Paczki

Paczki

“Do you remember Grandma’s…whatever they were.”

“Would help if you’d be a little more specific.”

It is difficult being more specific when you don’t know what you are asking about. Not the first time I’ve been in that situation, and I know it won’t be the last. 

It began, I believe, at a gathering of family. Some holiday event, probably Christmas, but it could have been Easter. Those seem to be the times we remember past family events and attempt to dredge from the past, answers to questions that have remained dormant in our memories until the aroma of chestnuts roasting in our thoughts, most often, do to the nog that has been habitually spiked to enhance the tolerance necessary, if one is to become once again, a functioning member of our dysfunctional but forgiving family.

As the Kiolbasa ladened serving dish is passed, always after the mashed potatoes and gravy boat, a commandment, then thoughts of specialties are allowed to drift about the table as though the spirit of a holiday past has been reawakened. It then pits us against one another in an attempt to remember, what we had for the previous year, remembered to forget.

It always begins in the traditional way, “Does anyone remember those donuts, poppy seed bread, Easter soup, or the one no one can forget, but no one can remember how to duplicate, batter fried chicken. So we no longer traipse the past in search of that recipe, having given it up, with the things we should have written down, but didn’t. 

It was not entirely our fault. Our grandmother was a person who did things in a traditional way, of her own. Measuring was for beginners. Suggestions to amplify the taste, rejected on the grounds, that she hadn’t thought of them. And the old standby, “We’ve always done it that way,” floats like curdled chunks on expired milk in our minds.

Which would have sufficed, had it not been for the fact that we had no idea what, "that way," was.. It wasn’t that she was secretive about her recipes or her craft in general, it was just that she had a nebulous way of providing information that required not only perseverance to ascertain, but a floured past to understand. (pun intended)

I asked her on many an occasion, if I might observe, so as to better appreciate her talents. She always agreed reluctantly, as if an attempt at flattery, were somehow an impediment to a satisfactory outcome of any baking project. I considered them projects because, although they had less intuitive injection of forethought, they had the specificity of a bumper car seminar. 

Measurements were simply recommendations, sometimes binding, most times, left to the one doing the recommending. The day I remember most vividly, brought on no doubt, by the ample display of blood sausage heaped on the Thanksgiving turkey platter.  We began to discuss the making of Paczki. (pronounced punch-key, leastwise in our family)

Paczki is a form of hole less donut, stuffed with whatever was at hand or waiting in the refrigerator to be scrutinized for its acceptability. We remembered only too well; the cottage cheese filled delicacies that tended to discharge an unforgettable memory at first bite. Prune was a favorite, until later, and then there were an assortment of jellied and jammed stuffed offerings, that never failed to find just the right amount of powdered sugar in which to dust themselves off, in perfection. 

The exact dough recipe was, and is, however a debatable confluence of memories distributed over years, and by design, to only one of us at a time. Grandma believed too many cooks spoiled the soup, or in our case, too many memories would distort the authenticity of the experiment being devised.

As I may have mentioned, her list of ingredients varied, as did her ritualistic dedication to accuracy, purposely, some of us believed. Family secrets were a big part of my Grandma’s mystique, at least in her eyes. We always wondered until some of the secrets were revealed, why she called Ray, Kevin, and Joyce, Lynn. We have since placed that wonder back in the bureau with the memories of Grandpa’s seasonal disappearance just before Christmas gifts were distributed, and Santa arrived.   

Her reluctance to deviate from accuracy, for reasons only she could entertain, were the debatable portions of our reenactment of, making of the Paczki. I remembered four handfuls of flour, while Jean, my sister in law, remembered the definitive use of cups of flour, the cup tops raked for accuracy and precision, with just a dash of water added, tepid of course.  And then the pinch of salt, melted butter to suit, and yeast or sour dough starter, left up to the one doing the actual baking, as opposed to the one simply observing for posterity sake.

Needless to say, a pinch means different things to different people. My understanding, having small hands, and having worked as a waitress in my formative years, may have contributed to the differences in the finished product and therefore the memories it invoked.

The discussions ranged, from one of us being totally wasted while observing, to having so little understanding of science and its application as to render remembrances, null and void. Those were the productive discussions when rubber met the road, our common interpretation of getting in that ring, and getting it on; got ugly.

I remember one morning before the big day, the family having gathered as was our custom, for forget me not drinks, and plans for the upcoming day, when the challenge came from…well, no one was later sure; but a challenge is a challenge. I must say I believe I have most substantially inherited from my Grandmother, the ability to perform wonders with an oven.  And even though I am of shy demeanor, I tend to break from the mold when it comes to Paczki (punch-key).

The secret of course with any good dough, is the leavening agent used to give credence to the spiritual levity preferred by the Gods that preside over the baking arena. I have a starter that has been nourished and maintained for the past five years. My husband, well…perhaps that addendum would best be left for another time. The delicate flavor is inherited from airborne yeast. It contributes to its subtle but recognizable contribution to any conglomeration of ingredients. So, it was agreed, "let the bake off begin."

Of the three of us who agreed to participate, Iris was a novice, as she was at most things, and therefore not considered a full fledge contestant, but allowed by family compliance measures to participate. Jean, although accomplished at many things, was no baker, which she proved just this morning when attempting to duplicate Grandma’s cinnamon rolls, with glazed maple frosting. A major disaster in my opinion, but then recognizing the significance of the season, and the decreasing number of family members, I remained dutifully silent.

Jean has a propensity for what I refer to as, “Over the Top.” If two of one, or three of another, are implied, why not use three of one, and four of the other, just to be sure. Her mind seems to work on the principle that, being on the verge of starvation requires stocking the larder with ten years of canned goods, but no can opener. But I digress.

Jean, in her attempt to increase the weight of air, must have added several times the recommended amount of dried yeast to the warm water, sugar and recommended amount of flour necessary to initiate the fermentation process. We had left the initial phase of our process to rest, and had retired to the living room to ignore football, and peruse Grandma’s old cook books for elements of inspiration. 

After a formidable amount of time in my opinion, we returned to the kitchen to take up the gauntlet of reincarnation of, The Paczki. Upon entering the kitchen we noticed an unfamiliar sight. Jean’s concoction had taken on herculean physical characteristics, and the spirituality of Frankenstein. It continued to erupt from the bowl, triggering a remembrance of an eruption of mount Vesuvius I had observed on the National Geographic Channel. The ingredients flowed like lava across the table and onto the floor; most assuredly alive.

The event I believe broke Iris’s spirit; she screamed and ran from the room not to be seen again, until the following afternoon when dinner was being served. Jean in her usual acceptance of all things mystical or spiritual, depending on her mood, pretended nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Apparently, she had had similar experiences before, which may have contributed to her previous ramblings about joining a convent, or a circus, I forget. 

Needless to say, the most recent memories have been placed in the drawer with Grandpa’s timely disappearances and why Ray, was called Kevin. I have attempted on several dozen occasions to duplicate the cloud like texture of Grandma’s effervescent dough, but with no success. But as it is said, if revenge is best served cold, perhaps Punch-keys should best be kept an expanding and ambiguous memory.

If Rome could rise from ashes as Nero fiddled, why couldn’t our clan as well. From the overflowing inspiration derived from Grandma’s cook books, we devised a new family tradition. Take out!