I think they’ve got it all wrong. Subsequent generations have always believed that the baby boomers grew up having their lives handed to them on a silver platter. Graduating school, marrying young, first home at 21– they were blessed. The boomers themselves believe it but chalk it up to superior work ethic– rather than a twist of fate. Prosperity after the collapse of the world as we knew it, as they are the phoenix rising from the ashes. But they’ve got it all wrong.
Their parents shooed them onto manicured suburban lawns so they could draw the curtains, smoke cigarettes and talk in hushed tones around formica tables. They washed and reused ziplock bags, hoarded scraps of fabric and filled jars with loose screws as if this would somehow protect them from a threat of war that was no longer there.
They raised these golden children who had new names and nationalities. These children turned their noses at their horseradish and cabbage instead growing on hotdogs, Kraft dinner and tinned soup to adults who dined on biryani, sashimi and dolmas. These children married other golden children from other cultures, which left them gazing at grandchildren, searching for familiarity in faces, skin and hair they didn’t recognize.
They didn’t talk much about the past with their children, not directly, at least. But somehow as the years went by, while mashing potatoes and mixing in the pressed cheese, the repetitive motions of childhood opened windows into the past. It brought back memories of the night the soldiers came and ordered them onto the lorry, that their beloved dog chased them down the driveway, running for miles and miles after the truck until it picked up speed and they shrunk into the night.
It was kneading the dough, with arthritic hands, similar to the ones their youngest sister would squirrel away her rations of bread from the camps under her cot, before they laughed at the futility of the action, knowing it would end up spoiled and wasted. That same sister that had died just a few years back, her mind and body broken, thrashing and shrieking as the nursing home attendants held her down to change her diaper as she warded off the imaginary soldiers whom she was petrified of being beaten by once again.
So while these golden children grew in prosperity and abundance, their mothers rocked them to sleep with foreign lullabies sung behind haunted eyes. They fondly reminisce about their wild freedoms and the sparking off streetlights beaconing them home, while we, their children, receive as inheritance not money or belongings, but recipes and memories.
These memories and recipes were never regarded with fondness nor smiles when they had been passed down to me, but they were received with such. Beating the dough with weak arms and gently folding them into perfect semi-circles brought to mind the memories my grandmother shared with me. Both the good and bad rolled into dough– rolled alone, after her passing. She never told me much about her experiences, but they would always show in her eyes. I never truly understood why she’d look so wistful as she stared at the rolls of dough, however, as I grew, I recognized her empty gaze as longing.
I long for her in a similar way. I long for something more intimate than what I had received, but perhaps memories of her teachings are enough. Even if I never truly knew her, she had passed down one of the only things she had to me– a recipe for pierogi– just as her mother had likely passed them down to her. And now, I wish to pass it on to you.
Their parents shooed them onto manicured suburban lawns so they could draw the curtains, smoke cigarettes and talk in hushed tones around formica tables. They washed and reused ziplock bags, hoarded scraps of fabric and filled jars with loose screws as if this would somehow protect them from a threat of war that was no longer there.
They raised these golden children who had new names and nationalities. These children turned their noses at their horseradish and cabbage instead growing on hotdogs, Kraft dinner and tinned soup to adults who dined on biryani, sashimi and dolmas. These children married other golden children from other cultures, which left them gazing at grandchildren, searching for familiarity in faces, skin and hair they didn’t recognize.
They didn’t talk much about the past with their children, not directly, at least. But somehow as the years went by, while mashing potatoes and mixing in the pressed cheese, the repetitive motions of childhood opened windows into the past. It brought back memories of the night the soldiers came and ordered them onto the lorry, that their beloved dog chased them down the driveway, running for miles and miles after the truck until it picked up speed and they shrunk into the night.
It was kneading the dough, with arthritic hands, similar to the ones their youngest sister would squirrel away her rations of bread from the camps under her cot, before they laughed at the futility of the action, knowing it would end up spoiled and wasted. That same sister that had died just a few years back, her mind and body broken, thrashing and shrieking as the nursing home attendants held her down to change her diaper as she warded off the imaginary soldiers whom she was petrified of being beaten by once again.
