With the year winding down, I suppose the temptation is to try to grow thoughtful about the year. Think of milestones and such. But sometimes, it’s good just to bake.
It’s good just to find good gingerbread recipe and make an evening out of the baking and decorating to gingerbread men.
To try novel concepts, like gingerbread/chocolate chip cookies.
As Christmas Eve (Wigilia) nears, the work pace turns frantic. The fact that Wigilia falls on a Monday this year makes things even more frantic. We have Sunday requirements to work into our Wigilia preparation work load. We split up Mass duty: K goes at 9:00, I go at 11:00. That leaves me with the little ones to entertain for a while.
“Let’s play Memory,” I suggest to L. I know it’s a losing proposition: she always wins. “Because it’s princesses!” she shouts in explanation as she heads up to her room. “I wonder how well you’d fare against me with a cigar band memory game,” I laugh to myself as she rifles through her game drawer. Unable to find the cards she returns somewhat dejected until I suggest that she make her own.
“Great idea! I’ll make them of my friends.”
Something tells me I’ll fare no better with this version, but before long, she has pairs of drawings of this best friend from school and that best friend in general — the best best friend — as well as assorted other friends and acquaintances. But really, at this age, most of her friends are her best friends, so she draws them all. We never get to play the game, though, because Mama returns from Mass and we head out, exchanging the Boy in the process.
As the afternoon approaches and the weather warms, K kicks us out. “I have more baking to do, and I don’t need the three of you in my hair.” The Boy and I head out for our usual walk, the loop I’ve been taking him on for seven months now. Strange how that has turned into something of a thermometer and chronometer: when we began the walks, we had to head out early in the morning, for by lunch time, it was entirely too hot; now we have to wait until after lunch because before the mornings are entirely too cold.
But perhaps not cold enough, for yesterday I mowed (!!) in a tee shirt, and today, I only need a long sleeve shirt to keep off the chill. Some might be tempted to envy, but believe me, it’s the other way around: I envy those who have a true, cold Christmas.
We take a detour with the Girl as she rides up the street to visit one of her friends, who in turn decides to head back down to our house with us. I see them into the house then head off with the Boy.
K, in the meantime, is battling American cocoa.
“It behaves differently from what I’m used to in Poland,” she explained years ago, before she mastered — more or less — the local options. She still probably doesn’t like it as much as what she grew up with, but that’s really understandable. Not many of us would prefer the new to what we’ve made memories from.
Once the Slovakian Hedgehogs (as the cakes are called in Polish) are done, L decides she’s going to leave one for Santa.
“But today is only the twenty-third!” one might respond. Well, clearly such an individual knows little about the Polish tradition (at least my Polish in-laws’ tradition) of opening presents on Christmas Eve rather than Christmas day. In that case, Santa must come at some point during the evening of the twenty-third. It makes no sense otherwise.
We don’t know how much of this is play with the Girl and how much is genuine belief. She once told me that she knew that I was Santa, but she seems to be playing along these days as if she’s clueless. It’s more fun for us all that way. Among other things, I get to write the thank you note from Santa:
Dear L,
Thank you for the cake, milk, prunes, and carrot. Mrs. Claus will be very happy to hear about the carrot: she always says I need to lose a bit of weight. But can you imagine a skinny Santa? Me neither!
Please apologize to your mother for me. I had to use some of her paper to wrap your presents. Rudolf got a little rowdy coming over, and the sleigh tipped to one side, and all the wrapping paper fell into the Atlantic Ocean.
Finally, I know you were a bit disappointed with the little slip of paper in your stocking. Relax: it’s just a note to help you find the actual gift. You need a bigger stocking, girl!
Until next year,
Santa
In the stocking, a surprise for tomorrow evening — something she’s never quite experienced.
Advent is a time of preparation, and if there happens to be any Polish genes in your immediate family, that’s likely a domestic and culinary as well as spiritual process. There’s all the cleaning that should be done — not quite spring cleaning, but awfully close — but it pales compared to the amount of cooking.
