Holubtsi u Vynohradnomu Lysti (голубці у виноградному листі, grape-leaf stuffed rolls)

The leaf bites back. A grape leaf is not cabbage pretending to be delicate; it is thin, tart, and green, and it turns holubtsi into summer food. In Bessarabia, where vines climb faster than cabbages can settle their heads, these little rolls belong under the trellis, near the litnya kuhnia, the summer kitchen, with tomato-orange oil shining on top.

The filling is rice, onion, carrot, dill, and whatever southern herb is loud in your hand that day: mint, purple basil, a little more dill if that's what you have. You roll them small because the rice swells and the leaf must still have a voice. Aunt Nadia's note for the leaf ones said only, 'one spoon, not two,' which sounds useless until the first overfilled roll bursts and teaches you manners.

The one thing I won't rush is the late zasmazhka, the slow-sweated onion and carrot with tomato. It goes over the pot near the end so its sweetness sits brightly against the sour leaf instead of flattening into the cooking liquid. When the pot changes from clattering to that soft little blip under the plate, you are close.

Make a big pot. There is no tradition of a small one, and tomorrow's holubtsi, cold from the fridge or warmed gently in their own sauce, may be the reason you cooked at all.