Cassie chopped off the tops of the beets and commenced the tedious process of rubbing the root across a metal grater. The bright pink juice seeped out and stained her hands. In a few minutes, it looked like she’d just finished finger painting. She stared at her hands in disdain. “This is a lot harder than I remember.”
“It’s worth it in the end,” Bobby said with a nod. “And makes your hands stronger.”
“And pink,” Cassie quipped. She tried not to stare at Bobby’s twisted hands as she pulled the outer leaves off the cabbage head. She favored her left hand and adjusted her movements to allow her right hand to do most of the work.
“How’s your arthritis?” Cassie asked. “It looks like your hand is bothering you today.”
“It’s fine,” Bobby said. She paused and massaged the bulbous knuckles. “Maybe a little more stiffness in this one.”
Birdie, not quite strong enough to grate the beets, enjoyed running her hands through the shreds. She waved pink fingers in her mother’s face and giggled.
When the last beet was finally shredded, Bobby instructed Cassie to add them, the cabbage, and a chopped onion to the beef and water boiling on the stove. The rich, earthy smell of beets hitting the boiling liquid did not seem reminiscent of her childhood borscht memories.
She wrinkled her nose. “It doesn’t smell like borscht.”
“Of course not,” Bobby scoffed. “It must cook down until the beets are dissolved. Takes a few hours. While we wait, you can get the potatoes cut.”
Cassie went to work peeling potatoes. When the pile size satisfied Bobby, she stopped.
“We wait to add them,” she instructed. “But go stir the pot and add a bay leaf.”
They spent an hour in near silence while Bobby played cards with Birdie and Cassie tidied up. Then, she added the potatoes, and twenty minutes later, the sour cream. The deep reddish color morphed to a pretty pink, mottled with small white flecks.
“Mmm, it smells amazing in here!” Anna breezed in through the back door. “I haven’t had borscht in forever!”
“That’s because you never make good Ukrainian food anymore,” Bobby said.
Anna ignored Bobby and kept talking. “So, I hear we’re having company?” She cast a sidelong glance at Cassie.
“Don’t look at me,” Cassie said. “I didn’t invite him.”
“Of course, you wouldn’t. You have the social skills of a hermit crab lately.” Anna stirred the pot and inhaled. “Ooh, I can’t wait!”
“For the record, hermit crabs are very sociable, so your analogy is terrible,” Cassie said. “And I value my alone time. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” Bobby interjected before the conversation got too heated. “I invited Nick to say thank you for helping me. That’s all.”
The doorbell rang, and Birdie jumped out of her chair.
“Wait, Birdie.” Bobby pointed to the loaf of round bread she’d baked. A shallow hollow in the center held a small bowl of salt. “You must present Nick with the bread and salt to show our hospitality.”
Bobby took a rushnyk embroidered with red flowers out of a drawer and instructed Birdie to hold her hands out. She draped the cloth over Birdie’s outstretched hands so that the identically decorated ends of the oblong white cloth hung down toward the ground.
Then, Cassie helped steady Birdie’s hands as Bobby set the bread on top of the rushnyk.
“This was always my favorite part of hosting parties when I was a kid. It’s a very important job,” Cassie said.
Birdie nodded solemnly and tiptoed toward the door, where Anna was waiting to open it.
“Hey, everyone,” Nick grinned as he stepped in. He’d changed from his running shorts and T-shirt to khakis and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. He was no longer sweaty, but still quite arresting. Cassie found herself staring again.
Birdie held up the bread and Nick kneeled down. “Bread and salt! Just like my Baba used to make.” He ripped off a piece of the bread, dipped it in the salt, bowed his head in thanks, then popped it in his mouth. “Delicious. Thank you, Birdie.”
He offered a bouquet of sunflowers to her, and Anna took the bread so Birdie could accept them. “I wanted to bring something for the dinner table, and I thought flowers might be more appealing than anything I could cook.”
Birdie took them and squealed. “Sunflowers are Alina’s favorite!”