Dump it on a flat surface, making a big mound. A bare table is ideal so long as it’s not dark. You need to see each groat to separate it from the hulls. With your fingers, drag the pyramid-like kernels, making a new mound. Sweep away the dust, discard the stones and bits of stem and husk into a separate pile. Take pleasure in your pile. The more it grows, the purer your buckwheat will be. Don’t rush. You can’t afford to crack your teeth or cook a bitter porridge.
Pick over the buckwheat with your daughter. She’ll whine, but make her do it anyway. It doesn’t matter if she gazes out the window, wishing she was going down a rusted slide outside of your Khrushchyovka. Her pile of discards will never be as big as yours. She’ll never be as fast as you. But she’ll accept her fate and sit with you, her shoulders hunched forward like yours. Later, she’ll eat your buckwheat porridge if you serve it up with milk and sugar.
You cleaned buckwheat in Ukraine and you’ll continue in America. You even brought a sack of groats with you. Were you afraid you’d starve in this great capitalist country? On your first trip to the store, you bought a pineapple just because your daughter begged. And what did you learn? It burns your tongue and eats you from inside.
In California, set up in your tiny kitchen so it’s like the one you left. Open the curtains or turn on the fluorescent lights. Pick over your groats and sweep away the dust. Don’t think about the other meals you could be eating: the sticky, orange chicken or the noodles drenched in cream and grated cheese. Sure, they taste heavenly, but they won’t feed you. Put down the takeout menu and put buckwheat on the stove. Add water, salt, and lots of butter. You can eat it right out of the pot, the fat coating the inside of your mouth.
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When your daughter brings home friends who see you bent over the brown groats, they’ll ask, What is your mom doing? Don’t get upset when she slams doors and goes out to who-knows-where. Did you really think that she’d sort buckwheat with you all her life? And, let’s be honest, she was never all that helpful.
People will say that you don’t need to pick over your buckwheat. They’ll recommend a brand they’ll swear is clean. They’ll tell you you can rinse your buckwheat under water, pick out bits of husk that float up to the surface when the porridge boils. Save your time, they’ll say. Put up your feet and read a book instead. Don’t pay attention to them. You know there’s only one way to ensure your groats are clean. Why would you give that up? Haven’t you given up enough?
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Pick over your buckwheat when your lover leaves. Pick over your buckwheat when your daughter steals and wrecks your car. Pick over your buckwheat when the city of your birth is shelled by Russian bombs. When bodies are diced up like meat and mouths spill over with fresh blood. Take refuge in the meditative task. Feel the groats dig into fingertips. But don’t be surprised your porridge still tastes bitter. Some dust you cannot sweep away.
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Maggie Levantovskaya was born in Ukraine and grew up in San Francisco. Her writing can be found in Michigan Quarterly Review, The Rumpus, Potomac Review, Los Angeles Times, Literary Hub, Longreads, and elsewhere. She teaches at Santa Clara University and is currently at work on a memoir about lupus.
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Sarah Phillips is currently a senior at Portland State University majoring in English with a writing minor. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Blue Marble Review, The Blue Route, and Pathos. You can find her on Instagram @poetrytoot.
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