Smazheni Kabachky (смажені кабачки, fried zucchini)

By August the zucchini stop asking permission. One day they are small and neat under the leaves; the next they are lying in the path like green clubs, and every table in the south has to answer them. This is the best answer I know: rounds salted until they weep, dusted lightly with flour, fried in sunflower oil until the edges turn gold, then covered with crushed garlic, dill, and cold smetana.

The whole dish is decided before the first slice hits the pan. Salt pulls the water out, and drying the rounds lets the flour cling in a thin skin instead of turning to paste. If the pan sings when the zucchini goes in, you're on the right road. If it sighs, the oil is too cool and the slices will drink it like gossip.

My aunt's letter only said, "fry until it sounds right," which was annoying until it became useful. Listen for the busy little crackle, watch the pale flesh go translucent at the center, and stop when the rim browns before the middle collapses. Serve them warm, room temperature, or straight from the fridge the next morning, if anyone left you any.