I’ve always felt estranged from my Polish heritage. After all, I have no living relatives that speak the language, and I’m several generations removed from my family members that emigrated from Poland. However, once a year, my grandmother, father, and I spend the entire day making a Polish dish known as pierogis: a dumpling commonly filled with potatoes, cheese, onions, or meats.
I recall scooping up a handful of flour and gently sprinkling it across the counter before my grandmother placed the ball of dough on the surface. She pressed the rolling pin into the dough, efficiently working it into a flat disc. It was the perfect bouncy texture; it rolled out evenly and held its shape, yet once cooked it became the most delicious melt-in-your-mouth texture. I handed her the circular cookie cutter, and she began pressing it into the dough to create perfect circles. Meanwhile, my dad scooped out a ball of filling made from mashed potatoes, cheese, green onions, and far too much butter. Scraping it out of the batter scoop, he rolled it between his calloused palms before placing it on the counter. I picked up a circle of dough and gently stretched it, then placed the ball of filling in the middle. I then folded the dough over the filling and caringly pinched the two sides together to form a dumpling. I watched my grandmother do the same, noticing the delicate movements of her hands as her sunspot-covered fingers pinched the dough to form a pierogi. As she placed hers in line with the dozens of others that we had previously made, it was obvious that the perfectly formed ones were hers while mine stuck out like a sore thumb with all the lumps and uneven ridges. Nevertheless, she smiled warmly at me as we continued to work.
As we worked, my grandma would tell stories of her childhood growing up in rural Pennsylvania with immigrant parents. She told of how she would go to school and then return home to teach English to her
mother, and how the rag man would pass by in the late hours of the evening, shouting, “Rags!” as he meandered down the alley with his rickety cart. Making pierogis together felt like I got to experience a part of her childhood since her grandmother always made them for her growing up. I’m distant from my Polish heritage, but making a traditional Polish dish connects me to my family and my history. Though our recipe isn’t traditional, the act of making a culturally significant food brings our family together while connecting us to our past.
Pierogi Dough Recipe
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Pierogi Filling Recipe
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