The Soup of Life

Most Americans consider borshch the quintessential Russian soup, but the truth is that shchi – cabbage soup – holds that honor. So beloved is shchi, it even has its own affectionate names, shchets and shchechki. The word shchi comes from the Old Russian seto, meaning “sustenance” or “subsistence,” and numerous sayings attest to its importance in Russian life – what could be more telling than Shchi da kasha, pishcha nasha (or sometimes mat’ nasha, or zhizn’ nasha)? It translates as: “Cabbage soup and kasha, that’s our food/mother/life.” 

Shchi was originally a wintertime staple, made from soured cabbage that had been put up in the fall – hence its proper name, kisliye shchi (sour cabbage soup). But Russians like cabbage soup so much that it eventually became a summertime staple as well, using fresh cabbage instead of fermented. Americans might consider the fresh-cabbage version more labor-intensive – all that shredding! – but the Russians call this summertime version leniviye or “lazy” shchi, because the cabbage does not have to be put up first. There is also zelyoniye or green shchi, which is made in the springtime from sorrel, or sometimes young nettle leaves. 

Shchi is so important to the Russian consciousness that it even has its own feast days. April 1 is celebrated as Mariya Pustiye Shchi (Mary ‘Empty Shchi’), a time when the winter stores of cabbage are nearly depleted and people long for more. It’s not until May 3, Mavry Zelyoniye Shchi (Molly ‘Green Shchi’) that the first fresh cabbage of the year can be planted.

In Ivan Turgenev’s sketch “Shchi,” the soup epitomizes the disparity between the aristocrat and peasant in nineteenth-century Russia:* 

It happened one day that the son of a widowed peasant woman died – a young fellow of 20 years who had been the best worker in the village. 

The lady of the manor, learning of the peasant’s sorrow, went to call upon her on the day of the funeral. She found her at home. She found her standing in the middle of her hovel, in front of the table – slowly ladling out a bowl of shchi from the bottom of a dirty pot. With her left arm hanging lifelessly by her side, the poor woman fed herself spoonful after spoonful of the soup with her right hand. The woman’s face was dark and slack – her eyes were red and puffy – but she stood straight and carried herself as uprightly as if she were in church. 

“Dear heaven,” the lady thought to herself, “how can she eat at such a time? What coarse feelings these peasants have.” She could not help but think of when she lost her own dear daughter, nine months old, a few years before. She had been inconsolable, unable to eat. She had even refused, out of grief, to rent a beautiful villa near St. Petersburg and had actually spent the entire summer in town! 

The peasant woman continued to eat the shchi. Finally, the lady could stand it no longer: “Tatiana!” she said, “Dear heaven, how can you eat at a time like this? Is it possible you didn’t love your son? I am amazed – how can you eat that shchi?”

The woman replied softly, with tears running down her sunken cheeks, “My Vasya is dead – and, of course, my own death will come soon because my very head has been taken from me while I am still alive. But the shchi must not go to waste. After all, it is salted.” 

The lady shrugged her shoulders and left. She didn’t understand. She got salt cheaply. 

But shchi isn’t merely a throwback to the past. Even in post-Soviet Russia it remains a revered national symbol. In 1999, Vladimir Sorokin’s play “Shchi” opened at Moscow’s South-West Theater. It portrays a totalitarian world in which dissidents guard not manuscripts, but recipes for the nation’s treasured dishes. With the collapse of the Soviet Union, when so many Western-style restaurants invaded the country, Sorokin’s evocation of the beloved soup resonated with theatergoers. 

Folk wisdom claims that, if the shchi’s good, you don’t need anything else. Once you’ve tried this heartwarming recipe, you’re bound to agree.

– Darra Goldstein

Shchi

With its mix of sauerkraut and fresh cabbage, this recipe can be enjoyed year round.

2 tablespoons butter

1 medium onion, coarsely chopped 

1 small leek, white part only, thinly sliced

1 small carrot, scraped and thinly sliced

5 cups rich beef stock

1 small head of white cabbage (3/4 pound), coarsely shredded

1/2 cup sauerkraut

1 tomato, peeled and cut into chunks

Salt, freshly ground black pepper to taste

Sour cream

Fresh dill (optional)

Melt the butter in a stockpot. Add the onion, leek and carrot and sauté until just softened. Pour in the beef stock and bring to a boil. Stir in the cabbage, sauerkraut and tomato. 

Simmer, covered, for about 50 minutes, or until the cabbage is tender. Check for seasoning. To serve, top each portion with a dollop of sour cream and a sprinkling of fresh dill, if desired.

Serves 4 to 6.

Adapted from A Taste of Russia