What strikes me about switchel, or old-fashioned haymaker's punch.

More at the The Old Farmer's Almanac

Thanks to my friend MB for posting on Facebook about switchel, a bit of Americana with which I'm largely unfamiliar. It seems to have been intended as non-alcoholic in the main, but of course a bit of additive never hurt.

Delving deeper, I see there are dozens of commercial varieties available these days, with spices, fruit and all the attendant foo-foo to appeal to those consumers who are unfamiliar with the concept of "authenticity."

Health faddism and health fascists are annoying, but couch switchel in terms of history and I'm all ears. What strikes me about switchel is that it's much like the impetus for homebrewing, at least back at the start when you found a recipe that tasted good and kept making (and drinking) it.

RECIPE: SWITCHEL (1853), by Eric Colleary (The American Table)

... And if you suffer at all from allergies, you’ll want to know about switchel.

Also known as Harvest Drink, Harvest Beer, Swanky, Haymakers Punch, and a host of other aliases, switchel is a refreshing beverage that has been fortifying the American immune system since at least the founding of this nation.

At its most basic, switchel is water, cider vinegar, ginger and a sweetener (molasses, honey, sorghum, etc.). Rum, whiskey, brandy or hard cider can be added to give it a bit more oomph. I’ve seen some recipes, particularly in the south, that add cayenne pepper to the mix as a cold cure.

One of the earliest written references to switchel comes from Philip Freneau, known as the “Poet of the American Revolution,” in his 1789 poem “On the Demolition of an Old College.” Describing an incident at Dartmouth College where a group of students tried to take down an old log building, Freneau suggests switchel is not boozy enough to lead a man to destruction:

Relent, relent! to accomplish such designs
“Folks bred on college fare are much too weak”
For such attempts men drink your high-proof wines
Not spiritless switchel and vile hogo drams
“Scarcely sufficient to digest your Greek–“

Each cook had their own recipe for switchel. The amount of each ingredient depended largely on the personal tastes of those making it, and exact measuring wasn’t necessary – one would simply add more of something until it tasted right. Sweetners depended on what was available. Molasses was more common in New England where the rum trade from the Carribean made the black syrup a staple on pantry shelves. In the frontier, switchel would often be made with honey, and in the south, sorghum would be used to soften the beverage’s bite ...

30 years ago today: Queuing for kvass (an aside).

A glass of water at Leningrad's airport, bound for Riga.

Previously: 30 years ago today: Can someone please explain how the stars and stripes got up THERE?

On several occasions while in Moscow and Leningrad in 1987, we'd join the line for квас (kvass or kvas). In 2016, I wrote about kvass after returning from Estonia.

I was delighted to see both mead and kvass on the drinks menu, even if they’re commercially produced and not rigorously farmhouse-sourced. They paired nicely with my meal of sauerkraut soup and salted herring.

Kvass is a lightly fermented, traditionally homebrewed “soft” drink made from dark bread and yeast, with a myriad of other additional ingredients varying from kitchen to kitchen. We tend to think of kvass as Russian, though many Baltic and Eastern European countries have their own versions. In the Estonian language, it's called kali.

To create that tangy fermented flavor, kvas makers start with Russian brown bread. You soak it in water, and then add some yeast (other additions — raisins, honey, mint — vary from recipe to recipe). The whole mixture ferments for a few days, a process that creates a natural carbonation, as well as a distinctive sour flavor.

According to Russian writer Alexander Genis, that sourness is beloved in the region. "The sour is the taste of Russia — everything is supposed to be sour for Russian taste. Like sour cream, for example, or pickled cucumber. Cabbage, mushroom."

Given that one of the glories of Estonian cuisine is its dense, moist black bread, kvass/kali is a natural product line extension. It tastes like its principle ingredients, bread and water.

The commercial version of kvass available at the Golden Piglet Inn actually lacked the tang of what I remembered at a street stand in Moscow, circa 1999. It was sweeter but no less delicious, and would be an apt thirst quencher in summertime, so keep the lemonade and iced tea. Let’s cook some kvass instead.

No photographic evidence attests to the consumption of kvass in 1987, so you'll be compelled to accept my testimony. However, the scene was little changed from this view in 1999, when Barrie and I returned to Russia for a Moscow encore.

Looks like I was hungover in 1999, too. One big difference would be the plastic glasses, which weren't a part of the Soviet street scene 12 years earlier.

Next: Riga and Vilnius, as the Soviet portion of the tour comes to a close.