DORA AND THE ITALIANS

I have always had Russian neighbors in this San Francisco Richmond District apartment building. Many comings and goings of very interesting people, like the White Russian  couple, each born in China, reuniting and marrying in San Francisco. Then there was the guy who liked to shove his furniture out the window to the sidewalk below as a more expedient method of moving things. He also painted the interior of his apartment a hideous shade of pink.  Oh My. Then there was Dora, who made Italian style cookies.

The Russian population eventually settled down to 2 couples, Dora and her  husband, living directly above, and Rosa and her husband, living on 3rd floor. I don't know how it started, but the women and I began exchanging food with each other.

Rosa is still famous for her piroshki, which she brings down periodically steaming hot.  Dora was famous for her cookies, which resembled biscotti. The first bite was instant love;  being rather relentless about acquiring recipes of tasty foods, I started to organize a kitchen meeting with Dora, to learn how to make them, and Rosa as the translator, for Dora spoke no English. The trick was getting them here at the same time.

Dates were made and broken for about 2 years. Then suddenly without warning, Dora appeared at my door, ready to make cookies.  No Rosa.  I quickly  calculated that I probably had the ingredients on hand, and somehow we could manage. Next, I got out flour, butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla, salt, and a big bowl, measuring cups and spoons. Dora would indicate how much of each item; I made a stab at measuring, and wrote down quickly on a torn up piece of paper.   

We made the dough, formed the logs, baked, cut, re-baked. Same delicious stuff.  Was I happy!

We did it! Kisses and hugs and smiles all around. And cookies.

A couple years later, Dora left us for the Heavens, and I organized the neighbors to go to the funeral at the Jewish Funeral Home on Divisadero. Banks and banks of flowers, Russian style! (We saw this in Leningrad, whole bodies banked in flowers.) Dora's son,, Isaac, invited us to the apartment for refreshments afterward. Upstairs, lots of people, a regular feast of Russian food laid out, along with strong drink. It was very noisy and animated.  I started to remember the cookie episode  and thought the relatives might like to hear about this.. In a booming voice the son drowned out everyone, telling them to listen to my story.

And so I told them the whole thing, adding at the end, that I never understood why Dora, from the Ukraine, made this particular kind of cookie.  

A woman spoke up, maybe her daughter-in-law: "Oh, didn't you know? Dora was a prisoner of war in a concentration camp, guarded by Italians. She learned it from the Italians! And she promised me the recipe but I never got it."

"I have the recipe," I said, and raced downstairs to my computer and within minutes handed it to this woman.