So while these golden children grew in prosperity and abundance, their mothers rocked them to sleep with foreign lullabies sung behind haunted eyes. They fondly reminisce about their wild freedoms and the sparking off streetlights beaconing them home, while we, their children, receive as inheritance not money or belongings, but recipes and memories.
These memories and recipes were never regarded with fondness nor smiles when they had been passed down to me, but they were received with such. Beating the dough with weak arms and gently folding them into perfect semi-circles brought to mind the memories my grandmother shared with me. Both the good and bad rolled into dough– rolled alone, after her passing. She never told me much about her experiences, but they would always show in her eyes. I never truly understood why she’d look so wistful as she stared at the rolls of dough, however, as I grew, I recognized her empty gaze as longing.
I long for her in a similar way. I long for something more intimate than what I had received, but perhaps memories of her teachings are enough. Even if I never truly knew her, she had passed down one of the only things she had to me– a recipe for pierogi– just as her mother had likely passed them down to her. And now, I wish to pass it on to you.
Gather your ingredients first and foremost.
For the dough:
- 1kg Lubella’s Puszysta Polish flour (approx 4 ¼ cups, or a small bag) (all purpose can be used as a substitute)
- 4 eggs
- Approx. 1 cup milk
For the filling:
- 1 block (8 oz) Farmer’s cheese
- 3-4 small white onions
- 5 lb bag of russet potatoes
- Various cheeses of your choice, to taste (I like nacho or blue)
Extras (Amount needed may vary based on preference):
- Potato masher
- Ziploc bag
- Olive Oil
- Water
- Salt and Pepper
- Butter
Now let's begin!
In a large bowl, add 1kg Polish flour, which is approximately 4 ¼ cups. (Commonly, we use Lubella’s Puszysta Flour, but All Purpose of any brand can be used.) and make a small “well” in the middle. On the side, in a large measuring cup, beat together 4 eggs before pouring up milk to 1 ¾ cup on the measure. Fold this into the mixture a teeny tiny bit at a time!
Once the mixture seems to look like a ball of dough, wrap it in saran wrap and store it overnight. Make sure your farmer’s cheese is in the fridge overnight as well.
Next, chop 3-4 small white onions, and caramelize in oil and butter. This means to simply cook ‘em in a pot on medium heat, and once they begin to soften and gain a golden-brown hue, turn it to a cool medium-low or low.
Now we’re making the filling, all the ooey-gooey goodness on the inside of the potatoes! Boil a 5 lb bag of potatoes, stripped naked and bare, and mash ‘em up leaving no clumps in your wake. Add in the onions you just prepped, along with your farmer’s cheese, to your potatoes, with salt and pepper to taste. This is also when I add in some other simple and silly cheeses I may like, other than the farmer’s cheese– I usually go with a bit of nacho cheese, maybe some blue cheese I steal from my brother’s stash of “cool and obscure cooking ingredients”. Keep mashin’ ‘em with your masher, really take out all your inner traumas and perils on that mixture. Leave no trace of the body.
Take out your (now refrigerated) dough and then cut out sections from it. Roll said sections into little snakes, before chopping them into approx. 1 inch portions. This is the last step that involves rolling– just roll out the 1 inch sections into little circles, filling each with a ball of the mashed potato mixture. You can then fold ‘em up like a dumpling. You can press them together with just your hands or fingers, but sometimes, we make creases with a fork so they’re extra fancy!
Now it’s time to turn up the heat– boil some water in a pot with olive oil and salt, and once the water’s hot enough that bubbles are forming, throw your pierogi in there! I usually do a few at a time, since the batches are huge. I have pots that can hold around 12 pierogi at a time.
Now to decide– eat now, or later? You’ll probably have tons of little pierogilings running around, with how big the batch size is, you can probably freeze some up and throw them in a ziploc bag for later. If you’re saving for later, simply transfer them into a bag and pop ‘em in the freezer for whenever you need.
However, since these are too good to resist, you’ve gotta try them fresh out of the boiler. Thus, you can transfer your boiled pierogi onto a pan with butter until both sides are golden brown.
If you’re cooking from frozen, I recommend boiling your portion again, before transferring to the cooking pan.
I hope you enjoy these pierogi!