By Natalia Hauderowicz
Stepping through the doorway, you realize the reek of cod and sauerkraut has fled the air. With the obligatory 12 dishes of fish required at a Polish Christmas dinner, a new scent seemed astonishing. A wave of warmth, comfort, and pastry greets you at the door, inviting you to enter. With a smile growing on your face, you turn the corner to the kitchen: eyes switching from the dried fruits scattered all over the counter, to the kitchen scale placed in one square of open space, to the hand mixer sitting next to the egg shells, and finally, to the oven. You see your 75-year-old grandmother pop up from beneath the counter, dressed in her "Don't Fuck With The Cook" apron, who’s meaning she doesn’t understand.
“Keksik?” you ask, practically beaming.
She smiles and nods her head, then quickly turns back to work. Your face lights up, you can feel the nostalgic aromas turning into flavours in your mouth: a batter not too dry, yet not too dense, unsweetened but balanced by sugary fruits, and a dish cooked once a year -- just in time for Christmas.
The first recipe of this cake came from my great grandmother, Zosia. Although written in the 1940s, the original recipe sits neatly filed in a book to this day. The charcoal handwriting has grown dim, but the memories attached remain lustrous. During the 1940s, the Holocaust was at its worst for Polish citizens. During these times, Zosia and her family had been forced to leave Poland. Through living in Czechoslovakia, Ukraine, and Germany, no matter how unpredictable life had been, Keksik was a constant each year. To me, this cake does not only represent Christmas, but how my family stays true to its traditions -- no matter the conditions and circumstances -- and that even through the darkest of times, something as simple as a cake is never left behind.
Stepping through the doorway, you realize the reek of cod and sauerkraut has fled the air. With the obligatory 12 dishes of fish required at a Polish Christmas dinner, a new scent seemed astonishing. A wave of warmth, comfort, and pastry greets you at the door, inviting you to enter. With a smile growing on your face, you turn the corner to the kitchen: eyes switching from the dried fruits scattered all over the counter, to the kitchen scale placed in one square of open space, to the hand mixer sitting next to the egg shells, and finally, to the oven. You see your 75-year-old grandmother pop up from beneath the counter, dressed in her "Don't Fuck With The Cook" apron, who’s meaning she doesn’t understand.
“Keksik?” you ask, practically beaming.
She smiles and nods her head, then quickly turns back to work. Your face lights up, you can feel the nostalgic aromas turning into flavours in your mouth: a batter not too dry, yet not too dense, unsweetened but balanced by sugary fruits, and a dish cooked once a year -- just in time for Christmas.
The first recipe of this cake came from my great grandmother, Zosia. Although written in the 1940s, the original recipe sits neatly filed in a book to this day. The charcoal handwriting has grown dim, but the memories attached remain lustrous. During the 1940s, the Holocaust was at its worst for Polish citizens. During these times, Zosia and her family had been forced to leave Poland. Through living in Czechoslovakia, Ukraine, and Germany, no matter how unpredictable life had been, Keksik was a constant each year. To me, this cake does not only represent Christmas, but how my family stays true to its traditions -- no matter the conditions and circumstances -- and that even through the darkest of times, something as simple as a cake is never left behind.
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You will need:
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Directions:
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