My Confession and a Campfire

I've been thinking a lot lately.

Some things have changed.  I don't feel comfortable sharing them all.

But I've been surrounded by moments.  The sort that sneak up, and if you aren't paying attention, disappear and leave no trace.  But if you catch them, and hold them while you can, they leave beautiful marks decorating your soul, feeding your strength and straightening your back so that you hold your head up.

I went to the local college and did a placement test.  I spoke to a counselor.  I spoke to a Financial Aid advisor.  And heard encouragement left and right.  I decided to go back to school to be an ESL teacher.  My scores were more than needed to be approved to be an English tutor to other students.  The tutoring wasn't even my idea, the counselor suggested it.

I placed my hand on my forehead in embarrassment at my math score.  Only a 45 in Elementary Algebra.  Is it the word "Elementary"?  Is it the fact that I took Pre-, I and II level Algebra in Middle School? 

Why was I embarrassed at this score?  The counselor looked in my eyes and said "How long ago did you take those classes?"  Over half of my life ago.  With absolutely no real life situations needing that skill.  And I only have to take 1-2 Math courses for my degree, whereas others have to take more because they didn't get that same score. 

It's that moment when someone puts it in perspective for you.  You don't have to be a genius in everything.  You don't even have to be a genius at all.  You just have to keep trying.  Pushing forward.  You don't have to smile if you don't feel the urge to.  But you don't have to frown just because there is a challenge.  That's what keeps you strong and reminds you that you have been forged in fire and came out stronger.

A fire like this one...

I made this fire with my own two hands, no help from any man, no chemicals or lighter fluid or starter sticks.  Just a match, kindling I found with the kids, and fire wood.  And on the first try, it started.  The flame licked the side of the leaves, jumped into the twigs, and lapped up onto the wood. 

I made a fire. 

I felt an urge to look up to heaven for a moment.  And smile.  Whisper "Woman make fire."  Ridiculous words that can easily scoffed at.  But I whispered them anyway with a tiny bit of pride.

Warmth eased from the fire onto me and the two little blanket wrapped giggles who hugged me.  Laid their heads on my chest and relaxed.  Safe.  Warm.  Leaning on me for their strength.

Me.  The one who won't take out the trash, who has never changed a tire, mowed the grass, and who cries to this day when the ant dies in Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. 

A moment of clarity.  A strand of my hair falls on the hair of my older daughter.  It reminds me of dappled sunlight on the forest floor.  Her hair the cool, welcoming, mysterious shade, mine the swaying burst of light that the sapling needs to grow. 

We cooked hot dogs and marshmallows on the fire that I built for them.

Na razie...

I Don't Know

I'm at a point in my personal life where I don't know what to write about. I'm not sure what to share, what is inspiring, what is worth the time.

I have cherries that we pitted and froze so that I can make cherry pierogi. I've been talking about making them for some time now. I just don't have the time.

I've been making different versions of surówki for dinner, I just don't have the extra few seconds to grab the camera or my phone to take the photo.

I hope you have patience with me while we deal with some personal issues and also prepare for the new school year. I will do my best effort to post more often.

Na razie...

Wisdom from My Six Year Old on Charity

I have always made an effort to expose my children to the concept of "Charity", of helping others however you can, even if it's only a small gesture.  That repeatedly, small gestures turn into something bigger.  That we can help make this world a better place if we care and keep trying. 

It seems to be working.

My six year old's school has a bake sale often to help fund various academic programs.  Each item is usually 25 cents for a cookie, small cupcake, brownie, or other home baked goodies.

We usually give her $1 for the sale and tell her she can buy 4 "goodies" or buy one or two and share the money with a friend who has none.  I stress that it is up to her.

When she gets in the car at school pick up time, I always ask her how her day was, asking questions like, "So, what did you buy at the bake sale?"

Yesterday, she made me so proud with her response.

"I bought two cookies, Mommy.  They were really yummy.  I ate one and gave one to [another student's name] who had no money.  I had two moneys left so I put them in the jar for helping the poor people.  I do that every time we have a bake sale."

She then started laughing at her sister, who had been stretching her little hand toward her big sister while being strapped in her car seat.

They started making frog sounds back and forth to another and I drove to the house, passing a pond with geese and ducks on the way.

Soon, I plan on telling her more about charity.  How we can donate money, and help raise money, to make a difference.  To give an underfunded school a library, to build a monument to a local hero so that the community can continue to be beautiful and feel inspired to strive for better, to give shoes to children who have none, to bring about changes in laws so that children and the environment can be better protected.

