An Oklahoman's Ode to Beet-Based Borscht

I’ve been making borscht for a few years now. When the summer heat starts to show signs of waning and I feel the first hint of coolness in the air, I begin announcing my intent.

“It’s almost time to make borscht,” I tell everyone in my midst.

They nod, having heard this probably several times already in the past month.

The Rossman style of borscht includes an earthy beet broth and generous chunks of savory stewed beef—plus a joyful dallop of sour cream.

Borscht is a hearty Eastern European peasant soup, prepared for centuries with various vegetables and meats. It originally was made with cow parsnips and whatever else people could find lying around. Ukrainians began adding beets in the sixteenth century, giving the soup its now-characteristic bright red hue, but it takes many forms depending on who’s making it. Some variations contain no beets at all, and it can be served hot or cold, thick or thin, and so on. Like pho or chili, everyone has their own version.

My gruff grandpa Zig occasionally made it, with a cigar hanging out of mouth and ten Siamese cats lurking expectantly in the threshold. As a child, I eyed the dish with suspicion and kept my distance, preferring Chicken and Stars and other Campbell’s classics to what looked to me like a Russian bloodbath accompanied by a spoon. Years ago, my brother started making it in our grandfather’s style–with hearty chunks of beef, but no cigar residue. And that’s when at last I discovered that borscht, like so many aesthetically challenged foods, is quite delicious—rich, savory, and a little bit earthy.

Even now, I still find it slightly gruesome. When I make it, it looks like a slasher film scene after all is said and done, with red splashes all over the impractical whiteness of my tiny kitchen. I emerge from my task with beet-stained hands and crimson splatters on my face, forearms fatigued from the laborious repetition of grating beets and chopping vegetables for what seems like hours. I sauté things in multiple pans, skim tallow, swear, and eventually combine it all into one pot that threatens to spill over. Finally, I ladle the soup into blue bowls for dramatic contrast, dropping dollops of sour cream onto the steaming surfaces with sprinkles of dill weed. Slices of crumbly beer bread are the final touch.

I do not enjoy making borscht. It’s tedious and messy, but it’s become a personal tradition anyway. In the same way that one person sacrifices their sleep for roast turkey on Thanksgiving or rises in the wee hours to smoke a brisket for Fourth of July (or any civilized Oklahoma gathering), borscht is my celebration of the arrival of soup season. After my initial fall batch, I usually make it a couple times during the winter months. It’s a comfort food.

Check out this link for what I think is a particularly good recipe for borscht.

Written By

Megan Rossman

Megan Rossman is Oklahoma Today's photography editor.