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“I hope it’s salacious.”
“It’s more just that I’m not familiar with any of these dishes.”
I was still at the dinette, having idled away a couple of hours with pencil and paper, while Leo read opposite. The time had slipped away surprisingly easily. And I couldn’t tell if that was because of the season or the setting or some combination of both. “It’s basically just Christmas leftovers.”
“What do we do with it?”
“Open mouth, insert food.”
Leo rose, holding one of the many Tupperware boxes that Mum had stashed about the boat like a squirrel burying nuts in autumn. “You vaguely implied that you like…per-per. These?”
“Pierogi,” I told him. “And you better not be trying to manage my eating.”
“I’m trying to manage my own eating. Because I’m hungry.”
“Then you should eat.”
“Which is what I’m trying to do.” Peeling open the box, Leo peered inside. “These look like gyoza.”
“That”—I kept my attention on my paper—“was extremely culturally insensitive of you.”
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”
I glanced up. “I’m fucking with you. I think the dough is different or something. I honestly don’t care.”
“If I got them ready, would you eat some?”
“Probably,” I said, impressively offhand for someone who—given half a chance—would consume any and all available, or indeed unavailable, pierogi. My gastronomic Achilles’ heel.
“How do I do that?”
“Do what?”
“Do I just reheat them or—”
“These are complex questions, Leo.”
“Are they?”
“Yes. People have strong opinions about pierogi.”
I was being exasperating and Leo was clearly exasperated. But he was also smiling. “And what is your strong opinion about pierogi, Marius?”
At which point I failed utterly to play it cool. “Sauté in butter for about four to five minutes. But be careful not to overcook them or they’ll fall apart.”
He was already reaching for his frying pan. “You got it.”
Almost exactly five minutes later, I had a plate of golden-brown, beautifully crisped pierogi in front of me. Food was my private battlefield. I had made it so, contrary to the core, wantingthe power to reject—to force into irrelevance—something so inescapably vital. But give me pierogi and it was Christmas Eve on the Western Front. Everyone laying down their arms to meet in a moonlit no-man’s-land. They tasted of home and memories. Of my father trying to teach my mother piecemeal from what he remembered his own mother doing. Of love in one of the few forms I could let myself accept it.38
“These,” said Leo, “are amazing. What’s in them?”
They were, indeed, amazing. Smoky and sharp, crispy and soft—full of contradictions, just like me. “Mushroom and sauerkraut. It’s a Christmas thing.”
“How come?”
“Well, savoury pierogi often contain meat, and Wigilia is traditionally vegetarian.”
“What are your favourite kind?”