For now, I'll keep donating with them to local organizations that help immigrants, being a lunch room Mama and Classroom Mama while they accompany me, cooking for local fundraising events, baking cookies for the nursing home, growing our own garden, and helping them work out in their own minds what they can do in this world to make a difference.  Because I know they can.  I know they will.

Na razie...




Related posts:

Another Immigrant Family

Tzedakah

Wordless Wednesday:  Adam & Eve and My Older Daughter

I've Been Busy

I've been busy.  I'm sorry I haven't been writing and cooking as much as normal.  I have several commitments regarding my older daughter's school. 

Today, I am baking cookies and cakes.  They will be sold tomorrow in a fundraising event.

I might be able to sneak in baking a Murzynek for my family (Polish Chocolate Cake).

If I do, I will share photos and a recipe.  As soon as I get a chance to pay for my image storage for the blog.  Apparently, I accidentally let that lapse.

In the meantime, my blog post "I Let My Children Say "NO!" will be syndicated on BlogHer today at around 4 pm CST.  I will share the link as soon as it is active.

If you live in Illinois, does your child have off from school for Pulaski Day?

What are you put to this week?

Ash Wednesday, the Day After

Yesterday, the children and I went to church together.  Since my older daughter is in Catholic school, she goes every Wednesday like a good little Catholic girl in training. 

My preschooler and I go as well but hover in the back and leave at the first bit of noise coming from the preschooler.  After all, the school is there to learn, not to listen to her shouts.

Since yesterday was a special day, I dressed up for the occasion (Read: No jeans).  Silently, without a word, that was all that was needed for the two girls to realize this is a special day.

We arrived in church together and my Kindergartner opened the door for me, as the students there do for others without being asked, understanding that it's polite to do so.  A woman came in behind us, we saw each other and greeted each other warmly in Polish.  We knew each other.

In church, my Kindergartner sat with us.  Impressively, the preschooler stayed in our pew and didn't make as much noise as she typically did.

She pointed to the sunlight streaming in through painted glass, Dawn lighting up the faces in attendance.

Some of the older children of the school walked down the aisle with symbols of the Catholic faith which the priest explains to those in attendance.  A purple cloak, a bag of coins, a crown of thorns, wheat, grapes, a handful of nails.  My Kindergartner searched in my eyes when the nails were walked past us.  I'm not sure what she was looking for but I squeezed her little hand.  She smiled and went back to watching the service.

When it was time to receive our ashes, we went together to receive them from one of the school teachers. 


"Remember that thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return."  Genesis 3:19

This was not to let others know that we are fasting.  This was to remind us as individuals of God, his love for us, and our inevitability.  At least, that's how I always interpret it.

When we sat back in our pew, my preschooler pointed at each of our foreheads and said "Mama, dat you coss? Sissy, dat you coss?" 

When asked where her cross was, she pointed to her forehead and said "White heew".  Her voice, curious and soft, travelled through the church but nobody looked upset.  A few older parishioners smiled at her for a second and went back to prayer. 

Later in the service, she went to hug me while we stood to pray.  She drew back, looked at my forehead pensively and proclaimed "Mama, you dewty!" and laid her head on my shoulder.


*******


Later, at the grocery store, we spotted other "Dirty Forehead People" as my Kindergartner called Catholics on Ash Wednesday when she was 3 years old.  My children locked eyes with them for a second. 

My preschooler would touch her forehead occasionally and say "Dat my coss" to passersby.


*******


All night, she tossed in her toddler bed crying.  Occasionally, she would call out "No!  That Dewty!"  I'm not sure why she was so upset about the ashes but at only 2 years old, I'm sure the service was unusual for her.

Perhaps next year, we will get a better nights sleep following Ash Wednesday service...



Na razie...




An interesting article on ChicagoNow.com Nine words and Heaven

What's Up With the Ashes?

Finnish Schools, Polish Schools, US Schools

I found an article titled "What Americans Keep Ignoring About Finland's School Success" which was written a couple of weeks ago and discussed the differences between the two countries methods and PISA test scores.  And what was continuously being brushed aside by Americans and was probably the most important key to the Finnish schools success.

I thought the article was interesting and decided I wanted to share it with you.



I also wanted to share some links to PISA test scores for other countries.

Poland 2000-2006 PISA scores, including explanations of education reforms.

PISA 2009 scores table for participating countries



What do you think about this large difference in education methods and test scores? 

