Borshch (борщ, red beet soup)

The whole pot turns stained-glass red before you taste a thing. Onion, carrot, and beet have been sweating together in green sunflower oil, the tomato mors has gone dark and glossy, and suddenly the kitchen looks as if someone opened a church window over the stove. That is the argument. Not grey, not timid, not anybody else's soup: borshch, and the spelling matters.

At my table this is a big winter pot with southern summer hiding inside it: fermented tomato mors from the litnya kuhnia, the summer kitchen, beet zakwas from the jar that stains your fingers, cabbage cut fine, potatoes soft at the edges, dill waiting till the end. In August we'd be drowning in tomatoes; in January we open a jar instead. That's not a substitute. That's the actual tradition.

The one why that decides the dish is the zasmazhka, the slow-sweated flavour base. Let the onion and carrot go soft first, then the grated beets, and add it near the end so its sweetness sits brightly on top of the broth instead of flattening into the stock. Aunt Nadia's letter says only "until the smell changes", which is maddening and correct; the beets stop smelling raw and start smelling round, almost bread-sweet.

Make a big pot. Enough for eight guests or one hungry Ukrainian. The first bowl is comfort, the second day is celebration, and the spoon must stand up straight.