We tried our preserved cucumbers (i.e., in a vinegar solution as opposed to brine).
I think we’ve got the recipe of champions.
So we did another batch tonight…
food and cooking
Cukes
And by the way, the pickles turned out perfectly.
Pickles and Picnics
The Boy has some strange tastes, some strange favorites: pickle juice is a favorite drink. Finish off a bottle of pickles -- the American, vinegary type -- and he'll jump on that bottle immediately.
The Girl has always had some strange tastes, too. It's only been in the last year that she's even ventured to try that favorite of American kids from coast to coast, the humble (and not-so-good-for-you) hot dog.
What to make to make of this? Nothing more than the obvious: kids too are individuals, and their tastes grow and change with time. For now, we're happy the Girl loves so many Polish soups and the Boy just loves everything. Likely to change, but for now, it's good.
Na Oko
“Ile czosneku dajesz?”
“Na oko, na oko.”
When you’re getting recipes from Babcia, they tend to take that turn. “How much garlic do you add?” you might ask. “Just eyeball it,” comes the reply.
How can I possibly eyeball it when I’ve never done it in my life? Dziadek taught me in a similar way how to prepare the brine for meat when preparing pork for smoking. It was actually experience that taught me that, in reality, the proportions don’t matter so very much as you might expect.
Given the fact that the instructions Babcia provided for making pickles roughly approximated the instructions Dziadek gave for making the brine, I just eyeballed it.
Dill, whole allspice, some garlic, bay leaves — the Polish basics. I decided to add some fresh oregano and basil, knowing it probably wouldn’t have any effect given the amount of other spices I was putting in the brine.
I’ve always loved pickles, but it was in Poland that I learned what a true pickle could be, not preserved in some vinegar solution but made in a brine that leaves behind the look and taste of raw cucumber but transforms it just enough that it’s not, well, raw cucumber.
Given the number of cukes we’re pulling off our vines every day this year, we knew fairly early in the growing season that this would be the year we finally learned how to make our own pickles. Such a simple process: some herbs, some salt water, some cucumbers, a ceramic pot, and a bit of gauze to cover it all.
“You should be able to eat the smaller ones after four days or so,” Babcia explained. It might be difficult to wait that long.
Goodies for the Teachers
The chocolate treats we sent L’s teachers were such a hit we decided to do the same for E’s teachers. And when I say “we” in that sentence, I mean K.
Eating Meatballs
We were heading out to check the mail this afternoon, L riding her scooter and E in my arms, when a old, loud pickup truck roared up the street. The Boy waved furious and shouted, "Hi Truck! We going to eat meatballs!"
In short, the Boy gets excited about the prospect of Swedish meatballs.
Pre-Party Saturday
Tomorrow is the Boy's birthday party. His actual birthday isn't until Wednesday, but who really throws a birthday party on Wednesday when we can do a double-duty birthday/Mother's-Day party on the preceding Sunday?
The upshot of this plan was simple: K kicked everyone out of the house in the early afternoon to work on the cake. It was one of those moments really to make me realize just how ineffably wonderful K is: how many would make a Black Forest cake as opposed to simply buying a cake at this or that bakery? In the end, it's not important how many would bake versus buy, it only matters that E and K are lucky enough to have a mother who bakes.
So the Boy and I headed to a park while the Girl went to a neighborhood friend who recently got a puppy. Everyone was happy. K had a quiet house in which to bake and clean; E had a playground to overwhelm him; the Girl got to play with both a friend and a puppy.
We all returned afterward for cake decoration, which doesn't go quite as planned, and fresh fruit with whipped cream -- as in heavy whipping cream that's been whipped -- and some last-minute playing in the yard.
The whole time, the Boy was thrilled.
"Who has 'happy birthday' tomorrow?" we all asked in turn.
The Boy points to himself and shouts, squeals, or barks, "Happy birthday!"
Morning Rituals
The day should begin like this. Every single day. Of course, it's April, which, according to the cliche, brings showers, indicating gray skies. Still, such an April is rare here in our part of the South.
Breakfast each day should be leisurely enough to include play.
If it's raisin bread on the menu, there should be plenty of time to load a truck with raisin bread and unload it.
Again, and again, and again.
Of course, the same goes for Cheerios, should that appear on the menu.
And there should be enough time after breakfast to play with trucks in the warm morning sun wearing your favorite shirt.
Soup, Boy, Man
We do love K’s żurek.
Kuchnia Góralska
"Do you think she could make us kwaśnica before she leaves?" P once asked K some weeks ago.
"Of course!" And what's not to love about kwaśnica, the tangy Highlander regional soup made of sauerkraut, stock, and magic.
I fell in love with this soup the first time I tried it. It's a little like any regional dish: every family makes it a little differently, and every family serves it a little differently. Babcia always served it with a heaping spoon of mashed potatoes pressed into the side of the bowl, liberally sprinkled with freshly fried bacon bits. The strands of kraut are crisp and sour; the bacon is smoky and crisp; the soup is bracing and warm; a bit of pork pulled from the sliced tenderloin that's been boiling in the soup grounds everything; the potatoes keep it all together. It's perfection in a every single spoonful.
And so P and his wife and two sons came over for dinner this afternoon, a long, warm afternoon promising spring but with bare trees as reminders of the actual date. Still winter, technically, but only a perfect day for kwaśnica in as much as friends have gathered together. A perfect day, perfect in every measure for kwaśnica, includes copious amounts of snow, gray skies, and below-freezing temperatures with a sun that sets just as a four-o'clock dinner is put on the table. Still, friendship is more important than snow, and besides, we have more than kwaśnica on the menu -- a bit of a surprise. A meaty, meaty surprise.
The translation for chleb ze smalcem hardly does it justice. After all, who would find lard spread on bread all that appetizing? But as always, a literal translation makes a farce of the actual meaning of the original. Chleb ze smalcem is a little touch of meat-lovers' heaven, another regional favorite from the mountains of southern Poland that calls for snow and reminds us once again how often "simple" is synonymous with "perfect" when it comes to food. The recipe only hints at the alchemistic perfection of the finished product:
- finely sliced bacon fried, with the drippings remaining
- sauteed onion
- sauteed apple
Take those three simple ingredients, mix them together with the drippings (preferably in something small and ceramic), and then set it in a cool place to let the drippings solidify a bit. Smear on fresh bread -- real bread that's solid with chewy, thick crust -- and then prepare yourself, because the number of neurons that will be firing that first bite will overwhelm.
It's a dinner that I'd ask for if I were on death row...