Welcome to My Dacha: Lunch With a Russian Friend

Meet my friend Natasha. She hosted a lunch at her dacha for me a few years ago. This was formerly her great grandparents’ vacation home but is now permanent residence for her family… her husband and son.

What is a Dacha?

The noun “dacha”, coming from verb “davat” (to give), originally referred to land allotted by the tsar to his nobles; and indeed the dacha in Soviet times is similar to the allotment in some Western countries – a piece of land allotted, normally free, to citizens by the local government for gardening or growing vegetables for personal consumption.

Wikipedia

A dacha is much more than the definition. It is a place of belonging, of family traditions and treasures. A place to celebrate and a place to mourn. It’s a home.

Their dacha is just outside the province (oblast) of Yaroslavl, about 150 miles northeast of Moscow. A warm day will see temperatures in the 60’s and winter lows often dip into single digits. Every square inch of her home is lived in. Same for the yard…all of it is garden or food storage. And a sauna. Natasha and her husband pickle, preserve, can, dry, make jellies, and literally use every part of every fruit and vegetable they grow. “Farm”, she corrects me. We “farm” here.

She laughed, “That’s growing with a purpose!”

This home is filled with family heirlooms which my friend loves to share when she entertains. This happens often. She is an enthusiastic hostess and enjoys compliments. These are easily bestowed. Her tomatoes have remarkable flavor and her pickles are chilled, sweet and crisp. Her “kulich” is moist, fragrant and warm from the oven, (it’s her babushka’s, her grandmother’s recipe).

That day we discussed our children, my grandchildren and the ones she hoped to have, our future travel plans, (she and her husband were looking forward to a trip to the Costa del Sol in the spring). We laughed about needing to clean closets and free up space in our homes now that we are “empty-nesters.” I’m pretty sure she has not and will never get rid of anything. Re-purpose maybe. There are stories attached to everything in her dacha. Her china belonged to her grandparents, the samovar to her great grandparents. She’s saving everything to one day give to her son.

The economy had been good for a long time, she said. Store shelves were full. People had a little extra money. Her son had graduated from university with his engineering degree, had a job and a girlfriend they approved of. Maybe a wedding soon? She hoped so.

We are all the same, she said, taking my hands in hers. It’s not about the politics. Inside, she said, putting my hand on her heart, we are just mothers who want the best for our children.

This post is not political but it’s filled with sorrow for the people of Russia oppressed under the rule of a mad butcher. Again. And for my friend, a wife and mother, like me. I can’t help but wonder if my children, or even my grandchildren will be able to travel there or if hers will be allowed to visit America.

We are all the same, she said, taking my hands in hers. It’s not about the politics. But it is.