When I was a little girl growing up in the USA, I wanted to learn English and be able to speak as well as the other children my age.
The fact that I got picked on for my accent also made me try harder. Today, I wish I still had that accent, it was adorable (my Tato has video proof of it, I might share some time)!
The best resource I remember was Sesame Street. The characters were wholesome without being cheesy, the skits were just long enough to understand but not too long so that young children would lose focus, and plenty of sprinklings of education mixed in to the entertainment.
Today, my children have been growing up watching Sesame Street.
And not just Sesame Street. Also, Play With Me Sesame.
And...
Ulica Sezamkowa, the Polish version of Sesame Street. We go on YouTube and search either "Ulica Sezamkowa", "Bawmy się Sezamku" or "Swiat Elma" (Elmo's World).
I hope you enjoy this video I found.
Na razie...
A Mama born in Poland with "Gypsy Blood" living on the American Prairie with her daughters, two future Miss Poland and Nobel Peace prize recipients :: Food, Travel, Life...
Showing posts with label Children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Children. Show all posts
30 August 2011
05 July 2011
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland: In the Mountains With Chickens
I had been writing about my older daughter's first trip to Poland when she was 3 years old in a sequential order but have decided at this point to just write about it as the memories come back to me.
We are in the mountains of Poland visiting my Wujek's property. My Wujek, Ciocia, my middle cousin with her husband and two children, youngest cousin and her boyfriend, my Tato (Father), my daughter and myself have been spending the day enjoying the day.
All around, trees whisper in the breezes and in the meadow, the grasses bend their stalks gently rippling in the summer air.
The slopes are calling us all quietly. It's time for a spacer (pronounced Spah-tser, and meaning walk in Polish).
My Ciocia, middle cousin, her daughters, one wrapped in a baby wearing wrap safely snuggled against Mama and the other holding my daughter's hand, and myself all start the walk up the road. The road is gravel covered and winding up the mountain.
We pass an old stone structure. It is a Kiln from ages ago used by the villagers further down the slopes. There is finally a plaque in Polish about it's history. My borrowed camera batteries fail as I attempt to take photos.
Walking on, we are embraced by shadows. The hazelnut and pine trees whisper to each other about the people walking in their midst. I tell my daughter to keep her eye out for Krasnolutki and other fairy folk that live in these ancient woods. Her eyes flit left and right in excitement, hoping to find some.
The girls chatter together, one in English, the other in Polish, as they have since they met each other, the adults walking together and just enjoying each other's company and laughing that the girls can communicate together since neither speaks the others language.
The true test of this will come soon, we are to find out.
After a short walk, both start getting tired but more so my daughter. She is very used to long nature walks but the 6 hour time difference is affecting her energy constantly. We turn around to walk back down the mountain.
A bit down the trail, coming out from the cool summer shadows, the girls look down the road and see chickens from the house next door walking around as is common. They both begin to run. And keep running.
I start yelling to my daughter, "Stop running! Slow down!" but she keeps running. I start to run after her but my pregnant belly moves strangely from the motion, uncomfortably, something hard bouncing around inside and I stop running immediately. I call again, "Stop running!" The girls keep running.
Further down the road, brown and white chickens roam freely, chasing bugs in the sunlight without a care in the world. They look as though from the many bajki I read as a child and the folk art drawings my mother always treasured.
"Chickens! Get out of there! Come on (cousin), we have to stop them!" my daughter calls.
My daughter's cousin calls the same words, in Polish.
Running. Running. We start walking quickly behind, by now all of us calling for them to stop. I start envisioning chickens attacking my daughter. Not that chickens are mean, but provoked who knows how they could react to two small running assailants like our children.
Both Dziadeks to the girls, my father and Wujek, come running out onto the road, looking around and finding the girls. They are quickly snatched up and lectured on running away from their mommies and asked why they did so.
A moment later, both "Dziadek"s are laughing loudly. Even though the girls don't speak the same language, their stories completely match up. They were trying to stop the naughty chickens from going into my Wujek's yard. For the next few minutes, the girls are treated to hugs and kisses from the adults and we all discuss how amazing children are to not speak the same language yet be able to think along the same paths and communicate so well.
My Wujek then tells of the time he battled the rooster next door. While I love chickens, he does not. But then, he was awoken by this rooster for several years and it regularly enjoyed patrolling his yard and causing more grief than a rooster has the right to cause.
The two girls walk over to the overgrown fence and yell at the chickens for trying to enter my Wujek's yard, both in English and Polish. The chickens argue back. Both girls flap their arms like chickens and attempt to speak in "Chicken" to them and an argument between the chickens and the two girls occurs. The girls end with a well timed "Buck buck!" and walk away, satisfied that they had lectured the chickens about trespassing into this yard.
The girls run around trees bordering the meadow, chasing each other and pretending to be wood fairies. And the mountains look on in their ancient wisdom at us.
Related Post: My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland: Coming to Poland
We are in the mountains of Poland visiting my Wujek's property. My Wujek, Ciocia, my middle cousin with her husband and two children, youngest cousin and her boyfriend, my Tato (Father), my daughter and myself have been spending the day enjoying the day.
All around, trees whisper in the breezes and in the meadow, the grasses bend their stalks gently rippling in the summer air.
The slopes are calling us all quietly. It's time for a spacer (pronounced Spah-tser, and meaning walk in Polish).
My Ciocia, middle cousin, her daughters, one wrapped in a baby wearing wrap safely snuggled against Mama and the other holding my daughter's hand, and myself all start the walk up the road. The road is gravel covered and winding up the mountain.
We pass an old stone structure. It is a Kiln from ages ago used by the villagers further down the slopes. There is finally a plaque in Polish about it's history. My borrowed camera batteries fail as I attempt to take photos.
Walking on, we are embraced by shadows. The hazelnut and pine trees whisper to each other about the people walking in their midst. I tell my daughter to keep her eye out for Krasnolutki and other fairy folk that live in these ancient woods. Her eyes flit left and right in excitement, hoping to find some.
The girls chatter together, one in English, the other in Polish, as they have since they met each other, the adults walking together and just enjoying each other's company and laughing that the girls can communicate together since neither speaks the others language.
The true test of this will come soon, we are to find out.
After a short walk, both start getting tired but more so my daughter. She is very used to long nature walks but the 6 hour time difference is affecting her energy constantly. We turn around to walk back down the mountain.
A bit down the trail, coming out from the cool summer shadows, the girls look down the road and see chickens from the house next door walking around as is common. They both begin to run. And keep running.
I start yelling to my daughter, "Stop running! Slow down!" but she keeps running. I start to run after her but my pregnant belly moves strangely from the motion, uncomfortably, something hard bouncing around inside and I stop running immediately. I call again, "Stop running!" The girls keep running.
Further down the road, brown and white chickens roam freely, chasing bugs in the sunlight without a care in the world. They look as though from the many bajki I read as a child and the folk art drawings my mother always treasured.
"Chickens! Get out of there! Come on (cousin), we have to stop them!" my daughter calls.
My daughter's cousin calls the same words, in Polish.
Running. Running. We start walking quickly behind, by now all of us calling for them to stop. I start envisioning chickens attacking my daughter. Not that chickens are mean, but provoked who knows how they could react to two small running assailants like our children.
Both Dziadeks to the girls, my father and Wujek, come running out onto the road, looking around and finding the girls. They are quickly snatched up and lectured on running away from their mommies and asked why they did so.
A moment later, both "Dziadek"s are laughing loudly. Even though the girls don't speak the same language, their stories completely match up. They were trying to stop the naughty chickens from going into my Wujek's yard. For the next few minutes, the girls are treated to hugs and kisses from the adults and we all discuss how amazing children are to not speak the same language yet be able to think along the same paths and communicate so well.
My Wujek then tells of the time he battled the rooster next door. While I love chickens, he does not. But then, he was awoken by this rooster for several years and it regularly enjoyed patrolling his yard and causing more grief than a rooster has the right to cause.
The two girls walk over to the overgrown fence and yell at the chickens for trying to enter my Wujek's yard, both in English and Polish. The chickens argue back. Both girls flap their arms like chickens and attempt to speak in "Chicken" to them and an argument between the chickens and the two girls occurs. The girls end with a well timed "Buck buck!" and walk away, satisfied that they had lectured the chickens about trespassing into this yard.
The girls run around trees bordering the meadow, chasing each other and pretending to be wood fairies. And the mountains look on in their ancient wisdom at us.
Related Post: My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland: Coming to Poland
01 July 2011
Our First Midwest Tornado, Almost
Yesterday, I had the children in their room dressed after a bath and we decided to go say good night to their Dziadek before he went home. It was supposed to be an early bedtime with Mama feeling a bit grumpy for no good reason.
I glanced out the window and saw a dark cloud over the house but since the storms normally come from West to East, in other words, toward the Lake, so I figured a storm just missed us. But the sky looked yellow. And the trees were moving differently under the abuse of the Prairie Winds.
"There is storm coming from the Lake toward us, I just saw it. It was starting there and looks Nasty." My father proclaims while holding his youngest wnuczka (granddaughter in Polish) while his older wnuczka was singing for him in her nightgown.
I look back outside the window and all the sky is black. This was much faster than normal.
The power went out and suddenly, a squirming toddler froze in her Dziadek's arms and a school aged child sat next to them without speaking.
The power didn't return as we held our breathes. "Alright, time for bed. Dobra noc, Dziadek! Ja cie kocham! Buska!" I called out as the children repeated the words and kissed him goodnight.
We walked upstairs and a sudden gust of wind slams against the front of the house, blowing curtains through the seams of the windows. My heart leaped in surprise. The wind never blows against the front of our house.
The tornado siren went off. I listened, knowing it was the tornado siren because they go off once a month here testing that they work properly. But my mind was still in Maryland and thinking that it was a call to the volunteer fire department. A second wail of the siren and I told the children, "Back downstairs, in the bathroom, it's the tornado sirens."
My oldest ran down the stairs and on the floor of the bathroom, kneeled, bent down with her face over her head, like she was taught in school. The baby sat in my lap as I listened.
I could hear my older daughter whispering "Dear God, please don't let there be a tornado."
The men went outside to see. I comforted the kids and said, "Don't worry, if they run in yelling, do as you are told, but don't worry. The siren goes off if there is a chance of a tornado but doesn't always mean one."
My father and husband came back in to comfort us that they had not seen a tornado but to be safe, we should sit on the sofa nearby the bathroom for now. The tornado sirens had ended.
On the sofa, the toddler continued to stay quietly in my arms looking around and not wiggling as she normally does. Eventually, the dark and the quiet made her fall asleep. My older daughter hugged me and asked questions every so often.
The men came back in and said that the storm was just lightening and not to worry, the sirens were gone, go to bed.
I laid down the toddler and tucked in my older daughter in her room, who was so terrified still that she wanted me to sleep with her. After a while, the power flickered back on, then flickered again and went out. I saw outside a shower of sparks around a tree. A power line was broken. There would be no electricity for a while.
After a time, she fell asleep and I went outside to look at the lightening that was clustered around a point a bit away from us, the same spot over and over flashing with lightening for at least a half hour.
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I went back inside but a few minutes later, an opossum walked by our open garage and by husband and father standing outside. The opossum glanced into the garage and wandered off. Darn, the kids could have had a pet.
Electricity was restored late this morning. But it will take a lot longer for my older daughter to forget about that day.
I share this per the request of Dine and Write, also known as @thepolishviking on Twitter, who is an amazing cook and apparently secretly a fan of "storm chasers". The post I was planning to share about curry rice and Chicken po Staropolska can wait for another day.
I glanced out the window and saw a dark cloud over the house but since the storms normally come from West to East, in other words, toward the Lake, so I figured a storm just missed us. But the sky looked yellow. And the trees were moving differently under the abuse of the Prairie Winds.
"There is storm coming from the Lake toward us, I just saw it. It was starting there and looks Nasty." My father proclaims while holding his youngest wnuczka (granddaughter in Polish) while his older wnuczka was singing for him in her nightgown.
