of matrons, wrapped in aprons and headscarves, shoved pen-knives with slices of dried sausage at us. A woman, in a heavy coat and sultry eye-shadow huskily offered us honey. More aprons offered me tvorog (like farm cheese) for my child (who wanted nothing to do with it once we got home). Stacks and stacks of eggs--in shades of light brown to pale ivory, tempted, but I couldn't figure out how to get them home in my bag. Barrels lined with plastic bags held at least seven kinds of pickled cabbages; pickled cucumbers, apples and some other large, round fruit filled three-foot tall glass jars. Tiny, fresh pasta shapes, bags of dried pastas, grains, kasha (the hot breakfast cereal), even meusli was available. Cans held preserved meats, fish and various vegetables, while bags contained milk, yogurt and preserved fish. We could get carrots, straight from the ground or presliced in miniscule matchsticks, beets, fennel, tiny onions and shallots, rutabega (which I can recognize now thanks to last week's CSA), leeks, cilantro, chives, and many, many varieties of cabbage. Stacks of tiny, perfect tangerines, oranges, apples, bananas, kiwis, even hachaya persimmons were available. It was a dream; I walked through the market wondering whether Mychal would be up to the task of cooking any of it on two electric burners.
The market was a mix of accents; Ukrainian was the language of commerce, but Russian, Georgian and others which I didn't recognize (Ossetian?) were spoken behind the stalls. I got by with Russian, and some Ukrainian politesses thrown in.
We came home with three perfect tangerines, two apples, a small black cabbage, two perfect persian cucumbers, 100 grams of tvorog, two kinds of cookies and a keik plus water for 20 hryvnia: $2.38USD.
And for lunch, Axel had milk and cookies again.
The market itself wasn't obvious to the untrained eye--no tarp-covered stalls to indicate a market, no french-style arcade. But from some memory pocket, I recognized the little footpath between a row of permanent kiosks and we followed it into the market itself. The main part of the market is indoors: rows and rows of stalls, a random arrangement which puts vegetables next to cookies next to dried sausages, or fruit or cookies. Save for the cookie stalls, which were vast spreads of at least fifty different cookies sold by the gram (and, curiously, each of the many cookie stalls sold exactly the same variety, displayed in more or less exactly the same manner as the other cookie stalls), the stalls sold a haphazard assortment of dairy, produce, meat or packages goods. While some stalls seemed to be primarily one product, most sold other items alongside.
The cookies stalls were the site of Axel's dashed hopes and expectations. He immediately recognized the cookie that he'd been given the day before by the nice bank ladies, during our long attempt to get Ukrainian cash. He pointed them out, told me that he wanted "bank cookies," and gripped the bag of cookies tightly the whole morning. But the treat I got for him--a "keiks," which seemed more like a muffin, was a complete bomb (and which later he mixed it in with his macaroni and cheese at lunch).
Other than that, the market was great: we watched a man clean and gut a fish bigger than Axel, while others flopped about in what looked like gas canisters. The flying scales mingled with the falling snow; blood gushed off the plywood counter into the dirty slush below. Inside the market, a guy hacked at a hunk of meat with an enormous ax, bits of animal flying off the blade. A trio of matrons, wrapped in aprons and headscarves, shoved pen-knives with slices of dried sausage at us. A woman, in a heavy coat and sultry eye-shadow huskily offered us honey. More aprons offered me tvorog (like farm cheese) for my child (who wanted nothing to do with it once we got home). Stacks and stacks of eggs--in shades of light brown to pale ivory, tempted, but I couldn't figure out how to get them home in my bag. Barrels lined with plastic bags held at least seven kinds of pickled cabbages; pickled cucumbers, apples and some other large, round fruit filled three-foot tall glass jars. Tiny, fresh pasta shapes, bags of dried pastas, grains, kasha (the hot breakfast cereal), even meusli was available. Cans held preserved meats, fish and various vegetables, while bags contained milk, yogurt and preserved fish. We could get carrots, straight from the ground or presliced in miniscule matchsticks, beets, fennel, tiny onions and shallots, rutabega (which I can recognize now thanks to last week's CSA), leeks, cilantro, chives, and many, many varieties of cabbage. Stacks of tiny, perfect tangerines, oranges, apples, bananas, kiwis, even hachaya persimmons were available. It was a dream; I walked through the market wondering whether Mychal would be up to the task of cooking any of it on two electric burners.
The market was a mix of accents; Ukrainian was the language of commerce, but Russian, Georgian and others which I didn't recognize (Ossetian?) were spoken behind the stalls. I got by with Russian, and some Ukrainian politesses thrown in.
We came home with three perfect tangerines, two apples, a small black cabbage, two perfect persian cucumbers, 100 grams of tvorog, two kinds of cookies and a keik plus water for 20 hryvnia: $2.38USD.
And for lunch, Axel had milk and cookies again.
posted by aelis at 2:26 PM
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