When Russia invaded Ukraine on 24 February, the world changed for millions. Award-winning food writer Olia Hercules, whose family live in her Ukrainian homeland, was plunged into despair. She couldn’t cook; she couldn’t eat; but a fire in her belly gave her the strength to co-found the Cook for Ukraine campaign, which has raised over £1 million. And she has rediscovered cooking as solace, sharing hope and nurturing through one very special dish
RECIPE: OLIA HERCULES.
One from the heart
Every single morning in March and April I would send a message to my parents: How are you? If they replied, it was a fairly good day. If they were silent, it was not, so I would give them space and ask the same question the following day.
And then one morning a hopeful answer came from my mum: “Today we made borsch, and it nourished us and made us feel stronger. I really feel like it’s an element of our DNA.” Immediately, I knew there was a turning point, maybe a shift from the initial shock and trauma into the next stage, whatever this may be.
I admire how strong and stoic my parents were at that time. Especially because I myself could no longer eat and could not cook. A friend of a friend started sending me a medicinal Chinese broth every week in the post. It was the thing that saved me, as I could only manage to drink, not chew.
Losing my ability and desire to cook felt strange, like losing a part of myself. Before, whenever I felt stress or a hint of depression approaching, I would cook. Something bread-related usually. The soft dough under the ball of my palm, its stickiness, its comforting sweet-sour aroma, the repetitive movements… It’s the ultimate act of mindfulness. The sensory repetition that forces you to observe the moment, to let go of the insistent buzz of anxiety – preparing food was not just work for me or a quotidian family chore, it was an act of self-care.
When Ukraine was invaded, cooking suddenly felt painful. Instead of healing me, it made me hurt. I realised the act of cooking was interwoven so tightly within my brain with my family and my homeland that simply chopping through a cabbage made me burst into tears. And how dare I feel comforted by cooking when my loved ones and my countrymen are in danger and I am not? It just didn’t feel right.
I begged my parents to leave Kakhovka, my home town. They resisted for so long – why should they leave? How could they leav