I look back outside the window and all the sky is black. This was much faster than normal.
The power went out and suddenly, a squirming toddler froze in her Dziadek's arms and a school aged child sat next to them without speaking.
The power didn't return as we held our breathes. "Alright, time for bed. Dobra noc, Dziadek! Ja cie kocham! Buska!" I called out as the children repeated the words and kissed him goodnight.
We walked upstairs and a sudden gust of wind slams against the front of the house, blowing curtains through the seams of the windows. My heart leaped in surprise. The wind never blows against the front of our house.
The tornado siren went off. I listened, knowing it was the tornado siren because they go off once a month here testing that they work properly. But my mind was still in Maryland and thinking that it was a call to the volunteer fire department. A second wail of the siren and I told the children, "Back downstairs, in the bathroom, it's the tornado sirens."
My oldest ran down the stairs and on the floor of the bathroom, kneeled, bent down with her face over her head, like she was taught in school. The baby sat in my lap as I listened.
I could hear my older daughter whispering "Dear God, please don't let there be a tornado."
The men went outside to see. I comforted the kids and said, "Don't worry, if they run in yelling, do as you are told, but don't worry. The siren goes off if there is a chance of a tornado but doesn't always mean one."
My father and husband came back in to comfort us that they had not seen a tornado but to be safe, we should sit on the sofa nearby the bathroom for now. The tornado sirens had ended.
On the sofa, the toddler continued to stay quietly in my arms looking around and not wiggling as she normally does. Eventually, the dark and the quiet made her fall asleep. My older daughter hugged me and asked questions every so often.
The men came back in and said that the storm was just lightening and not to worry, the sirens were gone, go to bed.
I laid down the toddler and tucked in my older daughter in her room, who was so terrified still that she wanted me to sleep with her. After a while, the power flickered back on, then flickered again and went out. I saw outside a shower of sparks around a tree. A power line was broken. There would be no electricity for a while.
After a time, she fell asleep and I went outside to look at the lightening that was clustered around a point a bit away from us, the same spot over and over flashing with lightening for at least a half hour.
I went back inside but a few minutes later, an opossum walked by our open garage and by husband and father standing outside. The opossum glanced into the garage and wandered off. Darn, the kids could have had a pet.
Electricity was restored late this morning. But it will take a lot longer for my older daughter to forget about that day.
I share this per the request of Dine and Write, also known as @thepolishviking on Twitter, who is an amazing cook and apparently secretly a fan of "storm chasers". The post I was planning to share about curry rice and Chicken po Staropolska can wait for another day.
10 June 2011
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, On the Plane and in Munich
The plane raised through the air and my older daughter grinned from the strange feeling, telling me loudly how exciting it was. She looked at the windows and all we could see were dark clouds and lightening flashing all around us. The wings of the plane were not visible.
"Mommy! Are we in the clouds?" she asked in disbelief. "Look, look, everyone! We are in the clouds! I wonder if we'll see Angels! Or God!"
When the pilot spoke over the intercom next, among the topics he discussed were that we would be experiencing turbulence for a while so it best would be to remained buckled in our chairs whenever we are not standing.
I took my daughter to the bathroom where she gushed over the small space and how strange everything was. And that she was "very unhappy" that I had a pair of disposable pull ups on her but I told her that I knew she was a big girl and that she knew how to use the potty since she was 1 1/2 but because the flight would be stressful and sometimes we might wait a long time to use a bathroom, I had them on her just in case so that if she did have an accident, nobody would know. She nodded seriously and told me that she needed "my privacy to use the bathroom, Mommy."
We hit a patch of turbulence and she squealed in the bathroom but bravely did her business, washed her hands and walked with me to our seats.
We buckled her back in, a flight attendant double checked that she was buckled, gave us an extra pillow and blanket for her and suggested that we remove her shoes. She also gave my daughter a coloring book, coloring pencils, a children's menu, and a puzzle, all of which she still has in a special box filled with her Poland souvenirs.
After a while of playing with headphones, pillows, singing, watching the television, and coloring, our meals came and she was not happy about spaghetti but I told her this was German spaghetti, it's very different, with a whisper and a wink. She tried it, hated it and ate the rest of her meal and some of mine and her Dziadek's.
Nap time came, lights were dimmed, windows closed and she stretched out, her head on her Dziadek's leg and her feet on me. She fell asleep happily but at one point, pushed her Dziadek and told him "Dziadek. You are in my space. This is my space. Where I am laying. And you are in it, I need you to move, please.," very seriously. A short quarrel interrupted while my cigarette craving father laughed and told her she was in his space and she completely disagreed. She finally settled on switching positions so that her feet were on her Dziadek. But then, later, woke up to tell him again. Frankly, the seriousness of her voice was too funny to be angry about.
And, considering the girl across the aisle from us was 5 years old, peed on her father, and started yelling for milk in her bottle in the middle of take off, I had to be proud of my little "gypsy" daughter. We ended up giving the father of the other girl a pair of Pull ups, which he accepted.
My daughter looked at me and asked in a whisper "why the big girl had pee peed on her Daddy" and I told her that flying is hard for kids and that all we can do is just try and stay calm. She smiled sleepily at me and said, "I love flying," before drifting off to sleep again.
We arrived an hour late in Munich. When we got off the plane, she told each of the crew goodbye and told them "Thank you so much! I mean, Dziekujem!" By this point, many of them knew her name and wished her a wonderful trip.
We ended up missing our connection flight by 15 minutes. But we were very happy with how Lufthansa handled it. We raced through the airport from one end to the other with a 3 year old who's "legs were
still sleeping" and who giggled uncontrollably as her Dziadek grabbed her by her teddy bear book bag and picked her up and carried her for a bit. Some people gave us dirty looks as we held onto her leash and carried her first in my arms or by the book bag by Dziadek or walking tiredly between us, but frankly, they were not in our shoes.
We made it to the next terminal 5 minutes too late. But the staff was very understanding, assuring us that they knew we could not have made it, as had the staff on the plane when we arrived. We were to take our connection flight 4 hours later. and they gave us each vouchers for 10 Euros at a restaurant in the airport. Which I mistook for 70, forgetting that in Europe they cross their "7"'s, just like I do, but I was tired and stressed.
The staff allowed us to use a telephone they had for situations just like this to our family telling them know about the flight change. Using the vouchers we were given, we found a restaurant with antlers, wooden decor, and women dressed in traditional German attire. My daughter couldn't believe she was in Germany and told the lady how pretty she looked in her outfit.
Weinerschnitzel and french fries were ordered for her and she devoured almost the entire adult sized plate, leaving the french fries because the "German chicken nugget is so good, Mommy!" My first sign that she would love the food in Poland without question.
We sat around, enjoying carrot salads, soups, frankfurters, and other foods I had grown up loving and missed terribly.
The airport had a glass ceiling with a fabric which was adjusted to either block or let in the sun and she marveled at it. She asked the waitress a lot of great questions about Germany.
In the bathroom, she asked why there was foaming antibacterial hand sanitizer in each stall. I explained how the instructions showed to use it, first you put some on a piece of toilet paper, then you wiped the seat clean, use the bathroom, then wiped it clean with the foam and toilet paper again. She asked more questions about why the bathrooms had different signs for men and women and I told her it was the international sign for that, and that in the US it was just different from the rest of the world.
She also asked why the walls were all tiled and the tiles were shaped different, and why the towel for wiping your hands dry were different. It was actually on a roll and you would wipe your hands dry, then pull and it would go to a new dry spot. There was a lot of discussion in that bathroom, more than I think I have ever had with her in a bathroom before or since. And I think that is when she realized how different it really is in America.
Finally, it was our time to catch our flight. We were put on a standing shuttle to an airplane that she said was so small, "it looks like a toy, Mommy! It's so cute!"
We went into the small airplane, where she and I again buckled in with a pillow between our bellies and the seat belt. This time, she had the window seat and watched, with her nose pressed against the glass, the beautiful countryside underneath her. When we were flying over Wroclaw, I pointed it out to her. "That's the city Mommy was born in. That's Wroclaw."
She gushed over how beautiful it was. "Mommy! It looks like a fairy tale!"
The plane landed and I turned to her and said, "Welcome to Poland, baby."
She smiled and whispered, "Poland." Then waved her arms and said, "I'm so excited, Mommy! Hey, Dziadek, we're in Poland! Where you and my Mommy are from!"
To be continued...
Related Posts:
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, The Planning
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Wordless Wednesday
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Our Departure
"Mommy! Are we in the clouds?" she asked in disbelief. "Look, look, everyone! We are in the clouds! I wonder if we'll see Angels! Or God!"
When the pilot spoke over the intercom next, among the topics he discussed were that we would be experiencing turbulence for a while so it best would be to remained buckled in our chairs whenever we are not standing.
I took my daughter to the bathroom where she gushed over the small space and how strange everything was. And that she was "very unhappy" that I had a pair of disposable pull ups on her but I told her that I knew she was a big girl and that she knew how to use the potty since she was 1 1/2 but because the flight would be stressful and sometimes we might wait a long time to use a bathroom, I had them on her just in case so that if she did have an accident, nobody would know. She nodded seriously and told me that she needed "my privacy to use the bathroom, Mommy."
We hit a patch of turbulence and she squealed in the bathroom but bravely did her business, washed her hands and walked with me to our seats.
We buckled her back in, a flight attendant double checked that she was buckled, gave us an extra pillow and blanket for her and suggested that we remove her shoes. She also gave my daughter a coloring book, coloring pencils, a children's menu, and a puzzle, all of which she still has in a special box filled with her Poland souvenirs.
After a while of playing with headphones, pillows, singing, watching the television, and coloring, our meals came and she was not happy about spaghetti but I told her this was German spaghetti, it's very different, with a whisper and a wink. She tried it, hated it and ate the rest of her meal and some of mine and her Dziadek's.
Nap time came, lights were dimmed, windows closed and she stretched out, her head on her Dziadek's leg and her feet on me. She fell asleep happily but at one point, pushed her Dziadek and told him "Dziadek. You are in my space. This is my space. Where I am laying. And you are in it, I need you to move, please.," very seriously. A short quarrel interrupted while my cigarette craving father laughed and told her she was in his space and she completely disagreed. She finally settled on switching positions so that her feet were on her Dziadek. But then, later, woke up to tell him again. Frankly, the seriousness of her voice was too funny to be angry about.
And, considering the girl across the aisle from us was 5 years old, peed on her father, and started yelling for milk in her bottle in the middle of take off, I had to be proud of my little "gypsy" daughter. We ended up giving the father of the other girl a pair of Pull ups, which he accepted.
My daughter looked at me and asked in a whisper "why the big girl had pee peed on her Daddy" and I told her that flying is hard for kids and that all we can do is just try and stay calm. She smiled sleepily at me and said, "I love flying," before drifting off to sleep again.
We arrived an hour late in Munich. When we got off the plane, she told each of the crew goodbye and told them "Thank you so much! I mean, Dziekujem!" By this point, many of them knew her name and wished her a wonderful trip.
We ended up missing our connection flight by 15 minutes. But we were very happy with how Lufthansa handled it. We raced through the airport from one end to the other with a 3 year old who's "legs were
still sleeping" and who giggled uncontrollably as her Dziadek grabbed her by her teddy bear book bag and picked her up and carried her for a bit. Some people gave us dirty looks as we held onto her leash and carried her first in my arms or by the book bag by Dziadek or walking tiredly between us, but frankly, they were not in our shoes.
We made it to the next terminal 5 minutes too late. But the staff was very understanding, assuring us that they knew we could not have made it, as had the staff on the plane when we arrived. We were to take our connection flight 4 hours later. and they gave us each vouchers for 10 Euros at a restaurant in the airport. Which I mistook for 70, forgetting that in Europe they cross their "7"'s, just like I do, but I was tired and stressed.
