Another early deleted scene from At Home on the Kazakh Steppe. Food is such a large part of a culture: which types of food, how they are prepared, where they come from, the level of cleanliness, how they are eaten … all can vary from culture to culture. Here is a snippet that was cut toward the end of the edits.
We ate our meals at Dina’s from salad-sized plates, and we ate with a tablespoon rather than a fork. We’d done this at Hadija’s and I’d thought at the time it was a family idiosyncrasy. Now, eating with spoons at Dina’s, I realized we’d also eaten with spoons at Soombat’s. We’d, in fact, find only spoons wherever we ate.
I’d see serving forks, but no table forks. And, except for one very sharp butcher knife to cut the meat in bishparmak, I never saw a table knife in any of the houses where we lived or ate.
If we wanted butter, we took it with our spoon, the same spoon with which we ate.
Coarse salt, like kosher salt, was in a small saucer and we used our fingers to sprinkle some on our food.
We always had plenty to eat and, although the meals were heavy in carbohydrates, neither of us put on weight, at least not in the beginning. In fact, between my attack of the killer herring and the absence of good old American temptations, I’d lose twenty-five pounds in the first six months and Woody would lose fifty.
Woody didn’t mind the food in the beginning, though he thought it bland. He saw it as part of the grand adventure that made all new things interesting — at first. But once the novelty wore off, he was disappointed.
Most books on Kazakhstani culture say the food is heavy in meat. And, at a party we attended that first year, Woody heard a Kazakh man agree, saying, “Only the wolf eats more meat than the Kazakh.” But this was not our experience. As Woody would say much later, “Of course they ate mostly meat in the nomad days. Meat transports itself; vegetables don’t.”
But it was more than the lack of the meat that he’d expected; the overall portions at each meal were less than he was used to and he felt constantly hungry.
While Woody noticed the portion sizes, I noticed the colors. Over the five months we lived with Dina, I came to see that her suppers, no matter what she served, all looked the same: a white base, dark center, green garnish, and fresh tomato wedges along one side of the plate. The garnish was either chopped dill or sliced scallions.
The base was often what they called puree, a very distant relation to mashed potatoes. Very distant: the potatoes were mashed in the cooking water, sans butter or milk. And while I didn’t mind puree, pasta was my favorite. But whatever the base, there was always the dark sautéed-meat sauce in the center, green garnish sprinkled on top, and fresh tomato wedges along the side. It was nutritious and healthy and hot.
The food group we saw most was carbohydrates: pasta or potatoes, sometimes both, always deep-fried or boiled; and bread, lots and lots of bread.
Butter was plentiful, though it tasted bland and seemed to have water in it. It wasn’t used in cooking, but spread on bread.
There was no olive oil; no vegetable oil at all that I could see. Fat came from the meat and it was dearly loved.
When Woody was offered shorpa, what some call the “national drink,” following a feast at someone’s home, he drank it, loved it, and then nearly gagged. He said it tasted like the fat that rose to the surface while simmering the meat for bishparmak, which, we discovered months later, was exactly what it was. Kazakhs believe drinking this fat will help them stay warm come the winter.
We never saw a green vegetable, spices other than salt, or meat that hadn’t simmered for hours. We did see parsley, chervil and lots of dill, which showed up as a garnish on the oddest dishes, like pizza. But these were herbs, not vegetables I could steam and top with butter, salt and pepper.
There were carrots, but they were also a garnish only; never steamed with butter and parsley. And there were tomatoes and cucumbers. There were always tomatoes and cucumbers.
Never before had I yearned for kale
or collard greens.
They did sell beets, and I wondered about steaming the tops and slathering them with butter. But no one did, so neither did we.
After four months, I yearned for even a simple dandelion green — pulled from any yard. There were none of those, either.
How about you? Can you imagine yourself craving green vegetables?