Even though I’m around to do things for my mother evey day, I try to limit those things to the necessary ones so that I have some time for myself. But I’m dedicating today to doing something she wants to do. Make pierogi (Polish dumplings). Now, given her arthitis and other aches and pains, she should not be standing over a table rolling out dough. But that’s what she likes to do. That’s what she knows how to do. That’s the only thing she does in her long life that I think she ever feels that she enjoys contributing. Whether or not anyone has asked her to contribute that or even cares if she does is irrelevant to her. This attitude has been a hallmark of her life. It has nothing to do with her age.
Only she can’t follow recipes anymore. So, all morning long I’m stewing the kapusta (saurkraut) for some of them and grating and mixing the farmer cheese concoction for the rest.
Then I go across the hall to her apartment and measure and combine all of the ingredients for the dough — which becomes an argument because she’s looking at the recipe for the cheese instead of the dough and keeps telling me I’m doing it wrong. I get the dough mixed. Now my back hurts and I’m really feeling testy.
And the damned things are fattening anyway and, while they are a nice thowback to my childhood feasts, I really don’t care if I ever eat them again. I’m losing patience, and my mother senses it.
OK. Now I’m back in my apartment. What’s left is to sautee the onions while she rolls out, cuts, fills the dough, boils the pierogi and puts them in the freezer. She’ll be exhausted by the end of the day, but she believes she’s making them for me, even though I have told her that I don’t care if I ever have any or not.
I want to sit and write. I want to rock and look out the window. I want to drive over to Old Navy and look for a replacement for the favorite orange shirt that my grandson has outgrown. I want to have a cup of tea and watch the rerun of Andromeda. I think I can manage that last one before I have to start making supper.
“This is the last time I’m going to make these for you,” my mother tells me.
I sure hope so.