The staff allowed us to use a telephone they had for situations just like this to our family telling them know about the flight change. Using the vouchers we were given, we found a restaurant with antlers, wooden decor, and women dressed in traditional German attire. My daughter couldn't believe she was in Germany and told the lady how pretty she looked in her outfit.
Weinerschnitzel and french fries were ordered for her and she devoured almost the entire adult sized plate, leaving the french fries because the "German chicken nugget is so good, Mommy!" My first sign that she would love the food in Poland without question.
We sat around, enjoying carrot salads, soups, frankfurters, and other foods I had grown up loving and missed terribly.
The airport had a glass ceiling with a fabric which was adjusted to either block or let in the sun and she marveled at it. She asked the waitress a lot of great questions about Germany.
In the bathroom, she asked why there was foaming antibacterial hand sanitizer in each stall. I explained how the instructions showed to use it, first you put some on a piece of toilet paper, then you wiped the seat clean, use the bathroom, then wiped it clean with the foam and toilet paper again. She asked more questions about why the bathrooms had different signs for men and women and I told her it was the international sign for that, and that in the US it was just different from the rest of the world.
She also asked why the walls were all tiled and the tiles were shaped different, and why the towel for wiping your hands dry were different. It was actually on a roll and you would wipe your hands dry, then pull and it would go to a new dry spot. There was a lot of discussion in that bathroom, more than I think I have ever had with her in a bathroom before or since. And I think that is when she realized how different it really is in America.
Finally, it was our time to catch our flight. We were put on a standing shuttle to an airplane that she said was so small, "it looks like a toy, Mommy! It's so cute!"
We went into the small airplane, where she and I again buckled in with a pillow between our bellies and the seat belt. This time, she had the window seat and watched, with her nose pressed against the glass, the beautiful countryside underneath her. When we were flying over Wroclaw, I pointed it out to her. "That's the city Mommy was born in. That's Wroclaw."
She gushed over how beautiful it was. "Mommy! It looks like a fairy tale!"
The plane landed and I turned to her and said, "Welcome to Poland, baby."
She smiled and whispered, "Poland." Then waved her arms and said, "I'm so excited, Mommy! Hey, Dziadek, we're in Poland! Where you and my Mommy are from!"
To be continued...
Related Posts:
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, The Planning
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Wordless Wednesday
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Our Departure
07 June 2011
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, The Planning
My older daughter was then 3 years old when my Dziadek passed away from a heart attack. I was pregnant with my second daughter and was just out of my first trimester. It was time to visit Poland and take her on her first trip to the place her mother always talked about.
Time to visit my birth country.
And time to bury a family member.
My husband had to work and couldn't take a vacation. Also, because we were buying tickets last minute, along with having to file for her first passport ever, we were in a time crunch and had to pay an exorbitant amount for our tickets and expedite the passport.
For her passport, I braided her hair into two plaits, which she proclaimed made her look like a "little Polish girl" as she smiled in the mirror and looked at her reflection. This was not the first time I had styled her hair this way.
At the post office, she was so proud strolling in to be getting a passport, that she announced to everyone present "My mommy's Dziadek died so I need a passport please so we can go to POLAND!" She stayed perfectly still as the woman took her photo. The first photo, she looked last second in my direction, pride on her face and my heart burst. The woman gave me the photo to keep since "her expression was so precious" but had to be looking straight ahead for the passport.
When we left the post office, every employee at the front desk had by then heard her story and was waving goodbye to us and wishing her luck. She waved goodbye to everyone and skipped to the car, holding my hand.
This moment was precious and I needed it as I was mourning the loss of my Dziadek.
I went through my maternity clothes and saw yellows, flowers, pinks and decidedly not-for-a-funeral clothing. This also required a trip to the maternity store to snatch up whatever blacks I could find.
Can I say I do not wear black? Others can wear it. But I have learned something about myself as I have gotten older. I don't look quite "right" in black. Maybe it's the color against my medium blonde hair. Maybe it's the fact that I don't exactly ooze black clad martini sipping designer handbag socialite but instead seem more natural in "bohemian peasant" style clothing. Maybe it's because I don't style my hair. It is straight and if you try to do anything with it, it doesn't seem to want to cooperate. So, I keep it clean, brushed and parted straight. So, black does not go well with my "aura", if you will.
But for a funeral, what do you wear? Black, of course.
This was June and the only clothing on the racks were for overheated pregnant moms who were sweating even in air conditioning in June. In Poland, the week I went? It was cold.
After spending money for funeral appropriate maternity clothing, we had to pack my daughter's bag. Her obsession at the time was Disney Princess t-shirts, the color purple and bright sparkles. Again, not funeral attire. In Poland, and I would imagine in the US as well, you especially do not wear purple to a funeral.
Of course, children her age are exempt from having to wear black head to toe. But still. Sparkles and Princesses don't fly. Another trip to the store and we bought her a navy blue skirt, 2 pair of Capri chinos in black and brown, 4 peasant style shirts in brown, navy blue, black and white, a red button coat which screamed "adorable girl from Europe", black Maryjane's to match Mama, and a navy blue long sleeve shirt. Just in case. Thank goodness I thought of the just in case.
Toys were purchased for my cousin's children which I couldn't wait to give to them. My daughter kept pulling them out and staring at the Sleeping Beauty doll asking about her cousins' names and any details I could give them. She couldn't wait to meet them.
The trip total cost us over $3,000 for the two of us with all expenses.
I started panicking between all the rushed planning that I had not taught my daughter Polish. She knew a few safety words in Polish and how to express love and affection and a song. How was this going to work? How was she going to play with my cousin's children?
In the meantime, my daughter was telling everyone she saw, even strangers, that she was going to visit "the country my Mommy is from! POLAND!" with such squeaks of joy, I couldn't understand it.
I stressed that there would be no macaroni and cheese, no chicken nuggets and french fries, nothing she was used to on a daily basis. And that she would eat whatever people gave her because it would be rude otherwise. Eye widened at this information, she would nod and say "Yes, Mommy."
In my stomach, butterflies were turning while the baby was beginning her first signs of movement inside me.
A teddy bear book bag with leash was purchased. I received strange and often disapproving looks as we carried it to the register and purchased it. Look, stare, and judge however people wanted to, I was going to be a pregnant Mama on my own with my child travelling from Washington, D.C.'s Dulles airport to Munich, Germany to Wroclaw, Poland. To bury my Dziadek.
It turned out, there was nothing to worry about....
To be continued...
Related Articles: My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Our Departure
Time to visit my birth country.
And time to bury a family member.
My husband had to work and couldn't take a vacation. Also, because we were buying tickets last minute, along with having to file for her first passport ever, we were in a time crunch and had to pay an exorbitant amount for our tickets and expedite the passport.
For her passport, I braided her hair into two plaits, which she proclaimed made her look like a "little Polish girl" as she smiled in the mirror and looked at her reflection. This was not the first time I had styled her hair this way.
At the post office, she was so proud strolling in to be getting a passport, that she announced to everyone present "My mommy's Dziadek died so I need a passport please so we can go to POLAND!" She stayed perfectly still as the woman took her photo. The first photo, she looked last second in my direction, pride on her face and my heart burst. The woman gave me the photo to keep since "her expression was so precious" but had to be looking straight ahead for the passport.
When we left the post office, every employee at the front desk had by then heard her story and was waving goodbye to us and wishing her luck. She waved goodbye to everyone and skipped to the car, holding my hand.
This moment was precious and I needed it as I was mourning the loss of my Dziadek.
I went through my maternity clothes and saw yellows, flowers, pinks and decidedly not-for-a-funeral clothing. This also required a trip to the maternity store to snatch up whatever blacks I could find.
Can I say I do not wear black? Others can wear it. But I have learned something about myself as I have gotten older. I don't look quite "right" in black. Maybe it's the color against my medium blonde hair. Maybe it's the fact that I don't exactly ooze black clad martini sipping designer handbag socialite but instead seem more natural in "bohemian peasant" style clothing. Maybe it's because I don't style my hair. It is straight and if you try to do anything with it, it doesn't seem to want to cooperate. So, I keep it clean, brushed and parted straight. So, black does not go well with my "aura", if you will.
But for a funeral, what do you wear? Black, of course.
This was June and the only clothing on the racks were for overheated pregnant moms who were sweating even in air conditioning in June. In Poland, the week I went? It was cold.
After spending money for funeral appropriate maternity clothing, we had to pack my daughter's bag. Her obsession at the time was Disney Princess t-shirts, the color purple and bright sparkles. Again, not funeral attire. In Poland, and I would imagine in the US as well, you especially do not wear purple to a funeral.
Of course, children her age are exempt from having to wear black head to toe. But still. Sparkles and Princesses don't fly. Another trip to the store and we bought her a navy blue skirt, 2 pair of Capri chinos in black and brown, 4 peasant style shirts in brown, navy blue, black and white, a red button coat which screamed "adorable girl from Europe", black Maryjane's to match Mama, and a navy blue long sleeve shirt. Just in case. Thank goodness I thought of the just in case.
Toys were purchased for my cousin's children which I couldn't wait to give to them. My daughter kept pulling them out and staring at the Sleeping Beauty doll asking about her cousins' names and any details I could give them. She couldn't wait to meet them.
The trip total cost us over $3,000 for the two of us with all expenses.
I started panicking between all the rushed planning that I had not taught my daughter Polish. She knew a few safety words in Polish and how to express love and affection and a song. How was this going to work? How was she going to play with my cousin's children?
In the meantime, my daughter was telling everyone she saw, even strangers, that she was going to visit "the country my Mommy is from! POLAND!" with such squeaks of joy, I couldn't understand it.
I stressed that there would be no macaroni and cheese, no chicken nuggets and french fries, nothing she was used to on a daily basis. And that she would eat whatever people gave her because it would be rude otherwise. Eye widened at this information, she would nod and say "Yes, Mommy."
In my stomach, butterflies were turning while the baby was beginning her first signs of movement inside me.
A teddy bear book bag with leash was purchased. I received strange and often disapproving looks as we carried it to the register and purchased it. Look, stare, and judge however people wanted to, I was going to be a pregnant Mama on my own with my child travelling from Washington, D.C.'s Dulles airport to Munich, Germany to Wroclaw, Poland. To bury my Dziadek.
It turned out, there was nothing to worry about....
To be continued...
Related Articles: My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Our Departure
06 June 2011
Zucchini in Dill Sauce
I cannot tell you that this dish is Polish or what it's origins are. I remember having had this once at a Polish dinner when I was a young girl and loving it. It was an Easter celebration at a church and someone had made this for the "potluck" dinner.
Since my children and my not-a-vegetarian husband loved the Cheese Stuffed Zucchini, I decided to make another dish with Zucchini in it.
Ingredients:
2-4 Zucchini, washed and cut into "fingers"
1/4 cup sweet Onion, finely chopped
1 tablespoon Butter
1/2 tablespoon Dill, chopped
1 tablespoon Flour
1/3 cup Sour Cream
*Either 2 tablespoons Water and 1/2 cube Chicken Bouillon cube or 4 tablespoons Chicken or Vegetable Broth
In a large saucepan, add Zucchini, Onion, Water and Bouillon cube*, Butter, and Dill. Bring to a boil, cover, reduce heat and simmer for 5 minutes until Zucchini is almost tender. Remove from heat.
Stir Flour into Sour Cream with a fork. Without draining the Zucchini, add the Sour Cream mixture into the Zucchini mixture. On medium heat, cook and stir until it is thick and bubbly. Cook for 1 minute longer.
Serve immediately. Smacznego!
Also, if you like my recipes and stories, you can help support my blog by donating with my PayPal button on the right side of my blog. Any donations appreciated.
Since my children and my not-a-vegetarian husband loved the Cheese Stuffed Zucchini, I decided to make another dish with Zucchini in it.
