If You Have the Option to Eat Cookie Dough for Breakfast, Take It
If You Have the Option to Eat Cookie Dough for Breakfast, Take It
Boortsog in Khatgal
Food in Mongolia is utilitarian. Forty percent of Mongolians are nomadic herders who work long hours outdoors even when the temperature falls to -40 Fahrenheit. Their survival depends on a hearty, calorie rich diet and, for the most part, that is where their relationship with food ends. When you become accustomed to it, Mongolian food has a potroast-y charm. In the beginning, it can feel like a lot to handle.
Shortly after I sat down for my first meal in Khatgal, a tiny town on the shores of Lake Khuvsgul in northern Mongolia, a young English teacher scooped a glistening white glob onto her spoon.
“Pet,” she said, grinning.
I smiled back. “Fat.”
She nodded and repeated, “Fat.” She spooned the chunk into her mouth and chewed happily. In Mongolia, the fat that other cultures might trim away is the best part of the meat.
I looked down at the fat swimming in my own bowl with a mild trepidation I tried to keep to myself. Hospitality is of enormous importance in Mongolian culture. I had already vowed to myself that I would eat everything put in front of me and never express squeamishness of any kind. I figured that would be rude at best and xenophobic at worst.
But after about a week and a half of eating the classic Mongolian meal—fatty meat and vegetable soup followed by a plate of rice, carrot salad, niislel salat (potato salad), and fatty gulyash—three times a day, I found myself leaving a stray fat chunk here and there and hoping like hell that no one noticed. But even though fat was still a problem for me, I was pleased to find myself enjoying the creamy salads and the endless bowls of salty, buttery sootei tsai (milk tea).
Then, one morning, the town patriarch, Serdam, a middle aged man with large “monk’s ears,” sat beside me and suggested that I eat a plate full of boortsog (fried dough) and a bowl of a strange yellow paste with raisins in it. The boortsog was flaky and the porridge was rich and sweet and nutty. At the time, it seemed like the most delicious thing I’d ever put in my mouth.
When I asked Serdam what it was, he just said “It’s something from childhood.”
Others explained that it was just butter, flour, sugar, and raisins. A classic children’s porridge that is basically raw cookie dough. As it turns out, despite my best efforts, my hosts had noticed me struggling to eat the fatty meats and soups and were now feeding me as they would a Mongolian baby.
Eating it, I found myself torn between stung pride and warmth for the people showing me such care. About one thing I was absolutely unconflicted: if you have the option to eat cookie dough for breakfast, you should always, always take it.