International Cooking: Zephyr
Graphic By Alekhya Maram
By Gianna Beltramo
Zephyr is a marshmallow-like sweet popular in many of the countries that formed the Soviet Union. It takes its name from the Greek god of the west wind thanks to its exceptionally light and fluffy texture, which is similar to marshmallows, but softer. Zephyr also includes eggs in its recipe, while marshmallows do not. It can be made with a variety of fruit flavors, including apple, blackberry, and cherry. Though its shape, achieved by a piping bag, closely resembles that of meringue, zephyr is not baked, nor does it have a crispy texture. Zephyr originates from pastila, a Russian dessert reportedly dating back to the 14th-century made from fruit paste. It was extremely popular in the Soviet Union, available in the majority of grocery stores. Fortunately, its popularity continues today, which means I get to try it!
When I say that this project was a mess, I mean it both literally and figuratively. (But mostly literally.) There was pink goop in places pink goop had never been. I had to wash kitchen tools that hadn’t even been used, because guess what? There was pink goop on them.
I gathered my tools, almost dropping a stand mixer on my foot in the process. There were two reasons for my decision to make blackberry-flavored zephyr: 1) apple-flavored things taste horrible, and 2) I wanted to eat the extra blackberries. I added the prescribed ½ cup of sugar to a saucepan, only to realize that I didn’t have enough for the rest of the recipe. When I’d looked over the ingredients list to see if I would need to buy anything, I glossed over the bits that listed “sugar,” because why wouldn’t we have sugar? I’m not exaggerating when I say that there is always at least one bag of it in the pantry, so of course today was the day that was not true.
And that is the story of how I sent my parents on a second grocery trip that day. Technically speaking, it was the third, because it turns out that agar-agar is not something available at even the fancy grocery stores.
The blackberry liquid smelled amazing, but since I was planning on giving these to people, I unfortunately couldn’t quadruple-dip like I normally do. (If you’re reading this and you’ve ever eaten my cooking, don’t worry. I swear I only do that with things I’m making for myself.) I put the bits that didn’t pass through the strainer in a separate bowl and ended up with a delightful bonus blackberry spread. That alone was a solid A in my books.
When it had finally (emphasis on finally) cooled, it was time to progress to the next step. This was when I discovered that there was a single egg in the fridge.
(See, this is what I’m talking about when I said that this endeavor was figuratively a mess.)
Fortunately, the recipe only called for one egg white. My family, newly returned from the grocery store, teased me, warning me not to mess it up. I hyped myself up, as the youngsters say: “Come on, I’ve got this. I can count the amount of yolks I’ve ever broken on one hand. Yeeeeeee HAWWWW! *flexes muscles*”
Naturally, I broke the yolk. (At least I was able to fish most of it out!)
You may be wondering if my non-school cooking experiences are this chaotic. I would answer that with a hard “no,” because (cliché warning) those ones are worse. And the sad thing? I’m not even joking. It’s horrible.
When I finally thought the worst of it was over, I immediately disproved that theory by once again proving to myself that I have no concept at all of how time works. The egg white and blackberry mixture were supposed to mix together for 8-10 minutes, but at the same time I was somehow expected to manage the preparation of an agar-agar (or rather, gelatin, because I couldn’t find the actual ingredient anywhere) syrup. I thought I’d allotted a reasonable amount of time to allow the mixture to boil, but apparently not, because that thing simply refused to boil. I cranked the burner up to speed the process, but then the saucepan was way too hot. I noted the smell of roasting marshmallows, which turned out to be the burning syrup attempting to permanently adhere itself to the side of the pan! Oh boy! (Doing the dishes was certainly not a pleasant experience.) I ended up passing off a couple of 30-second switches between “COOK, gosh darn it” and “oh my GOD STOP FROTHING OVER ALREADY” as “a low boil for five minutes.”
As someone who prides themself on their whipped cream, I was petrified of the idea of the egg-blackberry...thing...breaking (where it gets really clumpy, weird, and generally unappetizing). I was too stressed to even verify that meringue (or at least meringue-adjacent food items) could break, but post-cooking research has led me to believe that it’s a cream-specific phenomenon.
I should have whipped it for longer before adding the syrup, both because it would have given me more time to actually cook it, and because they ended up a little bit...melty...in comparison to the ones in the recipe. But then again, my mom was already really annoyed by how long the mixer had been on, so maybe it was a blessing in disguise.
I should not be trusted with a piping bag. This is where the more literal use of the word “mess” comes into play; my hands were, quite frankly, coated in wretched pink goop. The amount of respect I have for cake decorators cannot be conveyed in words, because the things I managed to pipe out did not look terribly edible. The first ones more closely resembled Peeps than my reference photos, in all honesty. Even the simple act of refilling the bag was a disaster. So...sticky...I shudder even to recall it.
Even after all of that, the dishes were still the most unfortunate part. 20 minutes of soaking in hot, soapy water was still not enough to loosen the burnt-on wannabe marshmallow juice. No, I sat there and scrubbed. The bright side: at least I finally got to lick the whisk!
I’m never doing this again, I adamantly refuse. I think that if I had to, I would cry. It doesn’t matter how good they were, I shall not.
I later discovered that I had committed at least two major meringue(-adjacent) sins, with more up for debate: getting even the slightest hint of a yolk mixed in with the white, and not letting the egg come up to room temperature before incorporating it—in my defense, I already knew about this one and used it straight out of the fridge anyway because I do not fear the consequences of my actions, but the flavor was still impeccable. Heavenly, if I am to reference the mythological origins of their name.
All who sampled them bore words of praise. The blackberry flavor strengthened with time, and the insides remained very soft and vaguely sticky despite the leftovers having spent several days sitting uncovered on the counter. The powdered sugar coating resembles the firmer outside of a marshmallow, but better. They’re so much softer and lighter, and fruit flavored to boot! They are, however, quite sweet, something I didn’t pick up on as much as other people because for some reason I’m desensitized to sweet things. In my mind, the sugar level was perfect. I mean, if you’re going to eat something that is very definitely a dessert, it may as well be sweet.
Don’t do this if you hate scrubbing things for extended periods of time. Or just make someone else do the dishes and tell them they can have some zephyr as a reward.