Ingredients:
2-4 Zucchini, washed and cut into "fingers"
1/4 cup sweet Onion, finely chopped
1 tablespoon Butter
1/2 tablespoon Dill, chopped
1 tablespoon Flour
1/3 cup Sour Cream
*Either 2 tablespoons Water and 1/2 cube Chicken Bouillon cube or 4 tablespoons Chicken or Vegetable Broth
In a large saucepan, add Zucchini, Onion, Water and Bouillon cube*, Butter, and Dill. Bring to a boil, cover, reduce heat and simmer for 5 minutes until Zucchini is almost tender. Remove from heat.
Stir Flour into Sour Cream with a fork. Without draining the Zucchini, add the Sour Cream mixture into the Zucchini mixture. On medium heat, cook and stir until it is thick and bubbly. Cook for 1 minute longer.
Serve immediately. Smacznego!
Also, if you like my recipes and stories, you can help support my blog by donating with my PayPal button on the right side of my blog. Any donations appreciated.
03 June 2011
A Children's Rhyme in Polish About a Miscu
I remember singing this with my mother and brother while holding her hand. The pavement curves in front of us, leading toward my elementary school. Birds sing and the air is cool.
"Jedziemy na wycieczkę,
bierzemy misia w teczkę.
A misiu - jak to misiu,
do teczki zrobił si-siu.
A teczka była chora,
więc poszła do doktora.
A doktor był pijany,
przykleił się do ściany.
A ściana była mokra,
przykleił się do okna.
A okno było duże,
wyleciał na podwórze.
Znalazły go tam dzieci,
wrzuciły go do śmieci.
A w śmieciach były szczury,
wygryzły mu pazury.
I doktor wreszcie wrócił,
na podłogę się rzucił.
A teczka boląc noga,
poszła do psychologa.
A doktor myśląc może,
chorobę przyniósł w worze.
A teczka nic nie wiedząc,
z doktorem siedząc...
Misiek strasznie pierdzi,
i mówię że to śmierdzi.
Więc przynieś butlę z tlenem,
wieczorem i też ranem.
My brother and I would giggle everytime.
Translation without rhyming:
"We’re going on a tour (trip),
We’re taking Teddy Bear in the suitcase/basket
But Teddy Bear like a Teddy Bear,
In the Suitcase/basket made pee-pee (cue children’s crazy giggling)
The Suitcase/Basket was sick,
So it was taken to the doctor.
The Doctor was drunk,
Glued her (the suitcase/basket) to the wall. (Again, the giggling)
But the wall was wet,
So he (that crazy drunk Doctor) glued her (the suitcase/basket) to the window.
But the window was big,
So he (drunk Doctor) threw her (the suitcase/basket) outdoors/into the yard.
She (the suitcase/basket) was found by children,
Returned her (the poor peed on and sick suitcase/basket) to the trash.
And in the trashcan were rats,
They bit his (the suitcase/basket is apparently a boy now, I don’t know, just keep reading) claws.
And the Doctor finally returned,
On the floor he threw her (the suitcase/basket is back to being feminine now).
The suitcase/basket’s foot hurt,
So she (the suitcase/basket) went to a psychologist.
The doctor thought that maybe,
The sickness he carried in a cloth sack (I’m lost at this point).
But the suitcase/basket knowing nothing,
Is sitting with the Doctor….
The Teddy Bear terribly farts,
And says that this stinks.
So bring a bottle of Oxygen,
For the evening and also morning."
I hope you enjoyed that. Na razie...
"Jedziemy na wycieczkę,
bierzemy misia w teczkę.
A misiu - jak to misiu,
do teczki zrobił si-siu.
A teczka była chora,
więc poszła do doktora.
A doktor był pijany,
przykleił się do ściany.
A ściana była mokra,
przykleił się do okna.
A okno było duże,
wyleciał na podwórze.
Znalazły go tam dzieci,
wrzuciły go do śmieci.
A w śmieciach były szczury,
wygryzły mu pazury.
I doktor wreszcie wrócił,
na podłogę się rzucił.
A teczka boląc noga,
poszła do psychologa.
A doktor myśląc może,
chorobę przyniósł w worze.
A teczka nic nie wiedząc,
z doktorem siedząc...
Misiek strasznie pierdzi,
i mówię że to śmierdzi.
Więc przynieś butlę z tlenem,
wieczorem i też ranem.
My brother and I would giggle everytime.
Translation without rhyming:
"We’re going on a tour (trip),
We’re taking Teddy Bear in the suitcase/basket
But Teddy Bear like a Teddy Bear,
In the Suitcase/basket made pee-pee (cue children’s crazy giggling)
The Suitcase/Basket was sick,
So it was taken to the doctor.
The Doctor was drunk,
Glued her (the suitcase/basket) to the wall. (Again, the giggling)
But the wall was wet,
So he (that crazy drunk Doctor) glued her (the suitcase/basket) to the window.
But the window was big,
So he (drunk Doctor) threw her (the suitcase/basket) outdoors/into the yard.
She (the suitcase/basket) was found by children,
Returned her (the poor peed on and sick suitcase/basket) to the trash.
And in the trashcan were rats,
They bit his (the suitcase/basket is apparently a boy now, I don’t know, just keep reading) claws.
And the Doctor finally returned,
On the floor he threw her (the suitcase/basket is back to being feminine now).
The suitcase/basket’s foot hurt,
So she (the suitcase/basket) went to a psychologist.
The doctor thought that maybe,
The sickness he carried in a cloth sack (I’m lost at this point).
But the suitcase/basket knowing nothing,
Is sitting with the Doctor….
The Teddy Bear terribly farts,
And says that this stinks.
So bring a bottle of Oxygen,
For the evening and also morning."
I hope you enjoyed that. Na razie...
02 June 2011
Take Apricot, Add Potato, Make A Kid Smile
I adore Knedle stuffed with plums. The first time I made some from the freezer section of our local Polish store, my husband looked over my shoulder with a look of puzzlement.
"What is that?"
"Knedle."
"In English."
"Knedle. (Sigh, turn around to face him) Polish Dumplings that are stuffed with fruit and are super yummy."
"Why didn't you just so in English the first time." I just look at him, silly man.
He looks at it boiling in the pot. I'm not sure but I think he looks suspicious.
"So, it's a dumpling like an Apple Dumpling." He refers to the flaky dough apple dumplings that are baked.
"No. You'll like it."
He walks away. Minutes later, I come out with a bowl of buttered plum Knedle for him. I doubt he will like them. He eats the three I give him and ends up enjoying the entire bag worth. Figures.
.........................
My older daughter's class needs desserts from the Czech Republic.
I have some personal interest in this as I just found out my mother's father was originally Czech. How he got to be in a small Polish village sometime around WWII, I don't know. Of course, my mother's family insist he was Polish.
I do searching online and find out their cuisine is remarkably similar to Polish but as they are neighboring countries, it isn't unbelievable.
I end up making Bublanina, Almond Crescent Cookies and their version of Nalesniki.
I was hoping to also making their version of Knedle to see if I could taste a difference but ran out of time until the weekend. I end up making Knedle from a recipe my Babcia gave me a long time ago.
My older daughter watches me grating potatoes with curiosity and helps stir the dough for a minute.
Once they are ready to be served, the children start clamoring for the family, "Obiat! Obiat! Dziadek! Daddy! Obiat!" So much for that woman who thought my children would never speak Polish.
I watch them as they dig in to the dish, thinking "No, they won't like it, it's not American food. There's no way." And they keep shoving more doughy fruit into their cheeks.
I glance at my husband, who also eats two without hesitation.
My heart is beaming. A bite from my childhood on colder days and my Polish American family loves it.
Ingredients:
8 medium Potatoes, skin scrubbed clean
Boil the potatoes, allow to cool, then skin and grate.
Add the Eggs, Flour and Baking Powder. Knead until the dough is firm and smooth.
Remove the seeds from the fruit and replace with Sugar.
Divide the dough into 14 pieces. Wrap around each Apricot firmly with no air inside. Be sure to seal tightly. If not using lumps, start wrapping the dough first around the area with the open cut to avoid dropping sugar everywhere.
Drop 4-5 at a time in a large boiling pot of water. Cook for 15-20 minutes or until they are floating.
Serve with Garnish immediately. Smacznego!
* You could stuff this with Plums, Pears, Strawberries, Blueberries, Cherries, Raspberries or any other fruit you like that is enjoyed in that area of the world.
Original photo from yesterday's article Wordless Wednesday: A Surprise in the Mail
I also want to credit North West Mommy with the cute title to this article. Thank you!
"What is that?"
"Knedle."
"In English."
"Knedle. (Sigh, turn around to face him) Polish Dumplings that are stuffed with fruit and are super yummy."
"Why didn't you just so in English the first time." I just look at him, silly man.
He looks at it boiling in the pot. I'm not sure but I think he looks suspicious.
"So, it's a dumpling like an Apple Dumpling." He refers to the flaky dough apple dumplings that are baked.
"No. You'll like it."
He walks away. Minutes later, I come out with a bowl of buttered plum Knedle for him. I doubt he will like them. He eats the three I give him and ends up enjoying the entire bag worth. Figures.
.........................
My older daughter's class needs desserts from the Czech Republic.
I have some personal interest in this as I just found out my mother's father was originally Czech. How he got to be in a small Polish village sometime around WWII, I don't know. Of course, my mother's family insist he was Polish.
I do searching online and find out their cuisine is remarkably similar to Polish but as they are neighboring countries, it isn't unbelievable.
I end up making Bublanina, Almond Crescent Cookies and their version of Nalesniki.
I was hoping to also making their version of Knedle to see if I could taste a difference but ran out of time until the weekend. I end up making Knedle from a recipe my Babcia gave me a long time ago.
My older daughter watches me grating potatoes with curiosity and helps stir the dough for a minute.
Once they are ready to be served, the children start clamoring for the family, "Obiat! Obiat! Dziadek! Daddy! Obiat!" So much for that woman who thought my children would never speak Polish.
I watch them as they dig in to the dish, thinking "No, they won't like it, it's not American food. There's no way." And they keep shoving more doughy fruit into their cheeks.
I glance at my husband, who also eats two without hesitation.
My heart is beaming. A bite from my childhood on colder days and my Polish American family loves it.
Ingredients:
8 medium Potatoes, skin scrubbed clean
2 Eggs, slightly beaten
3 cups Flour
1 teaspoon Baking Powder
14 Apricots *
14 teaspoons or lumps of Sugar
Garnish:
1 cup butter, melted
Any combination of Sugar, Cinnamon and Toasted Breadcrumbs you like
Boil the potatoes, allow to cool, then skin and grate.
Add the Eggs, Flour and Baking Powder. Knead until the dough is firm and smooth.
Remove the seeds from the fruit and replace with Sugar.
Divide the dough into 14 pieces. Wrap around each Apricot firmly with no air inside. Be sure to seal tightly. If not using lumps, start wrapping the dough first around the area with the open cut to avoid dropping sugar everywhere.
Drop 4-5 at a time in a large boiling pot of water. Cook for 15-20 minutes or until they are floating.
Serve with Garnish immediately. Smacznego!
* You could stuff this with Plums, Pears, Strawberries, Blueberries, Cherries, Raspberries or any other fruit you like that is enjoyed in that area of the world.
Original photo from yesterday's article Wordless Wednesday: A Surprise in the Mail
I also want to credit North West Mommy with the cute title to this article. Thank you!
16 May 2011
"Your Children Will Never Learn Polish" (Post Retrieved)
I went today to a different library than my own. Partly to maybe meet other moms, partly to see if this other library would suit my needs better for story times, books I would read, a play area for the children to come to.
I met another mother who invited me to come to a playgroup she was a member of which met once a week. She was very pleasant and understanding that I was having problems finding social things to do around town for my children.
After I finished talking to her, I went to the resource desk to see whether they had any books for children or some other resources for teaching them Polish. They had none but I was told to go online and could get any I found transferred to my local branch without problems.
Then, the woman told me, "We have a woman here who is Polish." She started standing up and walking toward another area. "Would you like to meet her?"
She was already walking away so I agreed to since there was no way around it now.
