‘Home has to feel warm, full, and cozy — no matter what’. Meduza’s journalists reflect on the New Year’s traditions they grew up with and those they’ve carried across borders

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The New Year holidays are a time for family, connection, and celebration. But for those living in exile, they carry a bittersweet weight: the warmth of cherished memories and the joy of the season can deepen the ache of being apart from those they once shared it with. For many of Meduza’s journalists, 2024 marks another year spent far from their families in Russia, Belarus, and other countries. We asked our colleagues to share the traditions they grew up with, the ones they’ve carried forward, and the new ones they’ve discovered along the way.

My mom is an amazing cook. And I’m not exaggerating — amazing means braised veal au jus, homemade pasta with fresh pesto, and a perfectly round lemon tart with a warm, gooey center and a braided crust. Cooking brings her peace. On December 30 and 31, she spends the entire day in the kitchen, creating, experimenting, and working her magic.

When it’s time to serve, the table is covered with heavy Soviet crystal bowls filled with every kind of salad, homemade pizza with a fluffy crust — made especially because I’m home — plates and dishes, sauce boats, cocottes, vases, cups, shot glasses, wine glasses, everything. Absolutely everything. Because home has to feel warm, full, and cozy. No matter what.

On New Year’s Eve, all that matters is sitting together at the table in the big room, being with each other, talking, and occasionally tsking at the beloved cat to keep it from swiping tinsel off the tree, fragrant with fresh sap.

Ever since I emigrated, I’ve lost my excitement for the holidays, even the ones that used to feel so special and familiar. But every year, I drag myself to the supermarket and pile bags, packets, bottles, and jars onto the table. I put on an apron and, guided by my mom’s detailed voice messages, slowly start chopping, slicing, steaming, frying, boiling, sautéing, roasting, and baking.

Because home has to feel warm, full, and cozy. No matter what.

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When we all lived in Russia, we had a few New Year’s traditions. First, New Year’s Eve was always a family affair — we’d spend at least a little time together before heading off to parties. Second, we’d prepare the holiday feast in a mad dash on December 31, with old Soviet movies playing on TV in the background. And third, we’d celebrate New Year’s in two time zones: first at midnight in our home region and then again at midnight in the region where we were living at the time.

I still get everything ready on December 31 with Ivan Vasilievich Changes Professions playing in the background, but now I celebrate New Year’s across four time zones: my native Siberia, with friends in Moscow, Riga, and the country where my family now lives.

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I’m from Cherepovets. We always have chicken as the main dish, no matter what other meats are on the table. Also, my mom firmly believes in “appeasing” the Chinese zodiac animal of the year, so we always try to make a dish that might appeal to it — something a dragon (if it’s the Year of the Dragon), tiger, snake, or whichever animal it is might like, based on the color, taste, or shape.

We also have a special dinnerware set that only comes out for New Year’s, kept in that classic Soviet glass-door cabinet. Crab salad, Olivier, clementines, and red caviar are all must-haves. And, of course, we used to watch the president’s address and laugh at it.

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My younger brother always used to stand on a chair and jump off at exactly 11:59:59 p.m., so he’d land on the ground in the new year. But for the past few years, we haven’t been able to celebrate New Year’s together — after the full-scale war started, he moved to Israel, and I moved to Europe.

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We always watch the [Latvian] president and prime minister’s speeches, which doesn’t really make sense because my mom and grandma don’t even understand Latvian. At midnight sharp, we toast with sparkling wine, wish each other a happy New Year, and rush to start handing out the presents from under the tree. Every year, we agree that only the kids will get gifts, but after midnight, it turns out there are gifts for everyone!

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Every year, my friend from Riga takes an old theatrical hat (some stage prop) and fills it with “New Year’s fortunes” — one for each guest. I don’t know if she writes them herself or gets them from somewhere else. After midnight, everyone pulls out their “fate for the coming year.” They’re always kind, of course, but each one is different. You’re supposed to keep your fortune in your wallet until the next New Year and then share what came true.

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My mom’s best friend’s birthday is on December 31, so we always had a tradition of going out for breakfast or lunch to celebrate her before diving into the New Year’s chaos. I think it was really smart and lovely — less time spent chopping salads, stressing out, or arguing, and by the morning, everyone was already in a great mood. Now, though, we all live in different countries.

These days, every New Year, I make forshmak for my coworkers — it’s become a tradition. I use my grandma’s recipe, but I add apple! Personally, Olivier salad and caviar are non-negotiables for me. Even if I’m alone, staying in, and just sleeping at home, as long as I have those two dishes and some sparkling wine, I’m perfectly happy on December 31 and January 1.

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Every New Year, my dad makes stuffed fish. It has to be a big, whole fish, and here’s how it’s prepared: you cut the head off, but leave it attached by the skin near the back — kind of like Nearly Headless Nick in Harry Potter. Then, you carefully peel off the skin like a stocking. The meat gets ground up with bread and onion, stuffed back into the “stocking,” and the fish is baked on a sheet pan. It sounds (and, to be honest, sometimes looks) a little terrifying, but it’s actually delicious. My dad usually puts an olive or a slice of cucumber in the baked fish’s mouth.

For as long as I can remember, my dad has made this fish. And every year, my mom reminds him that it was her mother — his mother-in-law — who taught him this Jewish recipe. That little reminder is also part of the tradition.

It’s been three years since I’ve been home — or had my dad’s fish. But last New Year, for the first time ever, I decided to try making it myself. We FaceTimed, and he walked me through peeling the skin (the hardest part) and baking it. It turned out delicious — almost like home.

If you ever feel like you’re losing your connection to home, I recommend learning a family recipe like this. It really brings you closer.

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