4. Before serving, use a mortar and pestle and pound the garlic and parsley with 1 teaspoon of ground black pepper to a coarse paste. Add to the simmering soup along with the reserved bacon, the remaining beets, vinegar, and sugar. Adjust the seasoning and simmer for another 5 minutes. Let the borshch stand for 10 minutes. To serve, ladle the soup into serving bowls, add a small dollop of sour cream to each portion, and sprinkle with dill and scallions. Invite the guests to mix the sour cream well into their soup.

I never ate more bizarrely than I did during the Soviet Union’s last winter in 1991. The economy was going to hell; food would be nonexistent in one place, then, thanks to some mysterious black-market forces, plentiful just up the road. Rattling around the collapsing empire in our ramshackle Zhiguli cars, my ex-boyfriend and I fasted one minute and feasted the next. Of the feasts, my favorites occurred in the Uzbek/Tajik city of Samarkand (where market forces have always been potent). There you could count on smoky kebabs from rickety stalls, ambrosial melons piled up in wagon beds, and at people’s houses, always an aromatic festive palov mounded high on a blue and white ceramic platter. Outside, the world was coming unstitched; inside Samarkand homes we sat on low cushions sipping tannic green tea, scooped up delicious yellow rice (with the left hand, as tradition demanded), and nodded along politely to nationalist proclamations that Tajik pilaf was infinitely better than Uzbek pilaf—or vice versa. The proclamations didn’t make sense. But eating the rice did.

A feast of cumin-spiced lamb and rice steamed together until every spoonful is as eloquent as an Omar Khayyám quatrain, palov enjoys such ritual status in Central Asia that florid legends of its conception involve Alexander the Great or, in certain versions, Genghis Khan. The dish is prepared according to a strict code, traditionally by men (and often for men) and over an open fire. But it’s also fabulous when made in a home kitchen, and super easy to boot. The soul of the dish is zirvak, a base of lamb and masses of onions and carrots. (To this mix feel free to add some cubed quince, a handful of raisins, and/or a cup of canned chickpeas.) The spices are spare and eloquent: doses of sweet and hot pepper, a whole garlic head, and barberries, the tiny dried berries with a sharp lemony flavor. (Look for them at Middle Eastern markets.) Short- or medium-grained rice is then layered on top, and everything steams to perfection in a Turkic nomadic kettle called kazan, for which you can substitute any heavy pot with a tight-fitting lid.

Palov is best enjoyed with a couple of zesty, salady Central Asian sides. One is a slaw of shredded sweet daikon radish and carrots dressed with white vinegar, a touch of oil, and a pinch of sugar. For the other essential accompaniment, thinly slice 1 large onion, 2 large green peppers, and 3 large ripe tomatoes, and layer them in a shallow bowl, seasoning the layers with salt and pepper and sprinkling them with mild olive oil and red wine vinegar. Let the salad stand while the palov cooks. Tannic green tea, in small cup-bowls, is the classic Central Asian beverage, but we Russians also pour vodka.

1. In a large, heavy casserole, preferably with an oval bottom, heat the oil until smoking. Rub the lamb generously with salt and pepper. In 2 to 3 batches, brown the lamb well on all sides, transferring the browned pieces to a bowl. Once all the lamb is browned, add the onions and a little more oil if necessary and cook, stirring until well-browned, about 7 minutes. Return the lamb to the pot, reduce the heat to low, and stir in the cumin, paprika, cayenne, turmeric, and barberries, if using. Season generously with salt, cover, and simmer for 15 minutes, adding a little water if the lamb begins to burn. Thoroughly stir in the carrots and cook for another 1 to 2 minutes. Adjust the seasoning.

2. Flatten the surface of the lamb mixture with the back of a large spoon. Pour rice over the meat and bury the garlic head in it. Place a small lid or a heatproof plate directly on top of the rice (so as not to disturb the arrangement of rice and meat when adding water). Pour in the boiling water in a steady stream. Being careful not to burn yourself, remove the lid or the plate. Taste the liquid and add salt if necessary. Cook the rice uncovered without stirring over medium-low heat until the liquid is level with the rice and small bubbles appear on the surface, about 15 minutes.

3. With a spatula, gather the rice into a mound and make 6 to 7 holes in it with the back of a long wooden spoon for steam to escape. Reduce the heat to the absolute lowest, place a Flame Tamer if you have one under the pot, cover tightly, and let the rice steam until tender, about 25 minutes. Check 2 or 3 times and add a little bit of water into the holes in the rice if there doesn’t seem to be enough steam. Remove from heat and let stand, covered, for 15 minutes.

4. To serve, spread the rice on a large festive serving platter, fluffing it slightly. Arrange the meat and vegetables in a mound over it, topping with the garlic head. Serve the tomato and grated radish salads alongside.

Our book journey ended; the time came for our very last feast. Mom and I decided to hold an ironic wake for the USSR. And what do Russians eat at commemorations and wakes? They eat blini. Coming full circle to our first chapter, we once again read Chekhov while a yeast sponge bubbled and rose in a shiny bowl on Mom’s green faux-granite counter. Yeast for our farewell blini.

Blini has always been the most traditional, ritualistic, and ur-Slavic of foods—the stuff of carnivals and divinations, of sun worship and ancestral rites. In pre-Christian times, the Russian life cycle began and ended with blini—from pancakes fed to women after childbirth to the blini eaten at funerals. “Blin is the symbol of sun, good harvest, harmonious marriages, and healthy children,” wrote the Russian poet Alexander Kuprin (blin being the singular of blini).