Then, I stood there with my toddler thinking. What was I going to say to this woman? Hi, I'm Polish, your Polish, can we be friends? High on the lame factor there. I suddenly wanted to run away but it was too late, the Polish woman was pushing a cart of books toward me, led by the first lady.
She looked at the first lady with a look I understood. We are both Polish, so what?
She smiled at me but I knew that she didn't want to be there talking to me. I introduced myself and shook her hand. The first lady told me the Polish woman's name, the Polish woman did not tell me it.
I told her where I was from and that we had just moved here. She nodded her head.
Awkward.
She then began talking with me about how long was I here. I apologized that I was speaking strange since I had just had two wisdom teeth removed two days prior and my tongue was still partly numb.
She gave me a look and told me that it explained my extremely strange accent. I told her I had an American accent but also the teeth were causing an issue with my accent.
While I listen to her talk, I think that she doesn't sound Polish, she sounds Ukrainian or Eastern Polish or something. Not Silesian Polish or even Warsawian Polish or the Polish I once heard on a trip to Poland's Baltic coast. And she keeps turning her head slightly from me and losing eye contact while talking.
Then, I told her my daughter's name. American first name, Polish middle name. She gave me another strange look. I explained that I had married an American.
She looks me dead in the eyes.
"Your children will never learn Polish."
I wanted to fall through the floor. I told her I wanted to put them in Polish school but I was from Maryland and there had not been any Polish schools around me growing up. She told me about how she had driven her children the roughly hour drive to Chicago every week for Polish school when they were children and that she had married a Polish man so they spoke Polish at home so it was natural for her children.
And that it wouldn't be natural for my children since they had no foundation.
A couple of pleasantries were exchanged and she excused herself that she needed to go back to work.
I left the library.
And remembered what I had told the mother earlier who had invited me to a playgroup. "Yes, there are Polish people at the Polish store. But what am I going to say to them? Hi, I see you and I are both buying kielbasa, perhaps we could have a play date?" and we had laughed at how ridiculous that would be to do.
And thought, "You are right, you are more Polish than me. I'm sorry I didn't meet your standards. I'm sorry an American woman thought that perhaps two Polish people might like to meet each other."
Maybe my children will never learn Polish. Perhaps I should give that up now. After all, a complete stranger who doesn't affect my life or know me seems to think so.
You might also enjoy "Teaching My Children Polish"
Note: Blogger had gone through some updates which ended up losing posts for several people, mine inclulded. While I have been waiting for this post to be retrieved, it was pointed out to me by Smells of Borscht that it was still in Google Reader, so I have republished this post. Perhaps the original post will eventually be retrieved but I wanted to share this in the meantime. Thank you for your patience, those of you who wanted to read this but couldn't...
I met another mother who invited me to come to a playgroup she was a member of which met once a week. She was very pleasant and understanding that I was having problems finding social things to do around town for my children.
After I finished talking to her, I went to the resource desk to see whether they had any books for children or some other resources for teaching them Polish. They had none but I was told to go online and could get any I found transferred to my local branch without problems.
Then, the woman told me, "We have a woman here who is Polish." She started standing up and walking toward another area. "Would you like to meet her?"
She was already walking away so I agreed to since there was no way around it now.
Then, I stood there with my toddler thinking. What was I going to say to this woman? Hi, I'm Polish, your Polish, can we be friends? High on the lame factor there. I suddenly wanted to run away but it was too late, the Polish woman was pushing a cart of books toward me, led by the first lady.
She looked at the first lady with a look I understood. We are both Polish, so what?
She smiled at me but I knew that she didn't want to be there talking to me. I introduced myself and shook her hand. The first lady told me the Polish woman's name, the Polish woman did not tell me it.
I told her where I was from and that we had just moved here. She nodded her head.
Awkward.
She then began talking with me about how long was I here. I apologized that I was speaking strange since I had just had two wisdom teeth removed two days prior and my tongue was still partly numb.
She gave me a look and told me that it explained my extremely strange accent. I told her I had an American accent but also the teeth were causing an issue with my accent.
While I listen to her talk, I think that she doesn't sound Polish, she sounds Ukrainian or Eastern Polish or something. Not Silesian Polish or even Warsawian Polish or the Polish I once heard on a trip to Poland's Baltic coast. And she keeps turning her head slightly from me and losing eye contact while talking.
Then, I told her my daughter's name. American first name, Polish middle name. She gave me another strange look. I explained that I had married an American.
She looks me dead in the eyes.
"Your children will never learn Polish."
I wanted to fall through the floor. I told her I wanted to put them in Polish school but I was from Maryland and there had not been any Polish schools around me growing up. She told me about how she had driven her children the roughly hour drive to Chicago every week for Polish school when they were children and that she had married a Polish man so they spoke Polish at home so it was natural for her children.
And that it wouldn't be natural for my children since they had no foundation.
A couple of pleasantries were exchanged and she excused herself that she needed to go back to work.
I left the library.
And remembered what I had told the mother earlier who had invited me to a playgroup. "Yes, there are Polish people at the Polish store. But what am I going to say to them? Hi, I see you and I are both buying kielbasa, perhaps we could have a play date?" and we had laughed at how ridiculous that would be to do.
And thought, "You are right, you are more Polish than me. I'm sorry I didn't meet your standards. I'm sorry an American woman thought that perhaps two Polish people might like to meet each other."
Maybe my children will never learn Polish. Perhaps I should give that up now. After all, a complete stranger who doesn't affect my life or know me seems to think so.
You might also enjoy "Teaching My Children Polish"
Note: Blogger had gone through some updates which ended up losing posts for several people, mine inclulded. While I have been waiting for this post to be retrieved, it was pointed out to me by Smells of Borscht that it was still in Google Reader, so I have republished this post. Perhaps the original post will eventually be retrieved but I wanted to share this in the meantime. Thank you for your patience, those of you who wanted to read this but couldn't...
08 May 2011
Happy Mother's Day
I hope you all have a wonderful Mother's Day. I am not very elequent on this day or subject. So, instead I'll share some pictures instead...
My older daughter's present to me...
My girls...
My personal reminder when I get frustrated...
I hope that your day is filled with love, hugs, kisses and reminders that ours is one of the most important jobs in the world because we shape the future...
My older daughter's present to me...
My girls...
My personal reminder when I get frustrated...
I hope that your day is filled with love, hugs, kisses and reminders that ours is one of the most important jobs in the world because we shape the future...
05 May 2011
Nice to Meet You
I think it's about time a face was put to my writing....
I am 2 years old sitting on the stairs of the hotel we had been living in for a few months at this point.
I am currently a refugee fleeing Communism. Leaving behind friends and family to go into the wide world with my parents only.
I am living in Austria in a small village. We are waiting on possibly moving to either Australia or the USA. Waiting to hear whether all the legal paperwork is approved. And praying.
This smile is always on my face to this day...
Related Posts:
Wordless Wednesday: A Toy Train
Writing Me: Where I'm From
I am 2 years old sitting on the stairs of the hotel we had been living in for a few months at this point.
I am currently a refugee fleeing Communism. Leaving behind friends and family to go into the wide world with my parents only.
I am living in Austria in a small village. We are waiting on possibly moving to either Australia or the USA. Waiting to hear whether all the legal paperwork is approved. And praying.
This smile is always on my face to this day...
Related Posts:
Wordless Wednesday: A Toy Train
Writing Me: Where I'm From
02 May 2011
Letter to Heaven: Dear Beloved Polish Pope (part 2)
I wanted to so desperately share with you the story of my first daughter's coming into creation. I couldn't before so I will share now, hoping that you can see this and know this in Heaven.
I had had a miscarriage a few months prior and was in a depressed state. My husband was very supportive, in fact, it strengthened our marriage because we know knew we would count on one another totally through life.
It wasn't as though we had struggled with infertility for many years. It just took about a year to become pregnant and then the anticipated joy was ripped away.
But I was feeling like a failure anyway. Easter was coming so I did what I do every year since as long as I can remember. I went to church to bless the Easter Basket.
I went inside, knowing full well that I felt out of place. After all, I had not done my First Holy Communion, nor did I know the hymns and other rituals of a Catholic Mass. Not really. It had been years since my parents had taken me to church. At this point in time, I had only been going to bless the Easter basket and sometimes the Christmas Mass.
I had serious doubts in my heart about God, Heaven, and the whole Life after Death subject.
After prayers, I went to put some money into the Poor box and take my basket from around the alter where everyone had placed their baskets. I saw many people walking to a corner by the alter and look into an alcove and whisper and pray together. I looked at a woman next to me and asked what they were doing.
She was dressed in plain clothing, no logos, no designer names, no patterns or prints. She had short brown hair cut in a low maintenance style and wore glasses. She looked at me and smiled a makeup free and yet open smile. "They are going and praying at the shrine to Jesus' crucifixion. Come on, let's both go."
I thought, "She's awfully presumptuous." I shook my head and said "I don't really know how to pray" before I knew what came out of my mouth. In my mind, I kicked myself and planned a way to run out of the doors of the church before my non-Catholic self is found out by other Catholics present.
By then, I had been lead in the crowd to claim my basket and come before the shrine. It hit me that I knew this shrine. I had knelt before it as a small child, my mother in a dark dress crying and kneeling and praying quietly to God about what I didn't know. My mother was not exactly a fervent Catholic.
Jesus was made of a dark glossy wood and his face was full of suffering. He was lit from the sides of the shrine and flowers, Easter Lilies, surrounded the shrine. I looked at the shrine and thought "How easy is it to believe in a man you have never met when people have always been liars, cheats, and exaggerators?" Yes, deep down, I am a cynic. Of everything. How terrible does it feel to go into a church when you are cynic, you have no idea if you are not one. And I can tell you, it feels terrible.
I turned away and began to walk out. The woman asked me a question, if I came there often. I mumbled "No, I don't really go to church. I just came to bless my basket."
She then floored me by saying "I didn't use to really go to church either. I didn't have faith. But then I met my husband and blahblahblah" I can't tell you what she said, I was in my own little world of misery thinking about the fact that my baby should have been a newborn at this time and not really hearing much of the world around me.
Then, she looked at me differently and said "I had a really hard time getting pregnant too." I swear to you, I heard this random woman, whom I had never met before in my life who I was not really sure why in the world she was talking to me, say "too".
I looked at her confused. She went on to explain that her and her husband had gone through infertility for a few years and that she had gone to pray at a special spot in the church and become pregnant. Her husband had by this time come up to stand by her, holding a little blonde haired girl. Apparently, this was a classic Catholic family having several children, I found out.
This woman had offered me such an intimate glimpse into her infertility struggle, which I won't go into details because honestly, my mind was reeling with questions how this particular woman having this particular problem had come to be talking to me. So, I decided to tell her my own struggle. "My husband and I lost a baby a few months ago. It was due about this time. I can't seem to get pregnant since." Yet, I didn't cry.
I felt like a child again, just telling an adult what the Easter bunny had brought me. A big fat nothing. No big deal, I was used to it. Why would the Easter bunny bring me anything? Who was I? Probably he only visited the bratty kids anyway. The ones who's Mami and Tati could afford toys and candy because they weren't new immigrants.
Just like the pregnancy fairy only visited the women who didn't want children. It sounds terrible, I know. I was hurting inside and my way to deal with it was to shut off from others. And remember, I am a cynic.
This strange woman told me that there was a spot in the basement where two miracles had occurred which the Father had seen and which were ratified by Pope John Paul II. That there was a curio cabinet now at the spot commemorating it. That she had gone there in her "hour of doubt" as she called it, prayed and become pregnant and from there had not had any more problems with becoming pregnant.
That it couldn't hurt for me to go and pray there as well. I looked at her, blinked a couple of times, unsure of what to say. In my mind, I thought "Is this some sort of crazy killer trick to get me in the basement of this church for who knows what? Is this some sort of cult thing?"
I told her again "I don't know how to pray". This was crazy. Yet, why I wasn't just walking out the door, I can't tell you.
