A recipe, a Sunday, and a seat at the table.
By Lauren the founder of Cean
There is a particular kind of love that arrives at the door before you do.
You'd walk up the path. She'd already be in the hallway, slippers in her hand, before you even knocked. Your feet, Lauren. Your feet. Slippers on. Jacket hung. And before you'd reached the kitchen, a bowl was on the table, the deepest pink, steam curling off the top.
She had been waiting. She always was. She knew you were coming because she had been thinking about you all morning, and she had picked the dill from her garden for you, and the ravioli had been folded the day before for you, and the table had been set for you. Babcia saw me. She really saw me. Always.
Is there anything more devoted, anything more divine, than that?
This is how Sunday lunch began, for the first twenty years of my life.
She made beetroot soup the way some women make art. With purpose. With ritual. The ravioli folded on Saturday afternoon. The dill cut from the herb garden by the back door. The smetana the good kind, thick enough to hold the swirl. The bowl set down before you'd really arrived.
She was, in the truest sense, the boss. Calm. Clever. In charge of every room without raising her voice. Nobody messed with Babcia. She did it all with love, and she could look at you in a way that made you sit up straight, finish what was on your plate, and come back for seconds. Not optional.
But the thing I think about most now is the seat.
She always set one extra. A spare place at the table, in case someone walked in who didn't have somewhere to eat. Sometimes a neighbor. Sometimes a stranger. Sometimes nobody came, and the seat stayed empty, and she'd glance at it once during the meal as if to say just in case. She would rather have set a place for no one than have someone arrive and find nothing waiting.
This is the entire architecture of how I was raised. And the architecture, eventually, of Cean.
She was also an invisible mender. She could fix anything you put in her hands. She knitted me blankets when I was born that are still, at forty, the most treasured things in my home. They've moved house with me. They were in my daughters' beds. They are back on mine now, because I miss her so much.
Cean is what happens when a granddaughter who watched all of that decides to do it on a different scale. A garment made by hand and intention. Made with care. Made to hold you. Made to keep you well. The same instinct, the same logic, the same inheritance, just in cloth, just for more than one girl at a time. I am setting more places.
Babcia would pinch my cheeks and tell me the soup was good for my blood. I rolled my eyes. I shouldn't have. Beetroot supports circulation, helps the body move what's stuck, and brings you back to yourself. Dill steadies the gut. The warmth carries the rest. Babcia knew. She just called it lunch.
This Sunday I am not at her table. So I am doing the only thing she would have done in my position. I am making the soup. I am setting a place. And I am passing the recipe on.
Make it for someone you love. Hand it to whoever is cooking for you. Make it for yourself, on the good plates. The good plates were never just for company. Send it to a friend whose Sunday is hard. Print it. Put it in the drawer for the years to come.
A little of her love, sent into the world. We could all use more.
The Recipe
Polish red borscht with mushroom ravioli and smetana. Plant-based. Serves 4 to 6.
This is a soup that wants to be made slowly. The broth simmers for an hour. The ravioli are folded by hand. The smetana goes in last. Pour yourself something. Put music on. Have someone you love nearby, even if they're just on the phone. If you are short on time, the shortcuts are at the bottom. Babcia would forgive you. Probably.
The broth
4 quarts cold water. 2 large beetroots, peeled, kept whole. 1 small onion, halved, skin on. 4 garlic cloves, smashed. 1 cup carrots, sliced or coarsely grated. ½ cup celery, finely chopped. 2 bay leaves. 1 teaspoon whole black peppercorns. A small handful of dried porcini mushrooms (optional, but they make the broth taste like it has been simmering since Saturday). 2 vegetable bouillon cubes. ¼ cup white vinegar, or apple cider vinegar, or pickled beet juice. This is what holds the deep pink. Do not skip it. Salt and pepper. A generous handful of fresh dill (from the garden if you have one, the windowsill if you don't). Smetana to finish.
The ravioli
Choose one filling. Mushroom is what Babcia made. Cabbage and mushroom is the most Polish. Potato and cheese is the most forgiving.
Dough. 2 cups plain flour. 2 eggs. A pinch of salt. 2 tablespoons cold water.
Mushroom (Babcia's). 2 cups finely chopped mushrooms, sautéed in butter with a small diced onion until deep golden. Season well. Cool before filling.
Potato and cheese. 1 cup mashed potato mixed with ½ cup farmer's cheese, ricotta, or quark. A pinch of nutmeg.
Cabbage and mushroom. Equal parts sauerkraut (rinsed, squeezed dry, finely chopped) and sautéed mushroom with a small sautéed onion.
How to make it
One. Put the water, beetroots, onion, garlic, bay leaves, peppercorns, and porcini into a large pot. Bring slowly to a boil, then drop to a simmer. Forty to fifty minutes, until the beets are tender but firm enough to grate.
Two. While the broth simmers, make the ravioli. Mound the flour on a clean surface. Make a well. Add the eggs, salt, and water. Mix with a fork, then knead for eight minutes. Smooth and a little springy. Cover and rest for thirty minutes. Roll thin. Cut into squares about an inch and a half across. A teaspoon of filling in the centre. Fold into triangles. Press the edges shut with a fork. Set on a floured tray under a tea towel.
Three. Lift the beets out. Let them cool just enough to handle, then grate them coarsely. Strain the broth, discard the solids, return the broth and grated beets to the pot. Add carrots, celery, and bouillon. Simmer twenty minutes more. Salt and pepper to taste.
Four. Add the vinegar at the end. Stir. Watch the colour deepen.
Five. Bring a separate pot of salted water to a boil. Drop the ravioli in. Three to four minutes. They'll float when they're ready. Lift them out with a slotted spoon.
Six. Three or four ravioli in the bottom of each bowl. Hot soup over the top. A spoonful of smetana in the centre, not stirred. You want the marbling. Fresh dill on top. The good plates. The good silver.
Have seconds. Babcia would insist.
Notes from the kitchen
On the colour. A good borscht is deep pink, not brown. The vinegar holds it. Without it, the soup turns the colour of disappointment.
On the ravioli. Babcia made hers on Saturday and let them rest on a floured tea towel until Sunday. If you have the time, do it her way. If you don't, use good store-bought ravioli (small, mushroom or cheese), and nobody will know.
On smetana. Real Polish smetana is thicker and tangier than American sour cream. Eastern European groceries carry it. Whole Foods sometimes does. If you can't find it, full-fat sour cream is fine. The point is the swirl. A spoonful in the centre, not stirred through.
On the body. Beetroot is a circulation hero. Dill helps the gut. The warmth, the slow cooking, the act of sitting at a table for an unhurried hour. These are not separate things. They do the same work cean does, in a different form. Babcia knew.
On having someone over. Make extra. Set a spare place. You never know.
What to wear while you eat it
You'll be at the table for a while. Wear something that does its work while you do nothing. The Onesie. The Romper. The Lymphatic Singlet. Plant-based compression that supports your circulation while you eat the soup that does the same. Wear it. Feel it. Trust the work it is doing while you do everything else.
Pass it on
This recipe came from my Polish grandmother. It came to her from her mother. It is, now, coming to you. If you make it, send a photograph. Reply to the email, tag us. We will share the bowls that move us next Sunday.
A little of her love, sent into the world with the bossiness intact. We could all use more of both.
From hers, to mine, to yours. Happy Sunday.
Lauren x