Hrybna Ikra (грибна ікра, mushroom caviar)

The mushrooms start out noisy in the pan, pale and squeaky, all water and complaint. Then the liquid cooks off, the edges darken, the oil begins to shine, and suddenly you have a spread that tastes deeper than its ingredients. That is the moment. Hrybna ikra is not pretty in a polite way. It is dark, earthy, generous, and exactly what you want on rye bread with dill over the top.

This is forest-belt cooking more than my Kherson steppe cooking: Polissia, the Carpathians, the places where people know which basket is for boletus and which mushroom must never come home. In London I make it with chestnut mushrooms and a handful of dried porcini, because cook it anyway is still the rule. The dried mushrooms bring the forest back to the pan, and the fresh ones give you body.

The one thing that decides the dish is patience after the mushrooms give up their water. If you stop too early, you have chopped mushrooms. Keep going until the smell changes, until the sweetness of onion and carrot catches, until the spoon leaves a clean trail through the pan. Aunt Nadia wrote only, "fry until it sounds right," which was not helpful until the fourth batch. She meant quieter. She meant the hiss softens because the water is gone and the oil is doing its work.

Make enough for a jar and a bowl. It keeps well, feeds people quickly, and tastes even better tomorrow, when the garlic has stopped shouting and joined the table.