I followed her and her husband downstairs, I am sure the Father of the Church approved it for them or they worked for the Church or something. The basement was an off white tiling I recognized from my childhood. The lights were turned on for the area around the curio only.
There was nothing special about this. The curio cabinet was just a curio cabinet. There were photos of Pope John Paul II and some letters and a plaque from the Vatican regarding the miracles at the spot.
They both looked at me expectantly. My vision honed in on the red on the robes of Pope John Paul II. In my mind, I thought "There is a bigger picture beyond me. And amazing things happen when people hope and believe. There is my proof." I had not thought like that for, well, I don't know how long.
I bowed my head, crossed myself, unsure if I was praying "right". I felt the same feeling I would feel when I would try praying in front of my mother as a child and she would laugh quietly, making some comment about why I was doing one way or another when it was obvious I was just trying.
I thought "God, you know I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't really talk to you. And I'm sorry. I don't know how. But you know that. I want to have a baby with my husband. If you think that we would be good parents, that would be great if you would let us have a baby. But if you just let me know somehow that it's not meant to be, I'll adopt. Well, thank you." I crossed myself again because I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to in the beginning of the prayer, the end or both times.
I looked up, squared my shoulders, made eye contact with them both, said "Thank you" and walked out of the church without looking back. Perhaps I should have talked to them more, I don't know. But I walked out.
I went home, life went on as normal. But I wasn't depressed. Life was just life at that point in time. Nothing too terrible. My husband and I didn't stress about my becoming pregnant. We just loved one another and went about our daily routine together.
Less than two weeks later.
My husband, our best friend, and I go camping. I am feeling fine leaving the neighborhood. It begins to rain. It always rains the first camping trip of the year for us. This is nothing new. We are nature lovers. We can handle rain. This trip, we rented a cabin instead of tent camping because we wanted to see what cabin camping was like.
Normally, during the setup, I grab the items belonging inside the tent or cabin and begin setting up the pad, pillows, sleeping bags, etc. This time, I grabbed a sleeping bag, walked up the stairs, and laid down. I felt... wrong. Not wrong, but off. Something wasn't right. My husband and our friend were calling to me to help out, what was the hold up, what was going on.
I sat up and the world spun. "I don't feel good. We need to go home."
This has never come out of my mouth camping. Ever. We have probably gone camping thousands of times. I have gone camping with allergies, a cold, miserable rain all day and night, heat and humidity all day and night as well.
And normally, my husband is the type to cry out incredulously "What?!" and begin drilling with questions trying to understand what nonsense is popping his proverbial balloon. Instead, they talked for a second, shrugged their shoulders, asked me if I could camp for one night.
"No." The tone wasn't angry, frustrated, sad. It was dizzy, make this ride stop so I can get off, and yet I was laying down at this point.
Everything was packed up again and we drove home. I fell asleep on the ride back. Again, very unusual. I fell like the weight of the world was physically keeping me from moving my arms and legs, from opening my eyes. The dizziness was gone, thankfully. Now, my throat hurt on one tonsil.
We arrived home and I just remember waking up the next day. I felt terrible all day and my tonsil hurting.
We all went out to eat at a local Italian restaurant. The Czech waitress, who had served us many times before and was a pleasant person, looked at me crossly and proclaimed "What are you doing? Don't you know what's going on? You, a Pole, should be wearing black right now!"
I asked her what was going on and that we had gone camping and I wasn't feeling well. Her eyes teared up and through the emotions, she whispered "The Polish Pope is on his deathbed."
I had known he was not feeling well but this was too much. We left immediately and turned on the news and I put on black clothing.
As the day passed, I felt worse and worse. By Sunday, I was in Patient First thinking I had the flu. The doctor was leaving the room to get me a prescription as I mentioned as a side thought, but discounting it completely, "We are trying to get pregnant, by the way."
He had a woman come in to draw blood to do a pregnancy test, just as a precaution. I wasn't thinking about becoming pregnant. I was thinking about the Polish Pope passing away.
I called my husband and was telling him that the doctor thought I had the flu when the doctor came in. I hurriedly ended the conversation and he smiled at me. "Call your husband back. You're pregnant. Congratulations."
I was floating on clouds suddenly. I was thinking about Easter and that strange woman and the red of the robes in the picture and the kind smile I grew up feeling as though it was meant for everyone everywhere, like a kind Dziadek.
I looked up and whispered "Thank you, God. I hear you."
And went home to bury the Polish Pope with the rest of the world. A world united in mourning and knowing that there would not be another like you for a very very long time.
Part I: Letter to Polish Pope
I had had a miscarriage a few months prior and was in a depressed state. My husband was very supportive, in fact, it strengthened our marriage because we know knew we would count on one another totally through life.
It wasn't as though we had struggled with infertility for many years. It just took about a year to become pregnant and then the anticipated joy was ripped away.
But I was feeling like a failure anyway. Easter was coming so I did what I do every year since as long as I can remember. I went to church to bless the Easter Basket.
I went inside, knowing full well that I felt out of place. After all, I had not done my First Holy Communion, nor did I know the hymns and other rituals of a Catholic Mass. Not really. It had been years since my parents had taken me to church. At this point in time, I had only been going to bless the Easter basket and sometimes the Christmas Mass.
I had serious doubts in my heart about God, Heaven, and the whole Life after Death subject.
After prayers, I went to put some money into the Poor box and take my basket from around the alter where everyone had placed their baskets. I saw many people walking to a corner by the alter and look into an alcove and whisper and pray together. I looked at a woman next to me and asked what they were doing.
She was dressed in plain clothing, no logos, no designer names, no patterns or prints. She had short brown hair cut in a low maintenance style and wore glasses. She looked at me and smiled a makeup free and yet open smile. "They are going and praying at the shrine to Jesus' crucifixion. Come on, let's both go."
I thought, "She's awfully presumptuous." I shook my head and said "I don't really know how to pray" before I knew what came out of my mouth. In my mind, I kicked myself and planned a way to run out of the doors of the church before my non-Catholic self is found out by other Catholics present.
By then, I had been lead in the crowd to claim my basket and come before the shrine. It hit me that I knew this shrine. I had knelt before it as a small child, my mother in a dark dress crying and kneeling and praying quietly to God about what I didn't know. My mother was not exactly a fervent Catholic.
Jesus was made of a dark glossy wood and his face was full of suffering. He was lit from the sides of the shrine and flowers, Easter Lilies, surrounded the shrine. I looked at the shrine and thought "How easy is it to believe in a man you have never met when people have always been liars, cheats, and exaggerators?" Yes, deep down, I am a cynic. Of everything. How terrible does it feel to go into a church when you are cynic, you have no idea if you are not one. And I can tell you, it feels terrible.
I turned away and began to walk out. The woman asked me a question, if I came there often. I mumbled "No, I don't really go to church. I just came to bless my basket."
She then floored me by saying "I didn't use to really go to church either. I didn't have faith. But then I met my husband and blahblahblah" I can't tell you what she said, I was in my own little world of misery thinking about the fact that my baby should have been a newborn at this time and not really hearing much of the world around me.
Then, she looked at me differently and said "I had a really hard time getting pregnant too." I swear to you, I heard this random woman, whom I had never met before in my life who I was not really sure why in the world she was talking to me, say "too".
I looked at her confused. She went on to explain that her and her husband had gone through infertility for a few years and that she had gone to pray at a special spot in the church and become pregnant. Her husband had by this time come up to stand by her, holding a little blonde haired girl. Apparently, this was a classic Catholic family having several children, I found out.
This woman had offered me such an intimate glimpse into her infertility struggle, which I won't go into details because honestly, my mind was reeling with questions how this particular woman having this particular problem had come to be talking to me. So, I decided to tell her my own struggle. "My husband and I lost a baby a few months ago. It was due about this time. I can't seem to get pregnant since." Yet, I didn't cry.
I felt like a child again, just telling an adult what the Easter bunny had brought me. A big fat nothing. No big deal, I was used to it. Why would the Easter bunny bring me anything? Who was I? Probably he only visited the bratty kids anyway. The ones who's Mami and Tati could afford toys and candy because they weren't new immigrants.
Just like the pregnancy fairy only visited the women who didn't want children. It sounds terrible, I know. I was hurting inside and my way to deal with it was to shut off from others. And remember, I am a cynic.
This strange woman told me that there was a spot in the basement where two miracles had occurred which the Father had seen and which were ratified by Pope John Paul II. That there was a curio cabinet now at the spot commemorating it. That she had gone there in her "hour of doubt" as she called it, prayed and become pregnant and from there had not had any more problems with becoming pregnant.
That it couldn't hurt for me to go and pray there as well. I looked at her, blinked a couple of times, unsure of what to say. In my mind, I thought "Is this some sort of crazy killer trick to get me in the basement of this church for who knows what? Is this some sort of cult thing?"
I told her again "I don't know how to pray". This was crazy. Yet, why I wasn't just walking out the door, I can't tell you.
I followed her and her husband downstairs, I am sure the Father of the Church approved it for them or they worked for the Church or something. The basement was an off white tiling I recognized from my childhood. The lights were turned on for the area around the curio only.
There was nothing special about this. The curio cabinet was just a curio cabinet. There were photos of Pope John Paul II and some letters and a plaque from the Vatican regarding the miracles at the spot.
They both looked at me expectantly. My vision honed in on the red on the robes of Pope John Paul II. In my mind, I thought "There is a bigger picture beyond me. And amazing things happen when people hope and believe. There is my proof." I had not thought like that for, well, I don't know how long.
I bowed my head, crossed myself, unsure if I was praying "right". I felt the same feeling I would feel when I would try praying in front of my mother as a child and she would laugh quietly, making some comment about why I was doing one way or another when it was obvious I was just trying.
I thought "God, you know I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't really talk to you. And I'm sorry. I don't know how. But you know that. I want to have a baby with my husband. If you think that we would be good parents, that would be great if you would let us have a baby. But if you just let me know somehow that it's not meant to be, I'll adopt. Well, thank you." I crossed myself again because I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to in the beginning of the prayer, the end or both times.
I looked up, squared my shoulders, made eye contact with them both, said "Thank you" and walked out of the church without looking back. Perhaps I should have talked to them more, I don't know. But I walked out.
I went home, life went on as normal. But I wasn't depressed. Life was just life at that point in time. Nothing too terrible. My husband and I didn't stress about my becoming pregnant. We just loved one another and went about our daily routine together.
Less than two weeks later.
My husband, our best friend, and I go camping. I am feeling fine leaving the neighborhood. It begins to rain. It always rains the first camping trip of the year for us. This is nothing new. We are nature lovers. We can handle rain. This trip, we rented a cabin instead of tent camping because we wanted to see what cabin camping was like.
Normally, during the setup, I grab the items belonging inside the tent or cabin and begin setting up the pad, pillows, sleeping bags, etc. This time, I grabbed a sleeping bag, walked up the stairs, and laid down. I felt... wrong. Not wrong, but off. Something wasn't right. My husband and our friend were calling to me to help out, what was the hold up, what was going on.
I sat up and the world spun. "I don't feel good. We need to go home."
This has never come out of my mouth camping. Ever. We have probably gone camping thousands of times. I have gone camping with allergies, a cold, miserable rain all day and night, heat and humidity all day and night as well.
And normally, my husband is the type to cry out incredulously "What?!" and begin drilling with questions trying to understand what nonsense is popping his proverbial balloon. Instead, they talked for a second, shrugged their shoulders, asked me if I could camp for one night.
"No." The tone wasn't angry, frustrated, sad. It was dizzy, make this ride stop so I can get off, and yet I was laying down at this point.
Everything was packed up again and we drove home. I fell asleep on the ride back. Again, very unusual. I fell like the weight of the world was physically keeping me from moving my arms and legs, from opening my eyes. The dizziness was gone, thankfully. Now, my throat hurt on one tonsil.
We arrived home and I just remember waking up the next day. I felt terrible all day and my tonsil hurting.