Is your child in public school or private?  Mine at this point are in private school because I don't have any faith in the public school system where we currently live.

Would you want your children to have the same education as Finnish children have?  Personally, I would love that.  I think it holds true to the ideals set forth by both the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States.



As a complete side note, did you notice that the girls in the first article's photograph are dressed differently than American girls?  Can you tell the difference?  Every girl in the photo is wearing very little pink, more variety of colors, no cartoon characters, dressed for comfort and their hair is pulled up.  It seems subtle but compare a group of American girls the same age in dress attire and their hair styles and it's actually quite different.

Na razie...

Winter

I loathe winter.  I loathe the cold.  I don't dislike it.  The cold seeps into my core and no matter how hard I try, I can't warm up.  And I can't shake the depression that overwhelms me, even with flax seeds, flax seed oil, fish and milk in my diet. 

I don't think it's Seasonal Affective Disorder anymore.  I think it's the lack of outdoor activity. 

There is a rhythm to the Earth.  A rhythm to walking on a dirt path, tree branches passing overhead, the grasses a tapestry of various hues hiding wildlife. 

The footsteps my heartbeat, the grasses the swishing of breathe, the hidden life a reminder that the world goes on.  There might be troubles with Iran and Syria and Wall Street and the Occupy Movement and SOPA.

But on the trail, they are gone.  They will be handled.  And I will have my strength when I return home to bear hearing my Babcia's voice telling me over and over how she wished in her life that we could spent more time together.

I reconnect with the earth and accept life as it is when I am outdoors.  I breathe in and out and feel everything is where it should be.

I can sense the life, people and animals and plants, that were on this soil before me.

I can sense the creation that has been before me, that is now, and that will create again when I am gone.  Call it Science, call it God, in the end, it is the same thing.  A wonderfully orchestrated amazing and unending Creator.  One that works with a rhythm.  Like feet on a trail in the woods.  A heartbeat.

In the cold winter, the frozen ponds and unceasing winds, there is no rhythm.  Not one I can hear.  There is only a rushed herding of children from house to car to building and a feeling of being breathless for a moment afterwards.

And then, that moment afterwards when the warmth returns to you, when you catch a breath that isn't so cold that it burns, when you feel your heartbeat again.

Santa Claus brought me a bearable winter this year.

It's January and just now the pond has finally frozen enough to bear my weight.  The geese are just now assembling and honking their way across the skies toward the warmth of the South.

My children's bare hands in my bare hands and we smile at each other and talk.  And our breathe doesn't hurt.

I can talk to them about the millions of shades of winter.  The browns, the blues, the muted greens and reds and yellows.  The animals sleeping.  Waiting for Spring.

We are walking.  The rhythm of the Earth beneath me.

Na razie...

Related Posts:

Winter on the Prairie (January 2011)

Winter Wonderland (February 2011)

Frozen Pond (December 2011)

Calling Babcia: Snails, Kidneys and Tai Chi

I love calling my Babcia.  I wish I could live near her and visit her often.  She is, to me, the definition of a wise woman.  A true Babcia.


This time, when I called her, I also had my Tato on the phone with her.


We talked about Christmas and the winding Pre-war stairs of my cousins apartment in Wroclaw.  The house was one of many which were once probably owned by nobility or merchants.  There is a courtyard with doors that, if you stop and just look, you could imagine a horse drawn carriage coming home from some event and entering the courtyard to prepare for night and rest.


My Babcia walked up the stairs with some of my family to celebrate Christmas together.  The building was once beautiful.  But it has fallen to some neglect.


My Tato and Babcia discussed politics and why the building is not being restored the way I dream it could be every time I visit. 


In my eyes, I envision discovering the original paint color under the current flaking layers.  I imagine the stairs being repaired and the banister re polished and properly attached to the walls.  Walls which probably once bore family portraits.

I imagine the rotting wooden family crest of whoever once owned the house being carefully researched and restored.


I imagine beautiful light fixtures bringing light to the dark corners that always make my breathe stop in fear.  Imagined figures always hide in those recesses waiting for me.


I imagine the house is made a historical site and so much more...


My Babcia tells me that she has mailed me two recipes for Kidneys which should be tasty.  She chuckles as she says this and I tell her how I traumatized my children with the last attempt.


The conversation leads to her time in France when her family tried to avoid WWII and it's atrocities.


She and my father both said that they could never imagine eating snails.  That perhaps it's because they have some sort of attachment to those green shelled garden residents that every Pole sees throughout the warm days of summer.


