Pierogi Power

I'm resurrecting my resolution to keep the Sabbath holy and not work too much. I discovered last weekend, that if I actually avoid working on Sunday's, I (gasp) actually feel reasonably rested and refreshed for the week come Sunday night. So instead of working, I am choosing to honor the Sabbath by celebrating my Polish heritage and telling you about our flour-filled adventure last night.

[no, this is not the same as mud wrestling!]

Jack had it in his mind that he was going to make homemade pierogi (pronounced "pa-dug-eee"). Having been a part of pierogi-making several times, as my aunts converged to make a pierogi assembly line in my grandma's kitchen, I understand the stress and common mishaps that occur when one undertakes a difficult culinary challenge.

Pierogi are not easy to make. In fact, I have been conditioned to fear their mere existence by my aunts who only attempt the feat every few years. For it takes that long to get the flour out of the fine wood grain cracks in my aunt's floor!

Anyway, after honoring our time-honored tradition of attending church on Saturday night, we hit one of the gourmet grocery stores by our new house. We discovered a Fair Oaks Farms Butterkase cheese and a bottle of Vouvray (a French wine that is quickly becoming my most favorite). I was happy, while Jack messed up the pierogi, I could sit at the island and nibble on wine and cheese. Then I'd throw in the frozen pizza we keep stashed in the fridge, after he cleaned up his foiled attempt at pierogi!

So he started with Step 1: making your own cheese for the stuffing. He boiled a gallon of whole milk and then added juice freshly-squeezed from lemons. It curdled right up:



Strain with a cheesecloth, add some finely-chopped onion, salt and pepper, and VOILA! Pierogi stuffing. As we watched the cheese curdle, I kept thinking of the line from Monty Python and the Holy Grail: "Blessed are the Cheesemakers!"

Step 2 was to roll out the dough. Jack grunted and sweated his way through this rolling pin exercise to create properly-sized rounds of dough. The dough is the most difficult part; too soft and they fall apart, too hard and they come out like dumplings. I watched Jack attempt to multitask. At this point, memories of my Polish youth motivated me to leap off my barstool and start stuffing the dough. They weren't pretty, but you don't want them bursting open during the boiling process:



They then only need a few minutes in the boil. They emerge looking like this:



Ugly! I'll admit it, they're ugly!

Then it was time to fry 'em up. This process comes with an automatic referral to a Cardiologist, but that's why we only make these every few years. I fried them to a golden brown and we each hesitantly grabbed a few on a plate. Jack also made an antipasto plate with fresh Italian salami and the Butterkase. Add some Vouvray and some jazz, and, well, you get a mixing pot of cultures. :)

I bit into the first pierogi, uncertain of what to expect. My gastronomical bar is pretty high with pierogi and the whole cheese-making thing made me wonder if I was setting myself up for food poisoning.

It. Was. AMAZING. We matched the taste I remembered from my grandma's kitchen all those years ago. I gobbled up my Polish delicacy, hurriedly texting my aunts that we accomplished the impossible! Jack and I high-fived, celebrating our Polish lunacy!



So guess what's for dinner tonight? Leftovers! Round Two!