We all went out to eat at a local Italian restaurant. The Czech waitress, who had served us many times before and was a pleasant person, looked at me crossly and proclaimed "What are you doing? Don't you know what's going on? You, a Pole, should be wearing black right now!"
I asked her what was going on and that we had gone camping and I wasn't feeling well. Her eyes teared up and through the emotions, she whispered "The Polish Pope is on his deathbed."
I had known he was not feeling well but this was too much. We left immediately and turned on the news and I put on black clothing.
As the day passed, I felt worse and worse. By Sunday, I was in Patient First thinking I had the flu. The doctor was leaving the room to get me a prescription as I mentioned as a side thought, but discounting it completely, "We are trying to get pregnant, by the way."
He had a woman come in to draw blood to do a pregnancy test, just as a precaution. I wasn't thinking about becoming pregnant. I was thinking about the Polish Pope passing away.
I called my husband and was telling him that the doctor thought I had the flu when the doctor came in. I hurriedly ended the conversation and he smiled at me. "Call your husband back. You're pregnant. Congratulations."
I was floating on clouds suddenly. I was thinking about Easter and that strange woman and the red of the robes in the picture and the kind smile I grew up feeling as though it was meant for everyone everywhere, like a kind Dziadek.
I looked up and whispered "Thank you, God. I hear you."
And went home to bury the Polish Pope with the rest of the world. A world united in mourning and knowing that there would not be another like you for a very very long time.
Part I: Letter to Polish Pope
04 April 2011
Guest Post on Mummy in Provence
Today, I have the honor of being a guest on a blog, Mummy in Provence. MiP lives in Southern France with her baby and husband, although her heritage is not French. She talks about Breastfeeding, Elimination Communication, Baby Led Weaning, living in a foreign country and in general, is very interesting to read and talk to.
Her series, The Global Differences in Baby-Making, has featured fascinating Mummys (or Mamas as I call them) in Qatar, Turkey, and France, with many more to come, I am sure. Of course, when Mummy in Provence was looking for guest posts I jumped at the chance, as a fellow Breastfeeding, Elimination Communication, Babywearing, Immigrant Mummy/Mama. Please check out my post about being a Polish Mama in the US and comment.
Also, I will be sharing my recipes for Fresh Mushrooms Soup and Stuffed Rolled Beef in the Warsaw Style shortly...
Na razie!
Her series, The Global Differences in Baby-Making, has featured fascinating Mummys (or Mamas as I call them) in Qatar, Turkey, and France, with many more to come, I am sure. Of course, when Mummy in Provence was looking for guest posts I jumped at the chance, as a fellow Breastfeeding, Elimination Communication, Babywearing, Immigrant Mummy/Mama. Please check out my post about being a Polish Mama in the US and comment.
Also, I will be sharing my recipes for Fresh Mushrooms Soup and Stuffed Rolled Beef in the Warsaw Style shortly...
Na razie!
20 March 2011
Bigger Picture Moments: Soft Boiled Eggs and a Reminder of a World of Love
I have always loved Soft Boiled Eggs. My children do, as well.
My older daughter remembers eating Soft Boiled Eggs with her Pra-Wujek (Great-Uncle) in Poland less than two years ago during her first trip to the country of my birth.
And everytime I make them, she reminds me.
To make a soft boiled egg, begin by bringing water to bowl in a saucepan. In the meantime, place an egg in warm water in a bowl. This is to prevent cracking when you drop it in the hot water in the saucepan. When the water is boiling gently, place the egg very carefully using a slotted spoon into the water. Boil for 3 minutes. Remove and run briefly under cool water to peel shell easier, or use an Egg Holder and eat by cracking the top off and spooning out (my favorite way but, of course, during packing for our move they were broken).
It seems like such a simple thing and yet, it brings back memories for her that there are other people in this large world who are her family and love her.
Beyond my small immigrant family who are spread out across this vast continent, seperated from our roots by a vast ocean and too many years of trying to chase that elusive "American Dream" and fill the void that being an immigrant causes.
Beyond my husband's very large family with their constant emotional distance from one another.
It's amazing what a small egg can do...
Smacznego!
Please visit Alita for the Bigger Picture...
My older daughter remembers eating Soft Boiled Eggs with her Pra-Wujek (Great-Uncle) in Poland less than two years ago during her first trip to the country of my birth.
And everytime I make them, she reminds me.
To make a soft boiled egg, begin by bringing water to bowl in a saucepan. In the meantime, place an egg in warm water in a bowl. This is to prevent cracking when you drop it in the hot water in the saucepan. When the water is boiling gently, place the egg very carefully using a slotted spoon into the water. Boil for 3 minutes. Remove and run briefly under cool water to peel shell easier, or use an Egg Holder and eat by cracking the top off and spooning out (my favorite way but, of course, during packing for our move they were broken).
It seems like such a simple thing and yet, it brings back memories for her that there are other people in this large world who are her family and love her.
Beyond my small immigrant family who are spread out across this vast continent, seperated from our roots by a vast ocean and too many years of trying to chase that elusive "American Dream" and fill the void that being an immigrant causes.
Beyond my husband's very large family with their constant emotional distance from one another.
It's amazing what a small egg can do...
Smacznego!
Please visit Alita for the Bigger Picture...
18 March 2011
Asparagus a la polonaise (z bulki tarta)
I have written before about making an a la polonaise topping, also known as "z bulki tarta" (pronounced "Z Boo-w-kee Tah-r-taom" and meaning "with bread crumbs"). I wanted to show an example of a vegetable with the topping.
Asparagus should be cooked as usual, with a wide 2-3 inch frying pan filled to about 1/2 way with boiling water, a pinch of salt and a pinch of sugar. After trimming the wooden ends off and cutting an "X" into the bottoms of the wider stalks, boil for3-5 minutes until tender. Top with the a la polonaise topping, to which I recommend a 1/2 lemon's juice for complimenting the taste of the Asparagus.
Smacznego!
Asparagus should be cooked as usual, with a wide 2-3 inch frying pan filled to about 1/2 way with boiling water, a pinch of salt and a pinch of sugar. After trimming the wooden ends off and cutting an "X" into the bottoms of the wider stalks, boil for3-5 minutes until tender. Top with the a la polonaise topping, to which I recommend a 1/2 lemon's juice for complimenting the taste of the Asparagus.
Delicious and many people who hate vegetables, including my older daughter, will eat it quite willing!Smacznego!
14 March 2011
Roasted Bone Marrow and an "Anthony Bourdain Moment"
A while ago, my husband wanted to have an "Anthony Bourdain Moment", as he called it. He bought what he thought would work for a Roasted Bone Marrow recipe, Oxtail. However, that wouldn't work so I made Oxtail Soup.
The other day, my former-fast-food-junkie husband found 2 packs of Beef Shank Bones at the local butcher, for a total of 5 pieces. He called me excitedly on the phone "I found it! I found the bones! What else do I need for it?"
I have been thinking about this recipe for a while, since he has been raving about watching the episode where Bourdain talks about eating Roasted Bone Marrow, at I believe it was St. John Bar and Restaurant. So, I spouted off the ingredients and he hunted for them at the local ethnic store.
Once we cooked the recipe as close to the show as possible, my father was excited to eat it. Apparently, he ate this growing up and I did as well. I took one whiff and I was transported back to my childhood. I took another and my eyes closed and I forgot about making sure the kids ate without making a mess.
By the way, yes, I did give them each a piece of toasted French Bread smeared with the marrow and some of the salad on top. And they did eat some of it as well, and rather enjoyed it.
My husband? He loved slurping out the melted fat parts with a straw but didn't care for the gelatinous parts, which I happily ate for him. Would he eat it again? That man is planning on buying at least 10 the next time we make it.
Before you turn your nose up at Bone Marrow, I have to point out that scientists believe that the reason why our brains suddenly grew up in size was because we began to eat bone marrow from animals. Also, some believe it may contain cancer fighting properties. Here are some other sources which state the health benefits of eating Bone Marrow.
Also, beef shank bones are not cheap or easy to come by. If it wasn't good, it wouldn't cost so much, for sure. And people the world over wouldn't use in soups (yes, I will be sharing a recipe soon of using Bone Marrow in soup).
Why do I eat it? Because it's good. Yes, good enough to be a part of my last meal as well...
Ingredients:
5 pieces of Beef Shank Bones, cracked open to expose the Bone Marrow (we ate regular, but Veal and Grass Fed would be healthier and more fabulous)
1/2 bunch of Curly Parsley
1/2 Lemon
1 tablespoon Olive Oil
pinch of Sea Salt
pinch of freshly ground Black Pepper
1 Tablespoon of Capers
1 Shallot, sliced super thin
First, preheat oven to 450 degrees. Line a roasted pan with Aluminum Foil to catch all the yummy juices. Rinse the bones in cold water (as you would with any meat). Place with thinner part facing up.
I didn't place the bones on slices of bread but next time, I will for sure.
Roast about 20 minutes, until Marrow is soft, loose, but not completely melted away.
Allow to sit for 5 minutes while you get the salad and toast ready.
For the toast, slice bread at an angle and place in still hot (but turned off) oven to toast for about 2 minutes.
For the salad, tear the leaves of the Curly Parsley off the stems and rinse well in cold water. Drain. Slice the Shallot in really thin slices with a sharp knife. Add to Parsley with drained Capers.
Slice Lemon in half and sqeeze out juice from half, removing seeds. Add Salt, Pepper, and Olive Oil. Beat with whisk. Drizzle over the Parsley Salad. Toss.
Serve. To eat, scoop out with a tiny spoon and smear on toast. Top with Salad. Here is a picture of my husband's plate initially when he was feeling slightly apprehensive, before his first bite and fell in love.
My older daughter was super proud to eat such a grown meal and asked that I share a picture of her plate. Polish Meatball in Dill Sauce, Asparagus a la polonaise and a piece of Bone Marrow and Parsley Salad on toast.
Smacznego!
The other day, my former-fast-food-junkie husband found 2 packs of Beef Shank Bones at the local butcher, for a total of 5 pieces. He called me excitedly on the phone "I found it! I found the bones! What else do I need for it?"
I have been thinking about this recipe for a while, since he has been raving about watching the episode where Bourdain talks about eating Roasted Bone Marrow, at I believe it was St. John Bar and Restaurant. So, I spouted off the ingredients and he hunted for them at the local ethnic store.
Once we cooked the recipe as close to the show as possible, my father was excited to eat it. Apparently, he ate this growing up and I did as well. I took one whiff and I was transported back to my childhood. I took another and my eyes closed and I forgot about making sure the kids ate without making a mess.
By the way, yes, I did give them each a piece of toasted French Bread smeared with the marrow and some of the salad on top. And they did eat some of it as well, and rather enjoyed it.
My husband? He loved slurping out the melted fat parts with a straw but didn't care for the gelatinous parts, which I happily ate for him. Would he eat it again? That man is planning on buying at least 10 the next time we make it.
Before you turn your nose up at Bone Marrow, I have to point out that scientists believe that the reason why our brains suddenly grew up in size was because we began to eat bone marrow from animals. Also, some believe it may contain cancer fighting properties. Here are some other sources which state the health benefits of eating Bone Marrow.
Also, beef shank bones are not cheap or easy to come by. If it wasn't good, it wouldn't cost so much, for sure. And people the world over wouldn't use in soups (yes, I will be sharing a recipe soon of using Bone Marrow in soup).
Why do I eat it? Because it's good. Yes, good enough to be a part of my last meal as well...
Ingredients:
5 pieces of Beef Shank Bones, cracked open to expose the Bone Marrow (we ate regular, but Veal and Grass Fed would be healthier and more fabulous)
1/2 bunch of Curly Parsley
1/2 Lemon
1 tablespoon Olive Oil
pinch of Sea Salt
pinch of freshly ground Black Pepper
1 Tablespoon of Capers
1 Shallot, sliced super thin
First, preheat oven to 450 degrees. Line a roasted pan with Aluminum Foil to catch all the yummy juices. Rinse the bones in cold water (as you would with any meat). Place with thinner part facing up.
