A friend of long standing (a Shakespeare scholar) has posted a recipe for a dish that she calls grieven but which was known as gribbinis in our part of the world. It was a staple of my childhood, perhaps even my favorite food. Gribbinis also linked me to my grandma. Inasmuch as she didn't speak the only language I knew, it was natural and appropriate for us to bond over food.
"Accumulate a cup or two of chicken fat. Render the fat in a pan with about an equal amount of chopped onion. Slowly heat the fat and onions over a low flame, being careful not to let the mixture ignite. The onion will turn golden, then brown, and some of the fat will become crisp."
My friend suggests serving the resulting mixture over mashed potatoes, but for grandma and me the preferred vehicle was a hefty portion of about 3/4 grated black radish and 1/4 onion–along with some black bread to sop up the grease. I thought it was a delicacy for a king, not knowing, then, that it was a dish for an impoverished peasant in a Ukrainian shtetl.
Black radish? Not a vegetable familiar to you? Black on the outside, white on the inside, turnip-size. Very, very, very, pungent. Not widely used here in North America, nowadays, but apparently still common in eastern Europe, where mouths are more acclimated than ours to allyl isothiocyanates.
Whenever I'm among folks who make a fetish of food preparation, I fantasize about taking them home and plunking down a trough-size trencher of black radish, onions, and gribbinis.
Would that be hostility? Possibly, just the merest tad. Or perhaps just a need to remind myself where I came from when, perchance, I find myself among tender and exquisite palates.
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