I told my Babcia that I have eaten snails.  Slimaki.  Hiding in a lot of garlic, butter and parsley.  At, of all places, a restaurant in Western Maryland called Old South Mountain Inn (I love that restaurant, by the way).

That my East Coast hippy husband, who had never eaten anything like it, had ordered it immediately thinking of me and that we had all really enjoyed it.  Even my then 2 year old older daughter.

That it tasted like... well, a garden.  There was something in the taste that reminded me of clams.  Wonderful.  I was pronounced an adventurous eater.


My Tato reminded me that the snails eaten in France are actually harvested in Poland.  I had once watched a television show discussing the snails of Poland and why the French could not raise and harvest their own snails.






My Babcia found that to be very funny and we talked about various dishes we loved and which we didn't. 


My Babcia told me that she missed doing Tai Chi everyday.  That she would go to the local park and do it with a group of other older residents and that it cleared her eczema.  I have decided that I would start doing Tai Chi again as well.


Na razie...

Our Start to 2012

My husband participated in the Lake County Polar Bear Plunge at Waukegan Beach.  "Proceeds from the Waukegan Polar Bear Plunge go to the SRSNLC- Waukegan Scholarship program. This program helps individuals with disabilities participate in camps, athletics, health and fitness programs, and much more."

He walked in up to the lifeguard, went underwater, and walked back out.  Our toddler told him she was cold and we went home to change and go out to eat at a restaurant some friends suggested.  I won't waste any time talking about that restaurant as it was... disappointing.

We are all now taking naps and snuggling together in pajamas, planning the next charity event he will be participating in and our next outdoor adventure on the prairie.

I hope your 2012 started with as much fun and excitement as ours.  Happy New Year!

Na razie...



Disclaimer:  No compensation was received for this post



Related Posts:

Father's Day (one of several "mud run" marathons my husband participates in)

Lake Michigan

Wordless Wednesday: The Wigilia Feast

Wigilia has ended but I thought I would share a photo of our table.  We have been snacking on ham, stuffed eggs, kielbasa, bigos and other goodies the past few days as well.

The red candle in the center is from our first Wigilia in the USA.  We still use it and light it.  To remember.

Na razie...

Wordless Wednesday: Getting Ready for Wigilia

At Keylime Cove...  (Guess which one is mine and which is my husbands)

The Manger as told by a 2 and 6 year old...

Bezy...

Chopping chives with the help of the kids...

 A letter to God from my 6 year old which I was baking...

 Kogiel Mogiel (on right for the kids, on left with brandy for Mama)

One of two bottles of Polish mead my hippy husband bought for my father and I for Christmas and my Polish Rock Salt Lamp...

A Christmas card from the Polish Embassy in D.C.

What do Wigilia and Christmas preparations look like in your house?



Wordless Wednesday: Frozen Pond

I promised yesterday I would post some photos that were possibly of December 13, 1981's "Martial Law" but after looking closer, I realized they must have been taken closer to the end of the USSR's Communist regime in Poland.

I can share them another day.

Instead, I will celebrate today's temperatures being in the 50's with photos of our small fish pond frozen over.

Every once in a while, we can briefly see the goldfish, catfish and snails in there but they for the most part are cowering in the plants and bravely trying to make it through the winter.

In the meantime, geese keep coming over and walking on the pond.  Shouldn't they have flown south for the winter?

Na razie...





Related Posts:

Winter on the Prairie

What a Winter Wonderland

Zupa Ogonowa or Oxtail Soup

Beef Kidneys, A Culinary Disaster

A few days ago, I shared on Facebook and Twitter that I would be cooking Beef Kidneys.  The recipe I was specifically planning on making was Stewed Beef Kidney or Cynadry Wolowe Duszone.

Since normally on Mondays I share recipes, I thought I would share today an experience that failed in my kitchen.  Miserably.

My husband had been in the meat section of the grocery store while I was gathering supplies for baking Christmas cookies. 

When he saw the Beef Kidneys, he brought them to me and asked "What do you think about this?" which I took to mean "I challenge you to cook this for me, oh dear sweet creative Polish wife of mine who can make even lowly Chicken Livers a culinary delight for me to enjoy with relish."

That was not what he meant, apparently.  He meant, "What do you think?  Is this edible?  Yes?  No?  I can put it back, it's not a problem."

I did not, however, hear his true meaning as I eyeballed the kidneys. 

