Pierogi

In any conversation that you might have with a person you love, the things of greatest importance to you, regardless of any original reasons or goals you might have had for the conversation, will always surface.

For instance, I remember the first time I met a good friend from my days in seminary. We were in New York City, it was hotter and more humid than I remember New York ever being, and it was lunch time. We had a break during our orientation, so grabbed plates and dispersed to various places. Most people stayed inside, because of the heat, but I ventured out, and sat near a person who, after just a few moments, I knew was about to become a good friend. Because we started talking about food. The food we were eating. The food we might eat at our next meal. The food around town we loved and couldn’t wait to eat again. The foods that made up our lives.

The original purpose of these tapes was to record my mother’s memories of her mother, my grandmother, so that I might write a story. I went with my mother to visit with her Uncle and Aunty—my great Uncle and Aunty—in order to learn about my grandmother, my Uncle’s sister, and record their memories, too. And while we did talk about my babci sometimes—and my mom and Aunty and Uncle’s various physical and emotional aches and pains—mostly, we talked about food. Coffee and cake, brined pickles and onions, and pierogi.

We all have a recipe. A dish that someone we loved made for us growing up. The one we might have made alongside them back in the day. The one we make now that they are gone. The one that is constant in our memories, and that we crave—not so much because we are hungry for food, but—because we are hungry for them. Pierogi is that recipe for me.