FROSTBITTEN PIEROGI
by Jennifer Ostromecki 

Inside our house I shiver while my breath fogs the window; I draw a cake with seven candles then wipe the pane before Mama notices. Babcia bangs and clangs pans in the kitchen behind me. She and Mama spent all Sunday cooking for my party, which would’ve been today. But the ice happened. Now, all of Rochester is in a state of emergency: roads slick like skating rinks; branches bow and break, layered in ice; powerlines snake on the ground.

Babcia’s stayed with us for four days. I camp on the floor, like a sleepover, while Babcia sleeps in my big girl bed. Tata sleeps in the guest room now because Mama says he snores too loud.

 “Babcia is waiting to make pierogi with you, Eva,” Mama shouts from the top of the stairs, her Polish accent thick because she’s annoyed. She stomps down the stairs, knocking Ken from his apartment with Barbie. He tumbles and lands with a thunk. “The stairs aren’t toys! Clean this mess.”

As I move the Barbies from their homes, Tata tiptoes down sipping coffee from the World’s-Best-Dad mug I got him for Christmas. He’s careful not to mess up the neighborhood and rescues Ken with his free hand, but puts him in the wrong house.

He ruffles my hair, messing up my ponytail, but I don’t mind. Tata disappears into the kitchen. I hear him shuffle down the three steps into the family room while Mama and Babcia chatter in Polish and I organize the toys into storage totes. The garage door thumps closed.

“Eva Magdalena,” Mama calls from the kitchen. She means business.

Blue flames lick the bottom of a heavy metal pan. Onions sizzle. Then, pop pop pop! Steam rises from a large pot. Flour dusts the counters white, like everything outside under the ice. Babcia stands with her back to me. She wears a skirt with stockings and a bright red cardigan—her sleeves rolled up past her elbows. She always dresses up, even when there’s nowhere to go, and only speaks Polish (even though she understands English).

Mama’s gone. She avoids being in the same room as Babcia if she wants “to have peace in the house.”

One sleeve slides toward Babcia’s dough-caked hands. I pull it up for her. “Dziękuje. Are you helping me make pierogi?”

I answer in Polish. “I have to help. Mama says ‘stop taking people for granted’ like Tata. But I don’t take Tata for granted.” I shrug.

She raises an eyebrow. “Have to? If you want to eat, then yes, you have to.”

I sigh. I want to eat. But aren’t grownups supposed to make all the food? Mama always cooks dinner, but sometimes, when she’s not home, Tata will buy me McDonald’s, as long as it’s our secret. He says it’s okay to have some secrets because some truths hurts people’s feelings. I like our secrets. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings either, so I never tell him I wish he would play board games or color with me instead of watching TV. But because he likes it, I watch TV with him and always let him pick the shows. We both love Saturday morning cartoons.

I drag a chair to the counter; Babcia winces at the noise. I expect Mama to rush in to scold me, but the house stays quiet. I smile then climb onto the chair, kneeling. The dough is rolled out like when we make cookies or pie crust. “Babcia, that dough is too big for pierogi.”

She laughs. “You think this is my first time making pierogi? You’re seven now; it’s time you learn. In Poland, when I was seven, I would milk the cows, scrub the floors by hand, and bring in eggs after cleaning the coop.”

“You lived on a farm, Babcia. We don’t have a coop, or cows.” She hands me a glass. “I’m not thirsty.”

“It’s not for you. It’s for pierogi.” She guides my hand to flip the glass upside-down. “Now, use the glass like when we make cookies.”

When the garage door slams, I flinch, but pretend to cough. Babcia never misses a beat, her movements steady like a baking timer. She adds the sautéed mushrooms to the bowl of sauerkraut like nothing happened. While I press circle cut-outs with the glass, Babcia stirs the mixture with Tata’s spatula, which has a big sun on it—his Polish nickname for me, słoneczko, because he says my smile is like summer sunshine. Every Saturday he flips pancakes with it.

Using a glass for a cookie-cutter isn’t great; the dough sticks inside so I peel it off. I think of my snowman cookie-cutter and giggle imagining snowman-shaped pierogi.

“Good job, Eva.” Babcia places the large bowl behind my hard work and wedges a spoon into it. “Now we add the filling. Careful—it’s hot.”

I dig out a heaping pile of sauerkraut. Steam rises from it. A mushroom plops back into the bowl. “Like this?”
            At first Babcia murmurs in agreement, but when she checks over her shoulder her expression changes. I prepare to be scolded, like Mama would, but she shakes her head and laughs, curls bobbing. Her calm makes me more nervous.