We’ve taken to starting early as a result. So early that it’s almost an exaggeration. Until you think about the other preparation that awaits. Add to it the coming baptism for the Boy — itself an event for Poles — and it’s no wonder that we’ve begun cooking Christmas Eve dinner already.
The dumplings for the barszcz and the second-course pierogi are ready. They’ll sit in the freezer for the next few weeks while we begin fermenting the beets for barszcz, smoking the tenderloin for Christmas-season gifts and treats, cleaning this, washing that — at least in the old days. With a six-month-old, who knows how much of the scrubbing will get done. But there are non-negotiables, and the food is among them.
When you live in the South, you have to learn how to bake cornbread. And since the Girl has developed a taste for it, K decided it’s time to add it to her repertoire.
The response from L? Squeals of delight. I suppose it’s to be expected: I grew up in the South; K grew up in southern Poland; we live in the South. There’s simply no escaping it.
We wake to a gray, foggy, and rainy morning, a day that promises only to compound the misery of trying to do anything in town. It’s the kind of day that one wants to stay inside, cuddle up,
and watch the Pacific Northwest Ballet’s performance of The Nutcracker.
It’s almost ninety minutes of dancing, with only limited, very sporadic narration, yet the Girl sits, fascinated. “When is the Sugar Plum Fairy coming?” she asks, over and over and over, with it often coming out as “Sugar Flum Pairy.”
Yet it’s not all relaxing, even if two of the three of us is feeling a little less than 100%. With Christmas nearing, it’s time to get to work on the Wigilia dinner — the Christmas Eve food extravaganza. Tonight, it’s pierogi z kapustą i grzybami (dumplings with cabbage and mushrooms) and uszka z grzybami (smaller dumplings — “ears” — with mushrooms).
We all have different jobs, with the Girl having the most fun and consequently making the biggest mess.
Some days just seem filled with it.
A little fire, a lot of smoke, and one ends up with peppercorn-covered, smoky tenderloin magic.
A few twigs of evergreen and a sweet helper and one ends up with a charmed Christmas ornament, a mini-tree for the kitchen.
And there’s always the magic of dancing.
Baking seems to me, a non-baker who stands at the periphery, like a mixture of science, art, and alchemy. One mixes liquids, solids, and heat to produce temptations and treats. It’s a balancing act, and being one who doesn’t like to follow recipes, it’s no wonder I don’t even attempt to bake.
K, however, bakes. She has a classic love-hate relationship with it, though. Despite living in the States for almost six years, she still hasn’t gotten used to the ingredients available here. The flour behaves a little differently; the cocoa generally available is hopelessly difficult to work with; the yeast and sodas have minds of their own.
As a result, baking here requires more patience than usual. Why she continues to do it is a testament both to her Polish stubbornness and her good and giving soul.
When Dziadek was here a few years ago and built us a rural smoker, we expected we’d be using it much more often than we do. “Think of all the things we can smoke: turkey, chicken, pork tenderloin — all for great cold cuts that will be tastier and cheaper than anything we can buy.”
It was a glorious plan. An idea that lacked only a couple of a few several steps to the dream of complete food cold cut self-sufficiency. Soon, though, we’d be raising and slaughtering our own swine, harvesting our own salt from the sea to mix with our homegrown onions and herbs.
The business of life, though, got in the way.
Still, the infrequency — Christmas and Easter — heightens the savoriness.
When Christmas Eve dinner includes two soups, multiple courses, and more desserts than one can possibly imagine, it’s a good idea to get started a little earlier.
Ten days ought to do.
And so last night we began by preparing the cabbage/mushroom filling for the dumplings. It’s neither a long nor a labor-intensive process, but when there will be cakes to bake and soups to season during the days before Christmas, it puts things into a little different perspective.
So last night we cooked the sourkraut, sauted the onions, ground them to a literal pulp, mixed a sprinkle of bread crumbs and called it a night.
Tonight, stuffing and fast-freeze.