My mind raced and I thought, "Offal, hmmmm, I bet this is as easy to cook and as delicious as liver.  Yes!  I accept your challenge!" as I asked him to buy another kidney so that we could have more of this potential delicacy to enjoy once I was done lovingly and painstakingly preparing it for my family.

Before you scoff, I have had kidney before.  I remember it being soft and delicious.  I assumed it to have been Beef Kidney.

When we went home, I dug through my cookbooks and referenced several websites to be sure that I would prepare it correctly.

I sliced the kidneys in half and was met with a very faint smell of urine but shrugged it off since I figured the next couple of steps would correct that.  I then soaked them for an hour in cool water.

In the meantime, I shared the photo on my Facebook and Twitter feed.

The reactions on Facebook were priceless:

• Perhaps I was making galaretka (oh, how I now wish that was what I had made)
• "Looks yummy! what is it?" & upon finding out what it was - "ok...I just threw up a little. It looks like a cream cheese, raspberry danish thingy? I was way off."
• "It looks scary!!!"
• "so there used to be cow pee in those things? oh my."
• "What is the white s*** in the middle?" and a friends reply "the creamy nougat center?"

 Twitter was about the same.


I rolled my sleeves up and got to work.  After all, I have tackled various cooking challenges before that should have been flops and turned out marvelous.  How hard could this be?

I boiled some water (first error, I should have placed the kidneys in cold water and brought them to a low boil) and placed them in for several minutes.

The house quickly took on a strong smell.  According to my husband it smelled like, "*gag* Fells Point Alley at 3 am! *gag*" and he ran quickly to the garage to call friends and family so that he could describe the horror that was our house.

The children ran for cover and hugged one another in a corner far from the kitchen.

I opened the windows, turned off the burner and proceeded to pour the urine water down the sinks drain while heaving into the double sink myself.  My glasses had fogged up from the steam and it made me more ill thinking that I would have to wash my glasses well after this.  I poured what might have been a cup full of lavender scented all natural dish detergent down the drain and ran more water, hoping and praying that the smell would go down the drain.

It didn't. 

I lit 2 sticks of incense and looked at the now shriveled kidneys at the bottom of the pot.  The smell from them was no better.

I removed them from the pot, scrubbed the pot out well and placed them back in with more fresh clear water.  I then brought them back to a boil...

The smell was no better.  My husband again gagged and ran away and my children cowered together in a corner.  I am fairly certain I have scarred them for life.



Everywhere I read about preparing Beef Kidneys said that it would take between 2 and 4 boils to eliminate the smell.

On the fourth boil, my father came in after work to visit us and promptly called "What are you killing?!"

When I frantically tried to explain to him what I was doing, he gave me a pearl of true cooking wisdom.  Several, actually.


My Tato on Beef Kidneys:

• Beef Kidneys are the most difficult meat to cook
• Why didn't I call him?  He would have told me to soak them overnight in milk first.
• Why didn't I call my Babcia?  She used to make them often and he enjoyed it and it did not taste like urine.
• When I placed them in boiling water the first time, I had essentially sealed in the urine

I placed the kidneys in milk while I washed the pot again and filled it with water.  The milk they were in soured within two minutes.

After the fifth boil, everyone thanked God that I had also decided to make Mushroom soup for dinner.


My fears of having scarred my children for life was affirmed when my older daughter covered her mouth as I lovingly ladled the soup into her bowl.  Her eyes wide, one finger madly pointing, she wailed "You aren't going to feed us PEE ZUPA, are you Mama!?" 


I told her it was Mushroom soup that Mama had made besides this as a just in case and she relaxed visibly.  While the children ate, she told me "This tastes much better than Pee Zupa, Mama."

I sliced up the Beef Kidneys, submerged them in milk and placed them in the refrigerator.  My kind husband threw them away the next day.  Airing out the house at the beginning of a Midwest Winter for several hours due to an overwhelming urine smell was apparently enough for him the first day.


I called my Babcia the next day asking for advise.  She informed me that she never cooked Beef Kidneys because the urine smell was just too much.  When meat was scarce during Communism, veal kidneys were often on the food cards so she made those and they were delicious.  But it was still not easy to cook them even though they were very mild compared to beef kidneys.

I learned my lesson that day.  I had been bested by the Beef Kidneys and I don't intend on trying it again.  The Beef Kidneys won.

I know that this will go down in our family history as The Great Beef Kidney Disaster of 2011...

Have you ever cooked something that was a complete nightmare?  Did you try again?

Na razie...




