There is an heirloom in my family that might not even qualify as an “heirloom,” because it’s really not that old. But it’s very precious to us. The Ukrainian cookbook was written by a ladies’ church group in 1976, and has become the go-to for our Christmas gatherings…
If your cookbook isn't wrinkled and stained with a ton of notes in its pages, have you really even used it?
My mother is Irish, and was an auburn-haired beauty in boots and a short skirt when she met my father over 44 years ago. Little did she know that shortly she would trade in the last name of “Brown” for a slurry of consonants she would ever after be coaching people how to pronounce. And with this moniker, came Ukrainian food, every year culminating in a Christmas Eve feast at my grandmother’s house.
On that holiday, Ukrainians typically eat a 12-course feast (representing the 12 apostles). My family never took it course-by-course, but we ate pierogi, kapusta (sauerkraut) soup, buckwheat wrapped in cabbage leaves, nut rolls, and even cloves of garlic roasted over an open flame by our patriarch, my grandfather. It doesn't sound like much, I know. But trust me on this one -- it's delicious.
One year, my mother volunteered to host this ethnic smorgasbord at our house. I have NEVER seen her so nervous. She can make beef tenderloin or crab bisque without batting an eyelash, but the humble potato dumpling and all of her in-laws’ expectations brought her — literally — to her knees.
Enter the Ukrainian cookbook. I don’t know where it came from or who bought it, but it was a lifesaver to a desperate Irish woman cooking a strange Slavic meal. We brought it out, and our kitchen became covered with a thin coating of flour as pierogi were formed, one by one in my family’s hands. One of my favorite pictures of my family is of them around the dining room table, in pajamas and various states of insanity after forming dozens and dozens of the little potato pockets.
This is a picture of a picture -- forgive the quality. But please do notice my older sister's head in her arms as she admits defeat.
They were delicious, but not perfect. As we hosted Christmas Eve over the years, notations were made in the cookbook and stains accumulated on its pages. A certain recipe is starred and dated in Maggie’s handwriting. There’s a note not to roll the nut rolls too thin or they will crack – “love Mom.” Somehow, we acquired a small map of Ukraine to use as the bookmark. This cookbook is an album of our holidays, and of my mom’s adoption (and eventual mastery!) of the meal that meant so much to her husband.
This year, I made nut rolls and pierogi for the first time by myself. I borrowed the cookbook from my parents, and I used those recipes, and my family’s accumulated hints, to make 7 nut rolls and 12 dozen pierogi. The smell of caramelized onions and cabbage filled my kitchen just as it has my mother’s, grandmother’s, great-grandmother’s, and so on. I am happy to know that tonight my brother and sisters are eating the same thing I am, and we are thinking of each other as we teach it to our extended families. We are tied together through this food.
My mother must have realized this several years ago, because I just discovered the inscription she wrote to her children:
“I sit and think about the joy these recipes have brought our family. Memories mixed up with dough, sugar, cheese, cinnamon…”
She is right. Food is what brings us close. Even when you’re struggling to make some bizarre spread that your husband’s family insists on having every year! It’s not the actual eating that matters, or the success of the recipe. It’s standing in the kitchen, or around the grill, or over the counter, talking and laughing while it all comes together. Whatever you eat, enjoy your holiday meals and the time you spend with your families today. Merry Christmas!
