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 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| March 13th Prompt: What traditional food dishes from your culture does your family still enjoy? Tell us about how the recipe was passed down and what notificatiins were made over the years. My step-grandfather hailed from a Polish family. He chose to keep the spelling of his surname, Cherski, but a few of his relatives anglicized the name to Christie. I liked to tease him by lamenting that the cookie/cracker dynasty would've loved me as a granddaughter because I appreciated their delicious products. Alas, he was not nor had he ever been related to those Christies. Because of his heritage, Grandpa introduced me to pierogis. Now, he never created them himself. Well, okay, once in a blue moon he deigned to peel potatoes for the prep. work, if he was in a good mood. Most of the pierogis were made by his wife and daughters. From start to finish, this meant a long day of assembly line toil. Potatoes were skinned and boiled in a gigantic pot. Bacon was fried in the largest pan. Numerous onions were peeled and chopped. Sauerkraut was drained. All of these ingredients were stirred together in at least two large bowls to make the pierogi guts. The shell ,the outside skin of the pierogi was fashioned from a flour dough mixture cut into circles with the rim of a drinking glass. I remember a haze of flour floating in the kitchen and the delectable aroma of sizzling bacon. Now, the assembly of the pierogis required copious mugs of tea, non-stop chatter, lots of laughter and nimble fingers. A teaspoonful of 'guts' was centred in a douch circle and then the wanna-be pierogi was folded in half and pinched. The secret was to be patient and warm the seam between fingers until a bond formed. This was important. The pierogis were slipped into boiling hot water until they floated to the surface. If a seam had not been closed, the 'guts' spilled out into the pot. Families are forgiving sorts. I'd participated in this ritual at least once a year since my birth. I knew what was what. This did not deter me from taste-testing the delectable 'guts' more than I pinched the pierogis togther. In other words, my intake did not match or better my out put. Before long, I'd be banished from the pierogi party which suited me just fine. I always preferred eating the finished project. I became spoiled. To this day, if I crave pierogis I wait until my sister, or an aunt makes them. I am pierogi-dependent. I'm not sure that a printed recipe exists. The pierogi caretakers just know what to do. Now, my father, the diesel mechanic grease-stained hands cook of the family was famous for producing these biscuit/buns. He worked from sure experience and never consulted a recipe. He never measured ingredients either. He believed in a pinch of this, and a smidgen of that, or a dab here and there. He also mixed with his hands. I dubbed them Father B. Biscuits and they never failed to be scrumptious. Years later,I experimented and managed to create something akin to my father's baking. Imagine my surprise to stumble across a cookbook recipe later still and it claimed these mythical delectables were in fact baking powder biscuits. To me they will remain a fond food memory of my childhood. |
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