Zatirka (затірка, rubbed-dough soup)

The dough is not rolled, shaped, or made pretty. It is rubbed between your palms until flour and egg break into tiny rough crumbs, some no bigger than buckwheat, some fat as peas, and that unevenness is the whole comfort of the bowl. They drop into broth and rise when they're ready, little pale flecks bobbing under dill and orange beads of sunflower oil.

Zatirka is the soup people made when the cupboard looked bare and still somebody had to be fed. A handful of flour, an egg if the hens were generous, broth if there was a chicken back, milk or water if there wasn't. Aunt Nadia wrote only, "rub until it feels sandy," which is exactly annoying and exactly correct. Dry crumbs stay separate; wet paste turns the pot cloudy and sulks.

The one thing that decides the dish is the zasmazhka, the slow-sweated onion and carrot. Add it at the end so its sweetness sits brightly on the broth instead of flattening into the stock. Then dill. Always dill. This is enough for eight guests or one hungry Ukrainian, and if your crumbs are uneven, good. Your hands were paying attention.