Related Posts (Just to prove that I can cook):

My First Plum Cake Ever

Zupa Ogonowa or Oxtail Soup

My Husband Thinks I'm a Communist Like the Muppets

Walking around the grocery store yesterday, my husband told me "You're a Communist just like the Muppets." 


In case you haven't seen or heard about this, FOX News recently made a comment that the Muppets are Communists.

While talking to Santa after waking him up last weekend, my older daughter had told Santa Claus, "Cookies and milk aren't really healthy, Santa, so I am going to put out oranges and orange juice for you instead."

Let me explain...

During our stay at Keylime Cove last weekend, one of the activities my older daughter participated in was waking up Santa Claus on Saturday morning.  Santa comes to Keylime Cove every year before Christmas.

He gets a special room made just for him away from all the other hotel rooms because he snores so much.  Saturday morning, an elf and a Keylime Cove employee bring some of the children to the room to call out "Wake up, Santa!" so that they can later have breakfast with him...

According to FOX News logic, I am a Communist because I taught my daughter that eating too many cookies is not healthy and that oranges are a healthy delicious alternative.

According to FOX News logic, I am a Communist because I teach my children to save the rain forest, expect human and animal life to be valued, eat healthy, feed the poor, send hot meals over to our elderly neighbors, donate old clothing to a charity, know that immigrants are people too, and to stand up for what you believe in.

Because, you know, recycling, adding a bit of flax seed to your diet, caring about human slavery and our environment makes you a Dirty No Good Stinkin' Dangnootin' Flamjammin' Red.  OK, according to them, I'm a Red.

According to my husband, I would own the books "The Organic Squirrel Gets a Bike Helmet" and another about saving the Wetlands-books in the film Bedtime Stories which Adam Sandler's character calls "Communist books".  As a confession, I would own them.

I asked my husband, "Wait.  So... I'm a Communist?"

He laughed and said, "Yeah, just like the Muppets."

I looked in my shopping cart: 

• Organic Ginger
• Whole Wheat Pastas
• Whole Wheat Flour
• Greek Honeycomb
• Polish black currant jelly
• Organic Apples and Bananas
• Pickles without yellow food dye or preservatives
• Organic Red Potatoes
• Beets to make homemade soup
• real butter
• Fresh baked bread without preservatives that will go stale in 2 days
• Beef Kidneys
• Flax Seeds
• Wheat Germ
• Cage Free Eggs
• Smoked Pig Hocks to make soup with
• Oyster and Shiitake mushrooms
• Organic plain yogurt
• 7 large jugs of Kefir in various flavors
• Sour Cream without Guar Gum or other thickening agents
• And various other items...

All of which I planned on feeding my children after having lovingly prepared it with their help and which I planned to discuss while we ate. 


On the topic of discussions would be the taste, texture, smells of the foods along with methods of preparation around the globe in various countries and the ways the foods were grown and harvested and transported for consumption.  Also, the environmental, social and economical impact of purchasing different versions of the same product. 


I was planning on teaching them through food.

The only thing I could come back with was, "Huh.  And here I thought I was just being a mother."

How sweet that he still allows me to raise our children.

Note:  My husband loves the Muppets and is not a Communist and does not think I am one.  And in case you were not sure, I am not one.

Wordless Wednesday: Wodka from a Polish Wedding

I was thinking of my cousins lately and missing them.  This is why I hate the holidays silently.

In moods like this, I take out whatever I have to look at and hold that reminds me of them and I silently reflect on our times together and how amazing my cousins really are.

I decided to pull out the Wodka bottle from her wedding.  I know, I know, in English, it's Vodka.  But since Wodka came from Poland, Russia, or other countries in that area, depending on where you came from (we all want to claim the wonder that is Wodka for our own, but really, it came from Poland), and we all spell it as Wodka, then the real name for it is Wodka.

Back to the Wodka bottle.

On the front was a sticker that my family had stuck to each of, possibly, hundreds of bottles. 

Poles don't actually drink heavily throughout the year.  But it is a tradition and for good luck that Poles drink Wodka, and a lot of it, at weddings.

There are measurements on the sticker (from top to bottom):

• To the health of the couple
• On the second leg
• Viva!  Viva!  To the Couple!
• time for "Sto Lat!"
• And one more time
• Bitter Wodka, Bitter Wodka, We will not drink!
• To Our Host, you give us Wodka!

I don't know the exact meaning of some of these.  They are phrases that make sense in Polish and don't translate well in English.  But each is a line that marks a toast.  If I recall correctly, there were special songs involved as well.

