I’ve been trying to write this post for four years. I’m not exaggerating. For the past four years, when September rolls around, I put this post on my calendar, waiting for the raspberries at my parents’ house to ripen. And for the past four years, our raspberries, which are gorgeous and achingly sweet and juicy, have been 100% infested with raspberry fruitworms. It’s devastating. The anticipation of opening up a perfectly ripe, deep red, juicy berry, hoping beyond hope that there will be no squirmy white bugs inside, and then to have all your hopes dashed in an instant – heartbreaking. This year, I’d had enough – I was going to buy my raspberries, make this dessert, and satisfy this particular September craving.

When the weather starts to turn cooler, I begin daydreaming of Prague, although the longer I spend away from my one-time home the fainter the daydreams become. Cold, gray days in particular pull back memories tinged with longing: the long winding tram ride from my apartment to school; my daily afternoon snack of mulled wine and candied almonds, eaten with gloved fingers standing on the cobbled corners; wandering the rose gardens on top of Petrin hill, with nowhere else to be for hours; the Christmas markets in all their splendor, filled with warm light and the smell of sausages and potatoes; hiking through falling snow in the far corners of the country, feeling like we were the only people for miles and miles. I could go on and on, but really, I should just go back. I want to take Trevor there and share that city with him, relive some of my old memories and create new ones. Although I’ve traveled many places since Prague, it still holds a special place in my heart – sometimes I wonder if it’s better to have a few places you really love than to travel all over the world in search of you’re not quite sure what.

When my family came to visit me in Prague, being able to order something called “hot love” was one of my 11 year old brother’s greatest pleasures. It’s a dessert that goes by more than one name: Horká láska. Hot love. Horké maniny. Piping hot raspberries smothering a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Although it’s name may be suggestive, the dessert itself is pure, simple and completely sublime. A staple of most Czech menus, horká láska is not just a dish of ice cream with raspberry sauce, it is a dish of juicy, steaming-hot raspberries with just enough ice cream on top so that it has completely melted into the berries by the time you are 3/4 done with the dish.  The trick is all in getting the right ratio and remembering that it’s called “hot raspberries” and not “ice cream with raspberries” for a reason. I did find one traditional recipe (in Czech) that I used for guidance in recreating this classic dessert, but it’s a pretty straightforward concept that doesn’t need to be overthought. The addition of framboise and a pat of butter take the sauce up another level, but you don’t want either to overwhelm the taste of raspberries. It’s a perfect dessert for early fall, with the contrast of hot with cold and fresh with creamy satisfying both summer and fall cravings.

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Horká Láska – Hot Raspberries with Ice Cream

Serves 2.

• 12 oz. (1 1/2 cups) fresh raspberries
• 1/4 c. sugar
• 1 TBS framboise or other raspberry liqueur
• 1/2 TBS salted butter
• 2 scoops vanilla ice cream

1. Add the raspberries and sugar to a small saucepan and heat over medium heat. Cook the raspberries, stirring occasionally, until they are broken down and juicy and the sauce is steaming, about 5-7 minutes. Add the framboise and salted butter, stir to combine, then remove from heat. Spoon a generous amount of raspberry sauce over each scoop of vanilla ice cream and serve immediately.

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I miss hearing and speaking slavic languages.  It seems a little odd, but I actually find what most people consider to be the harsh sounds of Russian and Czech very soothing, perhaps because I have only good associations with them.  Memories of good people, of good stories.  It’s been over nine months since I left Prague, and Czech is rarely spoken in North Carolina.  Russian is more common, but I always freeze up when I hear people speaking it, so I don’t get as much practice as I would like.

