Pivdennyi Rybnyi Borshch (південний рибний борщ, southern fish borshch)

The ghost in this pot is eel. Not because you must find one now, please don't make dinner a museum expedition, but because the southern rivers and limans, the shallow estuaries where river meets sea, once carried them, and the old fish borshch of the steppe remembers that slippery richness even when the pot is full of carp, pike-perch, perch, or catfish. The broth goes beet-crimson and lean, sour from fermented tomato mors or beet zakwas, with dill thrown in by the fistful.

Fish changes the manners of borshch. Meat can be bullied; river fish cannot. You build a clean broth from heads and bones, keep it at the gentlest murmur, then slide the pieces in near the end so they set in flakes instead of surrendering into rags. Aunt Nadia's letter would have said 'until it sounds right,' which is maddening and correct: a fish borshch should blip, not roar.

The one why that decides the dish is the zasmazhka, the slow-sweated flavour base. Onion and carrot, softened in unrefined sunflower oil until the oil turns orange, go in at the end so their sweetness sits brightly on the sour beet broth instead of flattening into the stock. Make a big pot. There is no tradition of a small one, and tomorrow it will taste deeper, though I like to poach a fresh piece of fish for anyone who arrives late.