            “Eva, what’s wrong? Just put less on the spoon. No reason to cry,” she says, her voice soothing like sipping velvety hot chocolate.

            I sniffle and hide my watery eyes in my elbow. I don’t want her to think I’m a baby.
            “No one gets it right the first time. Not even your mama.”

            I don’t believe her. Mama doesn’t allow mistakes.

            Babcia lifts the perfectly round dough from the flour-dusted counter. It looks like a Play-Doh pie folding over her fingertips. She cups her hand, cradling the dough, then plops the filling into the center.

            “Now, press the dough together so that it doesn’t fall apart when boiled.”

            She lays it in front of me, then grabs another dough-round and repeats the steps. A matching pair sit on the counter. “Did you know I was making pierogi on the day you were born? Now, it’s tradition…for good luck.”

            I try pinching one together but the filling flops out. Babcia pats my hand. “Watch what I do then try it on yours. We will do it together.”

            I smile at the word together. I like the idea of us as a team—two pierogi makers—I’m less scared to mess up. She takes one side of the dough, lifting it a little, then pulls it toward her. “See how I folded that in half?”

I concentrate very hard so I don’t miss a single step, to make her proud.

“Pinch it,” she says in English, but it sounds more like an English-speaker trying to say the Polish word for five hundred.

“Like when we make pie?”

She smiles. “Yes, just like that.” She switches back to Polish.

My heart flutters: Babcia is proud of me.

“You can use your fingers.” She takes the dough and pinches it like she sometimes pinches my cheeks. Then takes my hand and lets me pinch, pinch, pinch. She holds it like a jewel. “There you go—your first pieróg.”

Babcia pinches five more, very fast, as I finish one. Hers look perfect: half-moons with bulging white bellies and scalloped edges. Mine is flabby with a wide, flat lip. I watch Babcia’s hands, papery frail with strong blue veins, work the dough in delicate pinches.

“You can also seal it with a fork.” She hands me one.

I don’t understand. I use my fork to stab chicken nuggets and the broccoli. How will stabbing the dough help? I grab the fork (Mama says I hold it like a shovel), but before I can stab the dough pocket, Babcia moves the handle between my thumb and pointer finger, like a magic wand. We rock the fork forward until the pointy teeth smoosh into the dough. Then we lift it, move it over, and do it again. And again. And again. Forming a cool stripe pattern.

My stomach grumbles. We’ve been working a long time.

“Babcia, why are we making pierogi when we have lots of party food?”

“Don’t you feel useful being productive? Plus, cooking is my therapy.”

“Oh.” Mama and Tata told me about therapy; if they cook, they never bring me leftovers. “But what about the extras?” In school, I learned about food shortages. But because I can’t mail stuff from our cupboard across the world, Mama tells me to eat all my meals.

“We freeze them.” She winks. “We never waste food. I learned that as a young girl in Poland during the war.” Babcia is very smart; I hope I’m like her when I grow up. “We can store them in the garage.” Tata unplugged the refrigerator to save power so we use the garage like a huge refrigerator now—the garagerator, my new favorite pretend word. We stocked the garagerator with all the stuff the refrigerator had, lined in rows like soldiers. I stacked boxes of Eggo waffles and Toaster Strudel on Tata’s workbench underneath his tools, like breakfast Jenga. I wonder if pierogi get frostbite as waffles do.

“Did you make pierogi with Mama when she was a girl?”

“Of course. Now I’m teaching you.” The large pot’s lid begins to bounce from the foam bubbles, and some water sloshes out. Babcia lowers the temperature and the rumble steadies. “Your mommy was a naughty girl. She would steal pierogi then sling them across the room.”

Babcia grabs another dough round, zipping through the steps. She balances it on the handle of a fork, then pretends to slap the other end. I squeal, thinking she might do it.

A door slams and Mama rushes into the kitchen wearing her coat. “Why are you screaming?” Her eyes are red, her hair wild.

“Are you helping Tata outside?” I ask in English.

“We’re talking,” Mama replies, her voice sounds harsher speaking English. She eyes Babcia who keeps pinching pierogi. “Tata is checking on the backup generator.” Babcia dunks the pinched pierogi into the boiling water, its rumbling now quieter.

“Why did you fling pierogi?”

Mama yanks my sleeves then tugs my long hair into a fresh ponytail. The elastic pinches my head. “Much better—what?”
“In Poland, as a girl.”

