I hadn’t planned on dancing tonight, wearing a colorful vest, carrying an intricately engraved Hutsul hatchet. I’m a terrible dancer—but it would’ve been rude to say no. With night falling fast, the sun sinking to the undulating summit line of these eastern mountains, we trace a narrow road through the rolling terrain, climbing one final incline to find a tidy house filled with a happy family.
Svitlana and Slavko Lesiuk, two educators at the local school, welcome us into their home with big smiles, and a song. First, there was the food—borscht and sausages and the ubiquitous Ukrainian dumplings, stuffed with meats and onions and potatoes, almost all the ingredients gathered from their own family farm. Then, there was the drink—cognac, and vodka, and a home brew made from hand-gathered golden-root that grows only above 6,000 feet— all of it flowing freely, here in this country that makes some of the very best in the world.
