Klara is very Russian, in spite of the name. Today she was uninterested in the fruit puree, the rice or the berries that I tried offering her. Then I noticed that she was eyeing my buckwheat and gave her some. And you should have seen how happily she gobbled it up. This is real buckwheat, mind you, not that weird kashi crap from a box.
Back when I was an undergrad and had my first American boyfriend, the poor fellow came by, saw my buckwheat on the stove, and begged me never to feed him because “it looks very scary.”
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My mom used to make a lot of things from buckwheat flour during religious festivals/fasts when regular wheat was prohibited. Things like stuffed potato parathas, fritters, savory crepes. God, I miss them so much.
If there’s one thing that instantly takes me back to my childhood it’s the very mention of buckwheat.
What do you do with it?
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We just boil it and then eat it. It’s like rice for Latin Americans or fries for North Americans.
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