Yeast is yeast and west is west

Pursuant to yesterday's post, I should mention that fasting in the Orthodox tradition involves giving up almost all animal-based foods, including meat, dairy, eggs, and fish, as well as olive oil and wine (technically speaking, alcohol of all sorts is verboten, but the Russians claim that beer is actually a form of bread and thus permitted—don't think about it too much). The week before the Great Lent begins, the Orthodox dip a toe into the waters of deprivation by giving up meat, and in theory you spend that week clearing the larder of all the remaining dairy products. Really you're building up a cushion against the coming weeks of thin food: To quote a small child of my acquaintance, when asked whether he was storing berries in his stomach instead of his basket, "No, I am eating them." So say we all.

Which brings us to blini. There seems to be a some disagreement online about the taxonomic differences between blini and oladi, but wevs, every thin spongy sourdough buttery pancake crepe-like thing I've had has been referred to as a blin. Back in ze old pagan days, when people got sick of the endless Russian winters, they made round warm yellow pancakes as an attempt to encourage the sun to get its ass back into the sky; these days, blini are an integral part of Maslenitsa ("Butter Week"), aka Carnaval for Slavs. It not being bikinis-and-feathers weather in that part of the world, samba parties are replaced with feasts of blini. The blini themselves help explain why, even when bikini weather rolls around, many of us are not fit for it.

God do I love blini. It's not enough that the average blin is made with eggs and whole milk, fried in butter, and kept from sticking to its neighbors with butter; it's got to have toppings at least as rich as the blin itself. Blini can be served savory, each person applying the appropriate personal measures of sour cream, chopped hard-boiled eggs, chopped green onions, smoked herring, smoked salmon, caviar, and/or extra butter, and sweet, with preserves, honey, sour cream, and/or extra butter. It is not unheard-of for blini to be filled with ice cream or Nutella (although this is rare and considered faintly indecent). You can pile your doctored blini in layers and cut them into wedges for genteel forking into face, or you can roll them up like burritos and end up smeary with butter. In a wonderful example of evolutionary symbiosis, icy shots of vodka help keep the cholesterol from building up to lethal levels and the blini help cushion the effects of the alcohol. At larger events, there may be dancing to help you process your sudden lipidosity, but in smaller gatherings the evening is likely to wrap up with conversation, possibly dessert, and maybe a pre-bedtime serving of yet more blini.

This morning, after spending yestereve at The Voice's and putting away three generous plates of blini, four glasses of red wine, and several shots of vodka, I am not sure I will ever move again. Hail to the blin, says I. Hail to butter, hail to smoked salmon, hail to the people who managed to eat dessert. Hail most of all to a friendly and fattening farewell to winter.