 

Of course, my memory of the different toasts is not blurry because of the Wodka.  Actually, I was pregnant at the time and had flown in to Poland the day before the wedding.

 

And Polish weddings last all night long.

 

Have you ever been to a wedding in another country or even in the USA but tailored to a different country's customs?

 

Na razie...

 

Related Posts:

Once Upon A Polish Wedding...

Understanding Flower Traditions in Poland

A Love Letter to My Home Town, Wroclaw

A Polish Nursery Rhyme, Biedroneczka Mala and Planning the Next Trip to Poland

I went in search today of a Polish nursery rhyme my mother used to play with my brother and I when we were very little.  It was about a Ladybug or Ladybird, as some call it.

You can find the word in Polish below.  They are also translated into English and a video follows how to do the finger play part of this classic nursery rhyme.

Mama Lisa's Biedroneczka Mala

I've begun working again on teaching the children Polish as my older daughter said something a few days ago that really touched my father and I.

She asked if next year, we could go to Poland for Christmas instead of getting Christmas gifts.  She said she wanted to see Christmas in Wroclaw and asked me if I had ever spent Christmas there.  I had, my first Christmas ever.  And no other time.


At the idea of the trip, we all reacted with an ecstatic "Of course!  Great idea!"

So, where does that leave me?  I have a renewed need to teach the girls Polish and to save up money for the trip.

As I work on our Polish, I will share with you more sites and tips I come across to help you teach your child Polish as well. 


I sincerely wish we could afford the 45 minute drive one way every Saturday and the tuition to put at least my oldest in Polish School but it just isn't an option for us.  And that should not be enough to stop them from learning my first language.

I hope you and your child enjoy playing Biedroneczka Mala as much as we are.

Na razie...

Also, if you feel that you would want to, please donate using the paypal button below to help us pay for our next trip (I promise to share pictures when we go!)...

Our Life Changing Anniversary

It was evening.  The children were fed, bathed and playing together by me as I sat on my bed sorting paperwork.

My Tato came in.  He never really comes into my room.  My house is always open to him because that is just how Polish children are, their house is always open to their parents.

I looked at him, knowing he was going to say something important.

"Gęś*, do you know what Eleven ten eleven is?" with a smile that I know very well.  A smile that means "Guess, maybe you know, this is something very special to me."

I raked my mind.  It is noone's birthday as far as I can remember.  It isn't our anniversary coming to Amerika. 

"I don't know, Tato.  I know it's the day before Veteran's Day and the day before Poland's Independence Day and before eleven eleven eleven."

"On November 10, 2011, it will be 30 years ago we left Poland."

My Tato rarely talks about Poland and our departure.  I have begged him for years to share with me but I have been lucky to get slivers.

I paused and bit the bullet.  I asked questions.  Cautiously, because I know he might shut down his wall that he keeps to protect himself.  I can understand that feeling, even though my feelings are from a different perspective and most likely not as strong and full of memories as his and my Mamas.

"Tato, how did we leave?"

"You were just a little thing (stress on little).  You was not even 1 1/2 year old.  I drove us in a car to Austria."

I knew this much.  I wanted more.

"But how?  Did we sneak over in the night (like on those old spy movies)?  How did we get through the border?"

"No, we said we were going on vacation."  More gentle prying and I hear, "We each got passports to go separately when we apply to go to Austria for vacation.  You Dziadek went with us to take car back.  We just did not return."

We left on different pretenses than what we told the government.  In my mind, I think now about people who overstay their visas and wonder if they were in the same situation and if it is so wrong what they did.  And that people who judge them without ever having traveled anywhere have no idea, no clue.

My Tato continued to tell me how little I was and that we lived in Warth. 

I asked him if he regretted it.  Because I am ashamed to think (but would never tell him) that in some ways, I do.  He told me that in some ways he regrets it but in many ways no.  I knew I hit a nerve.  This was hard to him to talk about.

I cannot imagine being in a situation where no matter how hard you work, there is no food in the stores to feed your baby, there is no future that you can see for your child.  Having to hug your parents goodbye, cross yourself and sneak away to another country.  And hope beyond hope that you don't get sent back home, that you and your family are given a chance to try to make a life for yourselves in another country far far away with a different language, culture, government, values, food with no family to be your support there.

I cannot imagine how my parents found the strength to leave their Poland.

30 years ago today, my parents made the biggest decision of their lives and mine.

