Indeed!
food and cooking
Teaching the Next Generation
It's how knowledge has always been transferred: generation to generation. Granted, written and electronic communication seems somehow to supersede the oral tradition, but we learn best by doing -- always have, always will.
My father taught me many things I use today by showing me how to do it, and he continues to do so. Whenever I'm messing with the electric system of our house, I always ask him to come over to sit guard and make sure he stops me before I do anything stupid.
It was my father-in-law, though, who taught me how to smoke meat, who taught me how to prepare the brine, rub down the meat with spices, keep the flame low but sufficiently hot, how to treat the meat with care afterward.
Perhaps I'll be closing the generational gap with the Boy.
The Day Before
So much done; so much to do.
Cooking, cooking, cooking.
And a bath.
Assisted Preparation
We've a busy few weeks in front of us: this weekend, baptism; next weekend, Polish Christmas party; following weekend, something I can't remember, and the same for the weekend after that. I just know it's busy -- blur-everything busy. And that requires preparation for the preparation: you have to plan your plans this time of year, I suppose.
We begin in earnest tonight: an hour's worth of ironing. There's a lot of pressing involved with traditional Polish Highlander costumes. I get to work on some of the food we'll be serving Saturday: pork roast goes in the oven as I slice the broccoli and cauliflower for the salad.
Nana and Papa, though, come over to the house to do the real heavy lifting.
Preparation
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.
Morning Play
We're almost in quarantine. With the Boy still a little iffy from a previous illness and K sick, we have stayed inside the whole weekend. Sometimes, though, that's just what we need: a lazy Sunday morning with everyone doing what we want. L reads; the Boy plays; I hang out with my children.
As the morning wears on, I turn my attention to the Boy's lunch: a soup made of pureed potatoes, carrots, squash, broccoli, and chicken. The Boy loves it, and I can see why: it's really not that bad, despite the fact that it's a bit bland due to the lack of seasoning.
The Girl helps with our lunch, which includes an eternal favorite for L: shrimp. This time, we set her to work cleaning them.
After lunch, a walk that reveals the irony of suburbia: nature and concrete.
With a short week in front of us, a relaxed Sunday is about perfect.
Future Food
It must be boring to eat the same thing, meal after meal, day after day. I can’t imagine I’d like it very much. K and I used to eat oatmeal most mornings for breakfast, and then it became an everyday thing. It soon became clear to me that I must stop eating so much oatmeal or I’d never be able to look at a Quaker Oat’s box again without having a fit of some sort.
Yet that is precisely what E does, only it’s not a question of X or Y for breakfast or lunch every day. It’s a question of X for every meal, every single day.
Still, it won’t last long. He’s almost four months old. We’ve begun giving him rice cereal and grated apple. At the same time, it’s mixed with milk, so it probably tastes just about the same as every other meal — the consistency alone might be a little different.
But that doesn’t keep him from dreaming of the not-too-distant future.
Mixing
The Girl has fallen in love with the Olympics. "Can I watch gymnastics tonight instead of reading before bed?" she asked last night. This morning, it's the same. She has her favorites, but she'll watch just about anything. Gymnastics, though, sends her into a hypnotic trance -- at least as much as a hyper five-year-old slide into motionlessness.
After breakfast, she, K, and the Boy curl up to watch beach volleyball -- not the Girl's favorite, but she still chants "U-S-A!" endlessly.
It's been an inspiring week for her. A week of growth. Rarely does she list "princess" as the first thing she wants to do with her life. Now the list includes gymnast, swimmer, dancer, and artist. Occasionally she adds "princess" to the mix," but so many other things seem so much more interesting.
But I'm not really worried about that kind of mixing. She'll have enough goal mixing as she grows up. I anticipate at least three different majors during her freshman year, now only thirteen years away. No, it's the little things that thrill me more.
Things like stabbing a green bean and a piece of chicken onto the lunchtime fork in an effort to kill the bean taste. Or mixing rice and leftover chicken.
Sources of Joy
Having someone play with you and your dolls is a great source of joy. “Pretend she’s…” begins most every sentence — and this time, the playmate will actually play along with the request.
Being surrounded by dogs thrilled to be with you and eager to show you is an endless source of joy. It lasts as long as the dogs’ energy, hence it is truly seems infinite.
Having a good stretch after filling your belly is joy that at its very center is complete contentment.
For good friends, it’s something a simple as sharing food — a freshly-picked cherry tomato or a plate of pierogi.
Untameable tomato plants that tower above you are a promise of present and future joy.
And the greatest source of joy is seeing all those you love happy.
Southern Requirements
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.