Wesołych Świąt
My dad can’t cook. Or at least, my mom doesn’t let him cook. There are only three exceptions to this rule. On Easter, he is allowed to make Easter Borsch, which is basically just kielbasa, black bread, hard boiled eggs, and copious ground pepper floating in the water the kielbasa was cooked in. It tastes better than it sounds. A few weeks or so before Christmas, he makes fruit cake. This is only because he’s the only one who eats it, and no one will be making it for him! And then there’s Christmas Eve.
Every Christmas Eve of my existence, with only one or two exceptions, I’ve woken to find my dad putting a pot full of the water potatoes had been boiling in out on the front porch to cool off. Most of the time, he’s already mixed the potatoes, pepper, and farmer’s cheese together, and we just have to wait for the starchy water to cool down. He then usually offers me and my sister one of the several kinds of special holiday breads for breakfast. I prefer panatone. He prefers poppy seed bread.
We prepare by getting out three cups. We have two identical (though different colors) ones that my sister and I like using and one other that my dad has used forever. We clear off the kitchen table, the kitchen counters, and the dining room table. The dining room table gets a layer of kitchen towels – this is where the pierogi will go when they’re formed. Flour is scattered across the kitchen table and the marble cutting board my dad uses. We briefly fight over which rolling pin is best and who should get to use it.
Then it’s time to bring in the starchy water. Babcia’s recipe is typed (as in by a typewriter, remember those?) onto a creased recipe card. In the corner of the card is my grandfather’s initials – he transcribed it for her at some point, probably having to force her to “measure” as she went. The recipe for the dough calls for “4-6 cups of flour,” one egg, “some of the water from the potatoes,” and “a heavy pinch of salt.”
But my dad’s been doing this enough, he knows what that means. Pile in some flour in a bowl with some salt on top. Put a dimple in the middle and mix in the egg with a fork until everything’s dry again. Then add potato water, stirring with your hands, until the texture’s right. It is completely done by feel, as it has been done in our family for generations.
We gear up for a fight with the dough as my dad hands us each a small ball to work with. Flour goes everywhere, rolling pins fly back and forth, the starchy, protein filled dough stretches and contracts despite our efforts to keep it big and flat. We cut circles with our cups, and at this point realize that my dad has all the filling. My sister and I then hijack the pot, and start filling our pierogi. The scraps go into a pile in the back of the counter, and we pick off another small ball of “firsts.” Rinse. Repeat.
When I was in middle school, I added some complexity to this shindig. I got the idea that blueberry pierogi would be super tasty and that I should make some for a school project about heritage. They were a hit with the other kids and my family, and we’ve been making them ever since. So the last couple batches of “firsts” get filled with 4-5 still-frozen blueberries.
My sister doesn’t actually like potatoes (no, none of us understand how that could have happened). So, she takes some of the “seconds” to make plain “pierogi-noodles.” She usually shapes them into different shapes, always including at least a Christmas tree, a wreath, and a candy cane. The rest of the “seconds” get the same treatment as the “firsts.” The “thirds” only get used if we forget to throw them away…
Each pierogi gets lined up on the towels in the dining room as they’re made. My dad and I neatly line ours up, and my sister tries desperately to disturb the pattern of half-moons lined up on the towels. My mom, who has been hiding in the shadows the whole time, usually comes out to take a few pictures as we near completion.
Christmas Eve mass is at 4:30, and by the time we’re done manufacturing pierogi like it’s our jobs it’s almost 3:00. At this point, we fight over who gets the first shower (usually me) and who’s stuck going after my sister (usually my dad). My sister takes epic showers. There’s only so much hot water in the heater. The third shower is always tragic.
My dad makes us remove our socks before leaving the kitchen, and cleans the flour off the floor while we shower. I’m not sure, but I think that may be his favorite part. He really loves vacuuming and cleaning in general.
When we get back from church, we put the big pot on to boil. Meanwhile, my mom puts frozen shrimp in the strainer to thaw. I melt down some butter and make a half-assed attempt to clarify it. My dad carefully sets the table with the Christmas Spode that he and my mom have been collecting one piece at a time since they met, making sure to set one extra seat, following tradition.
Once the several gallons of water come to a boil, the super-cooking-team-of-awesome gets back into action. All while we eat handfuls of shrimp. My sister transports pierogi into the kitchen, my dad submerges them in water, and as they come out, I coat them in butter “to keep them from sticking” (to say nothing of how good butter tastes…). This process continues for approximately forever, as we cook each potato pierogi and “pierogi-noodle,” even though we’ll never finish them all.
We do give it a valiant effort. They get slathered with sour cream and devoured in three pieces. Some years, I’ve eaten as many as a dozen or more.
When we have filled ourselves nearly to the brim, we put the water back on for the blueberry pierogi. We cook them as my mom clears away the sour cream-encrusted plates. My dad usually tries to keep his, claiming wastefulness, but my mom talks him out of it.
We eat the blueberry pierogi coated in cinnamon and sugar. Along side this desert we have hundreds of cookies and breads and cakes. At this point, our stomachs pretty much explode. We pack the now-solidifying butter-crusted leftovers into the fridge to be fried in future days. Food comas start up, and I really couldn’t tell you much else of what happens on Christmas Eve.
All of that adds up to Christmas Eve meaning far more to me than Christmas itself could. My Babcia’s recipe is the only thing I know of her, since she died two months before I was born. On her birthday. And I look like her. Yeah, I know that’s weird.
Moving on. Christmas Eve is awesome and full of tradition. And I’m looking forward to it eagerly.
I hope every one of you has a super awesome Christmas and Christmas Eve. And if you don’t celebrate such holidays, I still hope this weekend is super awesome for you. And on behalf of us Christians and Christmas-only-Christians, I appologize profusely for all the Christmas music you’ve been subjected to on the radio for the past month or more.
i love family traditions! i can’t wait to incorporate some of my family’s, fred’s family’s and then start our own some day with our own family. what a mess we’ll make! :-D we shall wreak blonde havok on the world!
For you poor souls that find your way here searching for a recipe for “panatone,” check out this public service announcement.