The Foodnetwork in the USA asked me to write an article about, and develop a recipe inspired by, how we celebrate Orthodox Christmas.

One of my family’s favorite festive dishes is podvarok. Podvarok is a baked casserole made from sour cabbages. Although historically podvarok was a vehicle for different types of meat and poultry, nowadays it is typically prepared with pork or without meat. Badnik (Orthodox Christmas Eve) represents the last day of the Nativity fast, the feast is traditionally prepared without meat, eggs, or dairy, so for Badnik, my grandmother often prepared a meat-free version of podvarok with sour cabbages, rice, sauteed leeks and sweet paprika. This is the version of podvarok I still love the most and now make for my family’s own Badnik celebration. In my grandmother’s Veliki Narodni Kuvar (Great National Cookbook) from 1956, I found an essay referencing how podvarok could be made with turkey, goose, or duck. This inspired me to create a version of podvarok combining my grandmother’s Badnik version with duck legs, something I believe both my grandparents would have loved.

The article and recipe are currently only available if you are based in the USA, and you can access the article here and the recipe here.

If you are based elsewhere, below is the memory that inspired the article for Foodnetwork.

This is my Christmas past. A late morning on Badnik (Christmas Eve), sometime in the early 1980s in North Macedonia. We are on our way to celebrate with my grandparents. It is a short walk from our apartment to theirs through the old Turkish Bazaar of Skopje and over the ancient Turkish stone bridge on the Vardar River. The Vardarec wind is bitterly cold on a January morning and hurries us through the central square with its snow-covered cobblestones and past the city’s twinkling Christmas tree. Not long now until we are at my grandparents building, a tall, imposing 1970s tower block built during Skopje’s post-earthquake reconstruction.

We arrive at their front door at last. My mother gives me a little red Christmas sack and a wooden stick, one end wrapped in material, with which I start rhythmically knocking at the door and singing, as loud as I can, a Kolede song. Singing Kolede songs (or carols) is an old Slavic custom incorporated into the Christmas traditions of many parts of the Balkan region. On the morning of Badnik, which we celebrate on 6 January, children go from home to home to wake each household up with a song and receive treats.

The door opens, and I see the smiling faces of my grandparents. My grandfather animatedly joins in with the song. We finish singing and I hold out my sack, hopefully. My grandparents wrap me in the biggest hug then fill my sack with chestnuts, walnuts, clementines, apples, and a chocolate or real coin or two.

We bustle into the warmth. The rest of our family are there already. Everyone exchanges greetings and well-wishes. I refuse to let go of my sack of precious loot.

My grandmother ushers us to the living room, where there is a coffee table beautifully arranged with mezze including turshija (fermented summer vegetables), various winter salads: roasted red pepper with garlic and herbs; lemon pickled leek with olives; shredded sour cabbage and Bukovo chilli pepper. To accompany the mezze and keep everyone amused until our Badnik feast is ready, my grandfather passes around little glasses of golden homemade rakija (brandy) to the adults. My grandmother hurries off to finish preparations and I adoringly, but unhelpfully, follow her around.

Not long after, amidst the increasingly more raucous laughter, my grandfather turns on the radio. A lunchtime show called “Songs of Our Youth” begins. These iconic songs of a bygone era from former Yugoslavia, intermingled with a selection of Italian canzone and French chansons, are often the soundtrack to our family’s meals. They signal imminent feasting. My grandfather’s clear and melodious tenor accompanies Charles Aznavour’s “Yesterday, when I was young…”

As winter daylight fades, we gather to light a yule oak branch to commemorate Badnik. Then we squeeze around the dining table, extended so much to accommodate all of us and our Badnik feast that a third of it is in the kitchen.

We begin with a soda bread which hides a silver coin. My grandmother cuts a piece each for God, the home, and every member of the family. Silence as we all look for the coin. Found! in the home piece! Good health, happiness, and luck for all in our home in the year to come. Then she brings out a favourite in our family for Badnik – a beautiful large clay baking dish of podvarok, a baked casserole of shredded sour cabbage and rice, flavoured with sauteed leeks and sweet paprika, made from cabbages she has fermented herself. Next to it are a pair of resplendent whole trout from Lake Ohrid, baked to perfection with garlic, parsley, lemon, and white wine. There are also Macedonian-style baked beans flavoured with sweet paprika and mint. These stars of our Badnik feast have an incredible supporting cast of side dishes: a salad of tomatoes, grilled peppers, and sliced onions in a simple vinaigrette (but without any white cheese today, as Badnik is the last day of the Nativity fast); several types of savoury pastries, all made without meat, dairy, or eggs, including pita, a type of Balkan hand-stretched leaf pastry, filled with leeks and rice; numerous vegetable preserves, including ajvar (a red pepper and aubergine preserve) and ljutenica (a spicy pepper, tomato, and aubergine relish). For dessert, there are slices of delicately roasted pumpkin, a sweet pita with pumpkin, walnuts and cinnamon, and my mother’s beautiful baklava with crushed walnuts and cinnamon soaked in a lemon syrup. We end our feast by counting; it is custom for everyone to try at least twelve different foods on Badnik. Everyone gives up after twenty.

“What are we having tomorrow?” asks my uncle.

“Roast pork.”

A groan of pleasure from everyone. My grandmother’s roast pork is legendary.

“And more podvarok? And sarma?” I whisper to her, hopefully.

“For you, both, always,” answers my grandmother, kissing my head.

…

This is my Christmas present. A cold December morning in London. I am trying to remember Christmases of my youth, but my memory is proving fickle. Is this a memory of one Christmas? Or snippets from several Christmases that have united to create one precious Christmas memory from my childhood? I decide it does not matter. It feels like only yesterday that I was young, celebrating Christmas with my grandparents, and what is most important to me is to hold on to that feeling, always. Aznavour sings “Tomorrow is my turn…”

My young son is learning the Kolede song. He will sing it for his grandparents on Badnik, knock with his own wooden stick, and hold out his little red sack looking hopeful. I will cook the food of my childhood, and together we will celebrate Badnik, creating new memories for my son. He is my Christmas future.