I won’t be able to take another Russian course until the spring – too much engineering to be done – but I did just get a job with the library collections department assisting with cataloging slavic literature.  It might turn out to be sort of a tedious job, but I’m excited about the practice I’ll get and I think I’ll like it.  I like being around old books, sitting in dark, musty rooms heavy with silence.  I like the mystery of foreign titles, of imagining the story within.  I feel as though I’ve read so many short stories in Russian that I have this whole canon of Russian lore in my imagination.  You know the way that you feel you understand a place you’ve never been, just because you’ve read about it?  How you can have a swirling but fully complete concept of an Arabian desert because your mind has merged all the stories you’ve read into a real place?  How you know the feeling of salt spray on your face, the wind blowing your hair back as you stand on the prow of a wooden ship?  I sometimes wonder what the imaginations of people who have never had access to literature or media are like.  If you live in an isolated tribe in the desert, can you still dream of the ocean, not knowing what it is?  Could you conjure the idea of snow, never having heard of it?  Or would your imagination be that much greater, having never been limited by what can and can’t be?

I think that I have an especially good concept of Russia as portrayed through 19th century Russian literature – of the poverty and wheat fields, the cruelty and power of man, the weakness of the classical female character, of тоска, the untranslatable word that describes the melancholy every Russian is said to hold within their soul.  Maybe I don’t really understand, but when I conjure the Russia of my imagination, there is a sweeping expanse of plains dotted with epic sadnesses and small triumphs.  With happy summer dachas and cold, hungry winters.  With clever men who think only of evil, and strong, brainless men who triumph over them.  With withered babushkas in huts and frail, blonde peasant girls.

To honor all this Russian-ness on my mind, I decided to make fruit dumplings.  In Russian, the word for them is vareniki; in Czech, ovocne knedliky.  In Prague, my roommates and I used to pick these up at the potraviny as a quick dessert, and so I have many good memories of eating them late at night around our little kitchen table.  The recipe I used for these is a Czech one, however, these are a fairly ubiquitous dessert in Slavic countries, with slight variations from country to country, so they can serve as a culinary testimonial to both Russia and the Czech Republic.  The dough is a bit hard to work with, but don’t add too much flour as the stickiness of the dough helps to seal the fruit in.  Fresh or frozen fruit will work equally well here, and these are best served warm with sweetened cream, cottage cheese, whipped cream, or simply melted butter and sugar.

Ovocné Knedlíky – Fruit Dumplings

Makes 35-40 dumplings.  Recipe from bfeedme.

• 1 c. whole milk
• 1 TBS butter
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1 egg
• 2 c. flour, divided
• 8 oz. fresh or frozen fruit (cherries, plums, blackberries)

1. In a small bowl, lightly beat one egg.  Set aside.
2. In a small saucepan, bring milk, butter, and salt to a boil, stirring constantly.  Remove from heat, and pour half a cup of hot milk over beaten egg, whisking vigorously the whole time so the egg does not begin to scramble.  Return tempered egg and milk mixture to pan of milk, stirring.  Gradually pour in one cup of flour, stirring the whole time.  Dough will have the consistency of a thick paste.
3. Pour remaining cup of flour onto large cutting board.  Form a large well in the middle, and pour hot dough onto flour.  Allow to cool for 5 minutes, or until it is comfortable to knead with your hands.  Knead flour into dough until it forms a ball.  Dough should be sticky, but add up to 1/2 cup extra flour for workability.
4. Tear small pieces of dough off the ball and pinch into a thin disk.  Place piece of fruit in center of disk and wrap dough around fruit, sealing the edges, so that the dough is spread equally thin around fruit.  The layer of dough should be as thin as possible for the best flavor.  Repeat to form remaining dumplings.
5. Bring a large pot of water to a rapid boil.  Add dumplings, and boil for 10-15 minutes.  Dumplings should begin to float to top when done.  Remove from water with slotted spoon and serve warm, with sweetened cream, cottage or ricotta cheese, whipped cream, or melted butter.

* Dumplings can be frozen before boiling.

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The Czech Republic is known for one thing above all others – beer.  And there’s a reason for that – green signs proudly announcing Staropramen or Pilsner Urquell hang outside every pub in the country, finding a $2 pint of fresh golden lager is stunningly easy, and the country’s citizens and their visitors consistently drink more beer per capita than any other country in the world.  But there’s more to this country’s drinking tradition than pivo.

