I could almost taste them—lightly crisped from a quick saute in butter, garnished with caramelized onions, sprinkled with salt and pepper. Nothing sounded more appealing than a plate piled with mushroom and sauerkraut pierogi.
Pallid disks of pizza sweated under heat lamps, a log of brisket desiccated on a wooden plank, and limp chunks of zucchini drowned in canola oil. As I surveyed my dining hall’s lackluster dinner options, a craving for the soft, salty dough pouches of my youth rolled over me.
Recipe in hand, to the kitchen I swooped. Things began to go awry as I smashed together the dough ingredients; unlike every smooth, beautifully shaped ball of dough I had seen online, mine was lumpy, gray, and veiny. My refrigerator’s crisping drawer further dented my plans. Devoid of mushrooms and onions, it offered me a measly jalapeño, lurking among grapes.
The dough fought me as I tried to subdue it into a rectangle. I settled for an uneven square. After I dolloped filling into uneven rounds of dough and pinched them closed, I dropped them, in small batches, into a pot.
Although I was 1,800 miles away from her, being addressed by the diminutive of my name, the form that only my family calls me, left me with a profound sense of being home and a deep appreciation for my family—despite being a pierogi gene short.
