You Think That’s Smetana? Think Again

There’s a specific smell I still remember when I open a fridge. Not the scent of any one food but the scent of every food at once, arguing for dominance in a reused smetana container. If you grew up Russian speaking and Jewish in Sheepshead Bay, you know that smell. You also know that fridge. It’s not just for food. It’s a museum, a survival kit, a love letter written in cabbage and confusion. Every container is a gamble. You thought it was smetana? Think again. It might be soup, cooked buckwheat, fermented beets, or a half-used lemon. It might even be buttons, lol.

In our homes, food wasn’t just nourishment. It was memory storage. The last portion of soup your mom made before flying to visit family. The salad your totya (aunt) dropped off when your cousin got engaged. The neatly packed kotleti your grandmother made “just in case you get hungry later,” even though you just ate. Food was how we spoke when words fell short which, between language gaps and Soviet emotional training, was often.

Unless you were invited over for tea.

“Come over for tea” wasn’t just tea. It was a coded invitation for three hours of snacks, deep questioning, side eyes, and unsolicited life advice. You entered expecting a casual sip. You left emotionally dehydrated, holding a plastic bag of oranges and herring you didn’t ask for. The kettle whistled. The table filled. Someone asked why you look tired, if you’ve gained weight, if you’ve lost too much weight, if you’re dating someone, and if not, why? And when you tried to dodge the question, a fork appeared in your hand. You were fed. Relentlessly. It didn’t matter if you said you weren’t hungry. In fact, saying you weren’t hungry only made things worse.

Of course, all of this was happening with the windows closed. Because skvoznyak, the draft, was a death sentence. Two open windows at once? That was grounds for cancellation. The fear of cold air moving too freely through an apartment has never been medically confirmed, but it was spiritually fatal in our households. I once watched a grown woman sprint across a living room to slam a window shut because a toddler sneezed. A breeze was not a breeze. It was betrayal.

This hyper awareness extended to our emotional lives. Guilt was an ingredient in every conversation. If you didn’t call your totya, she didn’t get mad. She simply sighed. She told your mom she was fine, just a little sad, just a little shocked, just a little forgotten. Then your mom told you. Not directly, but in a soft “well, you know how she is” kind of way. You never got yelled at. You just sat with the invisible weight of everyone else’s expectations and wondered if you were, in fact, a bad person for not texting back.

It’s okay. The guilt would pass. Right after you boiled a potato and wrapped it in a towel for that sore throat. Because everyone in our world was a doctor. Or, at least, carried the confidence of one. You didn’t need Tylenol. You needed black radish and honey. Maybe some mustard plasters. If you had a cold, there were at least seven remedies involving things in your fridge, a scarf, and a prayer. Everyone had a solution. No one agreed. But somehow, you got better. Or distracted. Same thing.

You were raised by more than your parents. You were raised by a network of unofficial supervisors: neighbors, family friends, piano teachers, the woman who braided your hair, the uncle who once drove a cab and now gives tax advice. All of them had a say in your future. They all asked how school was going. They all asked why you weren’t married. They all showed up when someone died, when someone gave birth, or when someone needed help peeling carrots for a holiday meal. This community was your scaffolding. Not always gentle. But always there.

Love was never quiet. It arrived loudly, in thick accents, with a side of pickled tomatoes and pickles. It showed up in the form of yelling, in asking if you ate, in showing up unannounced and staying too long. It didn’t always say “I love you.” It said “Wear a scarf.” It said “You look tired.” It said “You should eat something.” It didn’t whisper. It fed you.

And in between the fridge raids, the tea traps, the fear of breezes, and the unspoken emotional marathons we grew up. We learned how to laugh at things that hurt. We learned how to answer a question with another question. We learned how to hold space for two cultures, even if they didn’t always agree. We learned to feel in Russian and hustle in English.

Sometimes I still open the fridge and find an old takeout container I don’t remember putting there. I hold it up, squint at it, and smile. Because for a second, I’m back in my childhood kitchen, hearing my mother yell from the other room to “eat that before it goes bad,” even though it probably already did. My mom and I still never agree if the milk was good or not.
And now I just say to her if it smells more than funny.lol.

Can you make some oladi tomorrow.

You think that’s smetana? Think again.
It’s probably love.
Just disguised as leftovers.

And listen if you don’t eat leftovers,
not to say I don’t like you,
but I got no respect for you.

I do.
We can still be friends.

But we’ll never be those friends
the kind where you come over,
I offer you amazing food from my fridge,
and instead you open an app
and order something with no soul.