I didn't place the bones on slices of bread but next time, I will for sure.
Roast about 20 minutes, until Marrow is soft, loose, but not completely melted away.
Allow to sit for 5 minutes while you get the salad and toast ready.
For the toast, slice bread at an angle and place in still hot (but turned off) oven to toast for about 2 minutes.
For the salad, tear the leaves of the Curly Parsley off the stems and rinse well in cold water. Drain. Slice the Shallot in really thin slices with a sharp knife. Add to Parsley with drained Capers.
Slice Lemon in half and sqeeze out juice from half, removing seeds. Add Salt, Pepper, and Olive Oil. Beat with whisk. Drizzle over the Parsley Salad. Toss.
Serve. To eat, scoop out with a tiny spoon and smear on toast. Top with Salad. Here is a picture of my husband's plate initially when he was feeling slightly apprehensive, before his first bite and fell in love.
My older daughter was super proud to eat such a grown meal and asked that I share a picture of her plate. Polish Meatball in Dill Sauce, Asparagus a la polonaise and a piece of Bone Marrow and Parsley Salad on toast.
Smacznego!
04 March 2011
I Sense Spring
Winter has always dragged me down. I change.
I change from an optimist who smiles at everyone constantly (it's rather contagious, I have to say) to becoming grumpy and suffering from cabin fever. Even the kids notice it and I try to explain to them that Mama prays a lot during Winter and why.
This year was harder because last winter, I was living on the East Coast and suffering through a freak blizzard last winter.
We moved to the Midwest and are living on the flat Prairie with no respite from the wind and an unceasingly bitter cold which I had never really suffered through before.
I literally began to feel like I was living in some sort of frozen tundra Hell.
And I wasn't really alone in my suffering. People I interacted with were also becoming more snappish and short tempered. Of course, that in no way encouraged any sort of comraderie with others.
Until...
A couple of weeks ago, we had almost 60 degree weather and it was heaven sent. Since then, it has been cold but I will take an average of 30's and 40's over just above 0 degrees Fahrenheit any day.
I have been desperately keeping my eye open for signs of Spring.
Birds have been singing in the Dawn lately.
We have been going on walks more lately. I am used to hikes. There is a huge difference. Hikes leave me feeling as though I exercised and conquered something, even if it is a small rocky hill. There are no hills here.
So, instead we go on a walk. Still, I relish the walks because they are walks through Spring.
I saw a little fly come in through the front door and land on my hand...
At a local meadow which was originally a pond, mating pairs of ducks and geese were eating nonstop what I believe was algae...
At a local park, I found green moss growing...
I saw what looked like pussy willow leaf buds to me and tried to take a picture but the squealing wiggling excited toddler in the baby carrier wouldn't allow me to focus the camera properly. I think she could sense the Spring and the moisture in the air as well...
We combed a local beach for interesting rocks and found fossils since the temperature was finally bearable...
We even found a "seeing stone". Do you see any fairies in it? My older daughter walks around with it looking for the fairy folk all the time now. I think it's time to look for old Polish stories about ghosts and spirits...
When I step outside, I smell earth and grass outside, a sure sign of Life.
I am only wearing my East Coast winter coat unzipped instead of my knee length down insulated coat with 5 layers underneath.
Between all this and Paczki Day yesterday, I know it's Spring and that God was hearing my desperate prayers for an end to this long miserable lonely Winter. I hope you can feel it as well!
Welcome to Bigger Picture Moments, a place where we step back and take in the SIMPLE things in life. Simple moments in the mundane or in the hectic that take our breath away. A picture maybe? A poem? A gesture of kindness or things we unwrap during the week. We encourage you to take this opportunity to take a moment and view the Bigger Picture. Whatever that means to you. Whatever way you want to outlet that in your blog.
We hope you'll join us. Take a few moments. Think about your week, and pour however little or much onto a page. Then share. Tell us your moment. Link up at Hyacynth's blog Thursday! grab our button, and share your
We hope you'll join us. Take a few moments. Think about your week, and pour however little or much onto a page. Then share. Tell us your moment. Link up at Hyacynth's blog Thursday! grab our button, and share your
BIGGER PICTURE MOMENT.
03 March 2011
Paczki Day
Today is Paczki Day. Actually, it is Shrove Thursday. In Poland, it is traditionally the day when Paczki are made and celebrated (in other words, eaten with great enjoyment). It is also known as Tlusti (pronounced "Toos-tih" and meaning "Fat" or some say "Greasy") Czwartek (pronounced "Ch-VAHR-tehk" and meaning "Fourth Day", as in the fourth day of the week, Thursday).
In the USA, it is called Paczki Day or Greasy (or Fat) Thursday. As Poles have immigrated to the USA, they began to celebrate it more on Fat Tuesday or Mardi Gras to keep their pre-Lent celebrations more with other USA residents. Or at least, that is the explanation I have heard from people about why the day difference.
Regardless, I celebrate on Shrove Thursday. So, I had the idea to make Paczki yesterday. Except that I didn't realize I had a playgroup today and it was my table's turn to bring the food for about 90 women. So, I ended up spending a couple of hours late last night making Nalesniki. I made the "Ser" filling for on the side along with a couple of other jams. Of course, they were a hit today. And the ladies recognized the amount of work that went in to making them.
But because I went to the playgroup, I didn't have the 3+ hours to make Paczki at home. I had the option of driving a couple of hours to the locations that Polish American Association was selling their fundraiser Paczki at but it was too far and not enough time to get back to pick up the older daughter from school. Perhaps it is an option for you and your family, though.
Or you could go to your local Polish church. Many PNCC (Polish National Catholic Churches) and Roman Catholic Churches in Polish communities sell them as a fundraiser event.
I went to my local Polish store for our Paczki. We bought 4 of each, 7 different types all together. I can't remember all the fillings. I know that we have Malinowe (raspberry), Rosowe (rosehip jelly, yummy), Moreli (apricot), Sliwkowe (plum butter filled), Truskawkowe (strawberry), a Chocolate topped variety which is reminiscent of a Boston Cream Doughnut. So far, I have eaten 2 and each child has worked their way through one each.
For those brave enough to devote all day to trying their hand at this traditional dish, here is a handwritten recipe I found in one of my mother's old Polish cookbooks, which I translated.
Ingredients:
4 cups Flour
8 dag fresh Yeast (8 1/2 Tablespoons)
1/2 cup Sugar
5 Eggyolks
3 Eggs
pinch of Salt
1 Tablespoon of Spirit (Rum, Brandy, Vodka, etc.)
10-15 dag Butter (7-10 Tablespoons)
grated Lemon or Orange peel
Milk
Jam
Oil for Frying (traditionally, Smalec, which is what I remember being used but you can use Peanut, Sunflower, etc.)
Dissolve Yeast with 1 Tablespoon of Sugar and a little bit of warm Milk (110 degrees).
Add sifted Flour.
Add Egg Yolks.
Beat Eggs with 1/2 cup Sugar. Combine in dough.
Add the Spirit, Salt, and a little milk.
Knead the dough with a wooden spoon until smooth and has a sheen.
Add Butter (I assume melted) and knead until the dough blisters and pulls away from hands and bowl.
Cover with a clean handkerchief (or dishtowel) and allow to rise in a warm place, such as a warmed oven or near the stove while cooking other dishes.
When the dough has doubled in size, dust a pastry board (or your counter) with Flour lightly. Roll dough to thickness of a finger.
Cut with a glass circles.
Place a teaspoon of Jam in the center of a round and cover with another. Pinch shut and recut to make a round shape.
Cover with a dishtowel, set aside and allow to rise in a warm place again.
In a large pan, heat about 1/2 gallon of Oil until a small piece of dough dropped in immediately rises to top.
Fry a couple at a time so that they don't touch each other. When the bottom is golden colored, flip over with wooden skewers (or chopsticks).
Cool on paper towels. Sprinkle with powdered sugar or vanilla sugar, if you like.
You don't have to stuff them with jelly. I have eaten some Paczki which were not filled but covered in powdered sugar mixed with orange zest which were amazing.
If you make any, I would love to see a picture posted on the Facebook Fan Page to share with others.
Smacznego!
In the USA, it is called Paczki Day or Greasy (or Fat) Thursday. As Poles have immigrated to the USA, they began to celebrate it more on Fat Tuesday or Mardi Gras to keep their pre-Lent celebrations more with other USA residents. Or at least, that is the explanation I have heard from people about why the day difference.
Regardless, I celebrate on Shrove Thursday. So, I had the idea to make Paczki yesterday. Except that I didn't realize I had a playgroup today and it was my table's turn to bring the food for about 90 women. So, I ended up spending a couple of hours late last night making Nalesniki. I made the "Ser" filling for on the side along with a couple of other jams. Of course, they were a hit today. And the ladies recognized the amount of work that went in to making them.
But because I went to the playgroup, I didn't have the 3+ hours to make Paczki at home. I had the option of driving a couple of hours to the locations that Polish American Association was selling their fundraiser Paczki at but it was too far and not enough time to get back to pick up the older daughter from school. Perhaps it is an option for you and your family, though.
Or you could go to your local Polish church. Many PNCC (Polish National Catholic Churches) and Roman Catholic Churches in Polish communities sell them as a fundraiser event.
I went to my local Polish store for our Paczki. We bought 4 of each, 7 different types all together. I can't remember all the fillings. I know that we have Malinowe (raspberry), Rosowe (rosehip jelly, yummy), Moreli (apricot), Sliwkowe (plum butter filled), Truskawkowe (strawberry), a Chocolate topped variety which is reminiscent of a Boston Cream Doughnut. So far, I have eaten 2 and each child has worked their way through one each.
We also brought in one for my older daughter's teacher and another for the teacher's aide. Whether they enjoy it, I don't know but I think they will. More importantly, I shared a tradition with them and reinforced it with my children through example.
For those brave enough to devote all day to trying their hand at this traditional dish, here is a handwritten recipe I found in one of my mother's old Polish cookbooks, which I translated.
Ingredients:
4 cups Flour
8 dag fresh Yeast (8 1/2 Tablespoons)
1/2 cup Sugar
5 Eggyolks
3 Eggs
pinch of Salt
1 Tablespoon of Spirit (Rum, Brandy, Vodka, etc.)
10-15 dag Butter (7-10 Tablespoons)
grated Lemon or Orange peel
Milk
Jam
Oil for Frying (traditionally, Smalec, which is what I remember being used but you can use Peanut, Sunflower, etc.)
Dissolve Yeast with 1 Tablespoon of Sugar and a little bit of warm Milk (110 degrees).
Add sifted Flour.
Add Egg Yolks.
Beat Eggs with 1/2 cup Sugar. Combine in dough.
Add the Spirit, Salt, and a little milk.
Knead the dough with a wooden spoon until smooth and has a sheen.
Add Butter (I assume melted) and knead until the dough blisters and pulls away from hands and bowl.
Cover with a clean handkerchief (or dishtowel) and allow to rise in a warm place, such as a warmed oven or near the stove while cooking other dishes.
When the dough has doubled in size, dust a pastry board (or your counter) with Flour lightly. Roll dough to thickness of a finger.
Cut with a glass circles.
Place a teaspoon of Jam in the center of a round and cover with another. Pinch shut and recut to make a round shape.
Cover with a dishtowel, set aside and allow to rise in a warm place again.
In a large pan, heat about 1/2 gallon of Oil until a small piece of dough dropped in immediately rises to top.
Fry a couple at a time so that they don't touch each other. When the bottom is golden colored, flip over with wooden skewers (or chopsticks).
Cool on paper towels. Sprinkle with powdered sugar or vanilla sugar, if you like.
You don't have to stuff them with jelly. I have eaten some Paczki which were not filled but covered in powdered sugar mixed with orange zest which were amazing.
If you make any, I would love to see a picture posted on the Facebook Fan Page to share with others.
Smacznego!
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