A Magic Tablecloth

one of the most vivid images in Russian fairytales is that of the skatert-samobranka, a self-spreading tablecloth on which food miraculously appears. All you have to do is unfold it and a lavish feast fans out before your eyes: Skazano, sdelano! No sooner said than done!

Not only can the samobranka conjure food when there is none, it also protects against danger. In a classic tale of Ivan Tsarevich, the young Ivan encounters wood demons fighting over treasures: a self-spreading tablecloth, self-propelling boots, and an invisible cap. The demons explain the power of each item: “Spread out the tablecloth and twelve youths and twelve maids will bring as much mead and as many sweetmeats as you desire. If anyone should come upon you, just slip on the self-propelling boots and you’ll cover seven – even fourteen – versts in a single stride. If calamity truly threatens, put on the invisible cap, and not even dogs will be able to sniff you out.”

Ivan takes the gifts. A forest monster soon threatens to eat him, but with a single flick of the wrist Ivan is able to regale the monster with a fabulous meal. The monster eats and drinks so much that he falls asleep on the spot, and Ivan’s life is saved.

Of course, in a land of frequent famine the tablecloth’s magical powers speak to a utopian dream. Throughout history, the Russians have been dependent on forces beyond their control: bad weather or pests often ruined the harvest; cruel masters kept them underfed. In the face of such hardship, the peasantry developed a fatalistic attitude toward life: what will be, will be. If God wills, the harvest will be good and our bellies will be full. If not, we’ll manage somehow. Perhaps a magical tablecloth will miraculously appear.

Following the Revolution, the Soviets sought to counter this fatalistic attitude. Although Lenin recognized fairytales as the embodiment of popular hopes and expectations, these very hopes and expectations came to be seen as dangerous to the new Soviet state. By the late 1920s fairytales were officially suppressed as a form of subversive literature. Several decades later the poet Ilya Selvinsky bemoaned this proscription: “‘Cinderella won’t drop her shoe here again; we won’t eat from the magic tablecloth.” (“Тут не бродить уже туфельке Золушки, на самобранке не есть.”)

Of course, fairytales didn’t disappear entirely, and neither did the idea of the samobranka, which even today looms large in the Russian imagination. We see a tempting tablecloth here in a contemporary illustration by Anastasia Balatyonysheva, done in the style of Ivan Bilibin (the World of Art artist whose poster for New Bavaria beer was featured in the July/August 2011 issue). In homage to Bilibin, Balatyonysheva has created a highly stylized illustration that draws on icons and folk art to recall Russia’s distant past.

The three panels we see here are reminiscent of the ornamental headpiece Bilibin drew in 1900 for the tale of Vasilisa the Beautiful. The frames of the panels show a striking mix of the intermingled organic and geometric patterns so typical of Russian folk art, particularly in woven carpets and embroidered towels. Also abundant are forms from nature that augur good luck: long-plumed birds, horse-like figures formed by the crossed wooden beams at the top, and a benevolent sun.

But the real centerpiece of Balatyonysheva’s illustration is the magical tablecloth, and what a feast it has spread! A crisp-skinned suckling pig beckons with an apple in its mouth, while the fish on the platter is already cut into serving pieces. A traditional wooden ladle – a kovsh – is carved in the form of a bird, its interior overflowing with what could be a sweet and sour cranberry relish to complement the roast pork. Golden pirozhki lie haphazardly on the cloth, begging to be picked up and savored, while a couple of krendelki – small, pretzel-shaped breads – peek out from the tablecloth’s folds. A chalice suggests the presence of kvas or mead to wash down the food.

One might wonder what could possibly be better than a self-spreading tablecloth? The Russians have figured that out, as well: the samobranka magically cleans up after itself. Just another flick of the wrist, this time to fold in the edges of the cloth, and all the leftovers and dirty dishes disappear, as magically as they once materialized. Skazano, sdelano!

Honey-Walnut Pirozhki

Пирожки с ореховой начинкой

When we think of Russian pies, savory ones usually come to mind, but all it takes to make them sweet is a buttery dough and a honey-rich filling. Although these delicious little pies can’t be prepared in the blink of an eye, they are well worth the trouble.

Dough

3 cups all-purpose flour

3/4 teaspoon salt

2 tablespoons sugar

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons butter

3/4 cup sour cream

1 egg, beaten

In a medium bowl mix together the flour, salt and sugar. Cut in the butter until the dough is just the consistency of cornmeal (this can be done by pulsing the butter with the flour mixture in the food processor; just be sure not to over-mix). Add the sour cream to make a soft dough. Wrap the dough in wax paper and chill in the refrigerator for 2 hours.

Roll the dough out 1/8 to ¼ inch thick. With a round cookie cutter, cut out circles 4 inches in diameter. Place a generous tablespoon of filling on one half of each circle, then fold the other half over to form a half-moon. Crimp the edges to seal.

Preheat the oven to 375º F. Place the pirozhki on a lightly greased baking sheet and brush them with the beaten egg. Bake for 20 minutes, until golden.

Makes 2 dozen.

Walnut-Honey Filling

2 cups walnuts, finely chopped

1/4 cup sugar

1/4 cup honey

1/4 teaspoon cinnamon

Grated rind of 1 lemon

Mix together the sugar and honey, then stir in the cinnamon. Add the walnuts and the lemon rind, mixing well. Place a heaping tablespoon of the filling on each round of dough.

Adapted from A Taste of Russia