They hugged their friends and family, said goodbye, not knowing if they would see them again.  My parents wrapped me in a green blanket and my mother sat with me in the backseat of a maluszek that had no heat on a cold November day.  My Dziadek sat in the passengar seat.  And my Tato drove.

For our future.  To our future.

This weekend, besides celebrating Veterans Day and Poland's Independence Day, I will be showing my children photos from my family, calling my Babcia, and telling my children our story.

I wonder what will be, to my children, the biggest decision in their lives that my husband and I will make.  Will it be, as I see it something as small and trivial, as moving to Illinois from Maryland?  Or will it be something just as big?

Na razie...



*  Gęś (pronounced Gensh and meaning "goose" in Polish, my father's nickname for me)

Related Posts:  Writing Me:  Where I'm From
The Other Side of The Immigrant Question

Indian Burial Mound in Racine Wisconsin

We enjoy finding Indian (Native American) history all around us.  I was having a hard time trying to find it for a while but discovered something. 

Out here on the Midwest Prairie, there were Mounds built by the Native Americans for certain reasons, as graves, for observing the stars, for ceremonies, etc.  I found it difficult to find Mounds but figured out that if you searched for Mound Cemeteries, there are many all around us. 

The only one thus far that we have found that acknowledged the Native American Mound builders was the Racine Mound Cemetery.  That doesn't mean that others don't also acknowledge this but this is the first we found.

Hills are not actually very natural out here.  Certainly, the further you go inland from Lake Michigan, the ground has a natural roll to it.  But they are not large hills with angles and designs that do not fit the natural topography.  It is safe to assume that any unusual looking hill around could be a Burial or Ceremonial Mound.

I wonder why the burial grounds of the Native Americans were sold.  Why they were used as cemeteries for the white pioneers who took the land from the Native Americans who had been living here for thousands of years before.  Why many Native American remains were removed and put in private collections or removed and their new locations impossible to find.

But I suppose it might be better than putting a Walmart on a Burial Ground.

I know nobody buried in this area is a relative of mine.  And that, probably, I will not be buried here.  But cemeteries are sacred places to me and I don't believe some one's final resting place should be tampered with. 

Perhaps because I honor All Saint's Day.

Perhaps because I want to teach my children the history of our new home and I think the Native American history is a very important part of that and all I've found so far to show my children are these Mound Cemeteries.

What do you think about this?

Na razie...

Other Related Links:

Wordless Wednesday: At a Cemetery for All Saints' Day

Racine History - Cemeteries in Racine

History of Mound Cemetery

The Love Story

My mother was about 17 or 18 years old living in Poland. 

She and her best friend decided to go to Paris, France for a vacation. 

Because of Poland's prime location in the center of Europe, my entire family has always been able to enjoy countless vacations in the Alps, Paris, Barcelona, London and countless other European locations that are far far out of my reach and always will be.

The two inseparable friends took a train over the borders and made their way to the City of Lights.  They strolled along thestreets of Paris, enjoyed coffee and cigarettes while people watching at Paris's numerous cafes, saw the Notre Dame and basked in the romance that is Paris.

One day, my mother's best friend met a Parisian.  He was suave, dark, macho, handsome, very French and proud of it. 

He swept my mother's best friend off her feet with his romantic gestures and words spoken in his french accent.

When it came time to leave Paris and return home to Wroclaw, my mother's best friend gave her this ring.

It was to remember her.

She would be staying in Paris to marry her handsome Frenchman.

Her name was Kasia.

Wordless Wednesday: At a Cemetery for All Saints' Day

We found 3 graves which had their names and dates worn off over time and lit candles and said a prayer to whoever was buried there.

There was something very sweet about kneeling around a grave with my children and having them cross, or in my toddler's case trying to cross, themselves and saying Amen at the end of my prayer.  Not "Ay-men" but "Ah-men".

There was something extremely comforting about driving away and seeing our candles flickering in the graveyard.  The only ones lit right before sunset.

I wonder what language this grave stone is written in and what it says...

We found another grave that was part of a Polish family's group.  The young man had died during WWII and was a member of the US Armed Forces.  We lit a candle for him and said thank you for serving this country and that perhaps this old Polish tradition might bring him and his family comfort.

Out of respect for the family, I didn't take pictures to share.

Na razie...




Traditional Polish lanterns for use on All Saints' Day can be purchased at dom itp. 




Disclaimer:  An affiliate sale link is used in this post for those looking to purchase lanterns as is traditionally used on this holiday.

Related Post:  It Isn't Just Another Day, It's All Saints' Day