In the early fall, there is burčak, a young, still fermenting wine that is cloudy and deliciously sweet.  Say you’ve taken the train out of the city for the day, to visit some 14^th century ruin crumbling in the forest.  Disembarking from the train, you follow the dirt road that runs parallel to the tracks, following signs that say hrad, castle.  Outside of a small wooden house a woman stands with two huge vats of liquid, one a murky purple and the other the color of applesauce.  Burčak, the sign says, 30 crowns per liter.  You greet her, give her a handful of coins equivalent to $1.50, and in return she takes a huge plastic bottle and fills it to the brim with the sweet, bubbly nectar.  You continue down the road, taking swigs of the delicious drink, enjoying the crispness of fall.

It is later in the year, and the weather has gotten colder, closer, and grayer.  The cobbled streets and red roofs are still enchanting, but you crave warmth, camaraderie, and you begin to understand how drinking could become so important in a place like this.  One particularly cold and gray day you are hiking in Moravia, and the fog is so thick and wet and cold that you are soaked through with chill.  Through the mist a tiny wooden pub appears, and inside the yellow light and foreign shouting envelopes you with warmth.  You order medovina and find yourself holding a glass mug of steaming honey mead.  The hot fumes sting the inside of your nose, and when you take a sip, the slow spread of honeyed warmth throughout your chest dissolves the cold.

And now it is Christmas, and in the city square a giant tree sparkles.  Smells of roasting pork, candied nuts, and potato pancakes drift out of the wooden booths that fill the square.  It begins to snow, and the only sound is that of other people milling through the square, laughing.  It is your last night, and so you head to the nearest booth and order svařak, hot mulled wine.  You inhale the spicy sweetness that steams from the small Styrofoam cup.  Slowly sipping the pungent wine, you stand in the center of the square and look up – up at the night sky filled with silent snow, up at the giant tree twinkling with light, up at the proud spires of the cathedrals, up at the world you’ve come to cherish so much.  To no one in particular you raise your cup and toast, na zdravi! To you, Prague.

Svařak (Hot Mulled Wine)

Recipe adapted from Expats.cz

• .75L (1 bottle) red wine (use something cheap and fruity)
• 1-2 cinnamon sticks
• 5-8 whole cloves
• 1 small lemon, sliced
• sugar, to taste

Heat wine, cinnamon sticks, and cloves in a large pot over medium heat.  Do not allow to boil, as the alcohol will burn off.  Flavor with sugar and lemon slices after the wine has reached the desired temperature.  You can also heat sugar with the wine and spices for a sweeter drink.  If you are lucky enough to be in the Czech Republic, you can’t do better than using the svařak seasoning packets sold in nearly every grocery store!

This post has been entered into the Grantourismo and HomeAway Holiday-Rentals travel blogging competition.

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I miss it.  Flying seems to be the perfect breeding ground for nostalgia – remembering waking up to watch the sun rise over Paris from your tiny oval window, kissing your boyfriend goodbye for the hundredth time as the taxis whiz past, stepping down onto the tarmac and being overwhelmed by the thick, humid air of some magical tropical place.  During my flight back to Durham on Monday night that nostalgia took the form of a remembered vision of snow-covered spires receding out the window as I headed back to the States, melancholy at leaving my temporary home, but bubbling with the excitement of seeing Trevor and my family again.  It’s been exactly 3 months since I got back, and even though spring is jumping all over North Carolina, I think I’m allowed to dedicate a little space to the cold and beautiful city that was so good to me.