Mama says, “Your uncle dared me.” She licks her finger then wipes my face. I squirm and scrunch my nose.

“You told me not to do things just because others dare you.”

“That’s exactly right.” Mama nods. “You’re lucky to have Babcia as your teacher.”

Babcia huffs and turns her back on Mama who looks like she might say something else, but leaves instead.

I face Babcia. “Why were you and Mama fighting earlier?”

Some bubbles spill out onto the burner with a hiss hiss hiss. Babcia removes a few pierogi with a large wire spoon; they slide on their fat bellies across the plate.

She takes off her glasses, wiping her face with her shoulder.

“What’s wrong, Babcia?”

“Nothing. Sometimes grownups get sad, but we must never show it. We are brave, yes? For now, let’s make pierogi.” She swats at my hand before I can bite my nail. “What’s the next step?”

“Tasting them!” I hop off the chair. “I like mine with butter, maybe sour cream too. I’ll get them!” I bounce down the steps to the living room. Babcia calls my name, but this job I can do by myself. I hopscotch the patterns in the rug to the garage door, careful to avoid the red because it’s magma—and that’s dangerous.

In the middle of the gargerator stand three long tables, waiting for a party, heavy with food jam-packed on plates, heaped into bowls, and crammed into every shape of Tupperware: a plate of deviled eggs topped with mustard sauce and peas; rows of rolled herrings in a crystal boat dish; a round platter piled with four different kielbasy; squares of different colored cheeses. A variety of salads: shredded beet; jarzynowa, finely a chopped root veggies mixed with mayo; a boring American lettuce one wrapped in Clingfilm. Hearty entrées: a Tupperware full of mashed potatoes, a tray of breaded pork cutlets, and a tall pot of bigos, cabbage stew with chunks of sausage—my favorite. Babcia cooks it every holiday and special occasion. There’s other Polish dishes, too, nearly as much as when we prep for Thanksgiving and then eat leftovers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner…for days.
The butter tub waits on the far table wedged between Tata’s famous ćwikła (he says “Polish people like having beets prepared numerous ways”) and Mama’s mushroom gravy. I grab it; the outside door slams. Startled, I duck.

“I just don’t understand how much longer you expect me to play happy family,” Tata says. I hide under the tablecloth.

“Now is not the right time to talk about this, Walter. My mother is here and it’s Eva’s birthday.”

“You’re right. You’re always right. You tell me when it’s the right time. You control everything else.”

“If family is such a burden on you, please don’t bother with us.”

I drop the butter. It lands with a thwack.

“Who’s there?” Mama asks.

I don’t answer, but they must hear me crying.

“Eva?” Tata pulls up the tablecloth. “Słoneczko!

Hearing that nickname makes me cry harder. I hide my head in my knees, hugging my legs, like sunshine disappearing behind storm clouds. Tata cradles me as he carries me into the living room, leaving Mama behind. Warm air from the wood-burning stove kisses my cheek, but I’m shivering from the garagerator cold. The room smells of firewood and fried onions.

Tata and Mama huddle near me, but on opposite sides. “I don’t need a party—even when the Ice Storm is over,” I whisper.

Babcia holds a plate of boiled pierogi. “Why is she crying on her birthday?” She scolds them, speaking fast and using Polish words I don’t understand. The pierogi bounce around like bumper cars.

“Am I really selfish?”

Tata looks like someone punched him. “No, sunshine. Who said that to you?” He strokes my hair. “Sometimes grownups fight.”

“You’ve ruined everything,” says Mama, standing, hands on her hips.
“No, honey, don’t cry,” Tata says. “She means me, not you.” He whips his head toward Mama. “Magda, seriously?”
“I don’t want a party,” I say to Tata. “Please don’t be mad at me. I’m sorry I’m crying.”
“No one is mad, right Magda?” He looks at Mama. “Let’s talk, as a family.”
“Eva, we didn’t want to—”

The doorbell rings. Colorful balloons float into the room. Mama greets our neighbor Mrs. Potter who holds a cake topped with seven candles. Mama hugs Josie, and flicks one of her pigtail braids. Tata adds a log to the already hot fire, putting a smile on his face.

I wipe my tears and stand. I am seven. I can be brave.

About the Author:

Jennifer earned her BA in Literature from the University of Rochester and a MSc from the University of East Anglia. Her short story “pi” appeared in Pif Magazine and she recently completed a novel set in Edwardian England about redemptive love and the many definitions of family. Follow her on twitter, @jomecki.

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