Most of all, I miss the trams, and I miss the details of my morning commute.  Walking briskly around the block to the tram stop, head tucked against the cold.  Waiting quietly with the other Czechs for the shiny red number 12 to pull up, then climbing in and sitting in the warm compartment, always slightly or more than slightly odorous from so many bodies.  Snaking along the river while looking out the glass and across to the city, watching the spires and the cupolas slowly shift as we moved past.  And then getting off the tram, stepping back into the brisk air, walking across the bridge each morning and looking out towards the Charles Bridge.  Every day the skyline is the same, the same as it has been for centuries, and yet it feels different and new and wonderful.  Then, suddenly, you’re in the heart of the city, trying to cross the street in the fleeting three seconds that the light is with you, avoiding trams and buses and cars and horse-drawn carriages all at once.  The smooth-walled buildings tower over the narrow, cobbled streets, busy with tourists headed into Old Town Square, but if you enter the grocery store just before the square you’ll find yourself in line with 20 other Czechs, picking up their fresh spinach pastries.  A few more blocks, warm, flaky pastry in hand, and you’re in Malé Nàměstí , stepping into the centuries old building where you go to school.  I’m not sure how anything as simple as going to school could be more exhilarating.

I miss so many other things too.  Running for hours in the nearly empty park.  Riding to the end of the tram line and finding myself in a different world, one full of pine forests and rock towers.  Walking home from the grocery store in the afternoon, thrilled about some new food word I’d learned.  The weight of crowns in my hands.  The way the butcher on the corner across from my apartment smelled.  Having friends sit around our kitchen table every night just to talk and laugh.  Stopping for svařak – hot mulled wine – and candied almonds on the way home from school.  The few times my Czech exchanges were simple enough that no one knew I was American.  Five hour bus rides to forgotten corners of the country, where I could traipse through farmland and climb among sandstone towers and order meat by the platter.  Feeling like I could go anywhere by myself for almost no cost.  Going to the opera for $5.  Hot chocolate the consistency of pudding at Cafe Louvre.  The excitement of discovering something new.  Sunset over the castle.  Going out on trips just to take photographs.  Eating goulash in smoky pubs.  I could go on indeterminately…

But I’ll refrain, and leave you with the goulash, because if you’ve made it through my poetic waxing, that is what I have for you: an attempt at Czech goulash.  The kind that you find in smoky pubs.  That is served with fluffy bread dumplings and Pilsner Urquell.  That is so good on a cold afternoon.  I wanted to have it.  I’ll say up front that my attempt was really just that, and the result was not exactly what I was searching for, but is definitely a good starting point.  I cooked based on the average of several recipes, some in English, some in Czech, and didn’t measure or time, so the recipe I will share is only a good approximation.  From what I’ve read, the flavors that make Czech goulash distinctively Czech are that of marjoram and coriander, so be sure to include those if seeking the flavor you had in Prague.  Also, use sweet Hungarian paprika – I used a different variety and could taste the difference.  I had a bottle going sour on the counter, so I added a little red wine to my gravy, but this isn’t traditional so I’ve omitted it from the recipe here, although I did like what it added to the overall flavor.  And with all that said…

Czech Goulash

• 1lb. beef, cubed (chuck or stew beef)
• 1 onion, roughly chopped
• 3 T butter
• 2-3 T sweet Hungarian paprika
• 1-2 tsp marjoram
• 1-2 tsp coriander
• 1-2 tsp black pepper
• 2 cloves garlic, minced or 1-2 tsp garlic powder
• 1 c. water
• 2-3 T flour
• salt to taste

1. Melt butter in dutch oven over medium-high heat.  Sautee onions in butter until beginning to soften.
2. Add beef and paprika to butter and onions, brown beef on all sides.
3. Add marjoram, coriander, black pepper and garlic, and stir well.
4. Add water and reduce heat to a simmer.  Cover and cook until meat is tender, 10-15 minutes.  Check meat for doneness.
5. Uncover and allow sauce to reduce to desired amount.  Add flour 1 tablespoon at a time and stir, allowing sauce to thicken before adding more flour.  Stop adding when sauce reaches desired consistency.
6. Season with salt.  Do this after sauce has reduced to avoid over-salting.

Goulash is usually served with bread dumplings, not potatoes, as the airy bread slices soak up the sauce very well.  Any light bread will do.  It is also sometimes served with pickled red cabbage…. two recipes I’ll be looking into!  Dobrou chut!

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