“I can’t wait to go to the egg store tomorrow!” my son exclaimed as he glanced at his calendar before settling into bed. “Mom, can we read Rechenka’s Eggs one more time before we go to the egg shop?” my daughter asked. “Of course.” I replied. “Climb on up on your brother’s bed.” The whole family cuddled together as we read one of our favorite Easter books. Rechenka’s Eggs by Patricia Polacco is about Babushka, a sweet old lady who lives on her own in a tiny house. She is well-known for her fine Ukrainian eggs (or pysanky) that she decorates. All through the winter, Babushka lovingly creates the eggs so that she can sell them at the Easter Festival in Moskva. When Babushka is not decorating eggs, she loves to walk and enjoy the simple things. She can be heard whispering “A miracle!” when she sees caribou or calves being born. On one of Babushka’s walks, a goose fell from the sky, injured, so Babushka brought the goose home to nurse her back to health. Babushka named her Rechenka. Soon after Rechenka’s injury healed, the goose knocked over Babushka’s bowl of pysanky. Babushka was crushed and Rechenka felt horrible, but the following morning Rechenka had laid the most colorful, elaborately decorated Ukrainian egg (pysanka) – “A miracle!” When I was in elementary school, I remember making Ukrainian eggs with my classmates. The process seemed arduous, but I was so proud of my egg. I wanted my kids to have the experience of making pysanky – the time was right. As I searched for a place to purchase pysanky supplies on the Internet, I came across a small shop named “Ukranian Gift Shop”. The shop had been in business for over 70 years, but the family story that was lovingly showcased on the site gave me chills. It read: When she was six years old, Marie Sokol moved with her family from her birthplace of Dobrochyn, in the Sokal region of Ukraine, to Yugoslavia. Eight years later at the age of fourteen Marie decided to follow her two brothers to America. She traveled alone by ship through Ellis Island to join her brother Paul in Pennsylvania. Marie stayed with Paul on his farm for a year before she ventured out once more by herself to Winnipeg, Manitoba in Canada, where her other brother Kirylo had settled. “With a few dollars and a small suitcase containing all my possessions I set off for Canada. The train stopped in Minneapolis for the night at the Milwaukee Depot. I decided to go out for awhile. It was a cold night. I remember asking a policeman if he knew of any Ukrainians living in the city. He directed me to Seven Corners. As I walked up the street I could see the frozen Mississippi River glistening in the moonlight. It was very pretty. I came to five houses, all of them dark and quiet. The third house seemed like the right one, so I knocked. A young couple answered the door. ‘Do you speak Ukrainian?’ They answered ‘Tak, Tak’ and invited me in. They told me of a young woman who was living with them. To our surprise and amazement we discovered the woman staying with them was my second cousin! Was it not God’s will that led me to this house? I had no idea that in all of the United States she was living in Minneapolis. It was a miracle. We cried and laughed at our reunion. I did not go on to Canada. It was right for me to stay in Minneapolis.” “I remember my first Easter in America and how homesick I felt for the traditions of the holidays which I once knew. I recalled my mother and grandmother decorating the colorful eggs and taking them to church to be blessed and decided that I could not let the Easter season pass without at least trying to make a pysanka (Ukrainian Easter Egg). So I made a writing tool (kistka) from the metal tip of a shoelace. I bought crepe paper at the drug store and made dyes by soaking the paper in boiling water. My first attempts were crude, but I did it, and made my first Pysanky in America!” Marie opened the Ukrainian Gift Shop in 1947, and it is still run by the family today. On the first day of spring, my family piled into the car, and off we went to the Ukrainian Gift Shop. When we arrived at the small shop, we were greeted warmly by Elko, Marie’s grandson. “Welcome! How can I help you?” he asked with a friendly grin. “Hi! We would like to get supplies for making Ukrainian eggs.” I replied. “I think I can help you with that.” Elko said. As Elko went to gather supplies I noticed that both kids had found a special table – a large table filled with hundreds of beautiful pysanky. “Look with your eyes – not with your hands.” I called out – I could feel my stomach tighten with nervousness. Just then Elko returned with the supplies. “Thank you so much.” I said. “You know, my children have been enamored with the book Rechenka’s Eggs, and that book is what brought us to you today. Do you know the book?” “I sure do!” Elko responded. “And, I have a fun story to share with you about that book.” “Really?” my husband and I replied at the same time as the kids scooted over to listen. Elko continued, “Back when George Bush – the second one – was president, he invited Patricia Polacco to the White House Easter brunch because of the book Rechenka’s Eggs. Patricia called my mother and asked her if she would decorate a large ostrich egg to gift to the White House. My mother agreed. But, she not only decorated the ostrich egg, she also crafted 12 goose eggs for the 12 cabinet members and a chicken egg for the president
tradition
Christmas Memories: A Doll For Grandma
Porcelain-white skin, lips tinted rose, eyes painted with exquisite detail. What would her hair look like? Long blonde locks that brush her ankles, two auburn-colored braids that playfully hang down from each side of her ball cap, or raven-black ringlets that delicately frame her face – I could only guess. Most outfits were fancy gowns trimmed with lace, but another was a softball uniform, and one was a beautiful red sweater with plaid skirt that included ice skates as an accessory. When I was a young girl, I remember running down Grandma and Grandpa’s stairs at Christmas time to the Christmas tree they had decorated so nicely. I’d gently search through the gifts until I found the one with my name on it. Every year the box was roughly the same shape and size, and I always knew what would be carefully wrapped up inside – and yet the excitement never waned. When the time came for presents to be opened, my parents, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents would gather in a circle to read the Bible. As a child, it was so hard to sit still for the reading, so as soon as the scripture reading was finished, the kids would jump up and hand out presents to their grateful recipients. Everyone got one present from Grandma and Grandpa – simple and sweet. Logs crackled in the fireplace, cheeks were pink from the heat of the fire, the murmur of relatives chatting could be heard, and the smell of delicious holiday food filled the room. All of this was drowned out as I started to unwrap my gift. The tag with my name on it was always written in my Grandma’s beautiful handwriting, and the rectangular boxes were expertly wrapped. I’d take my time unwrapping my gift, as I knew the suspense would only last a moment. After I removed the top of the box, I gently unfolded the tissue paper that protected my gift, and there she was – my new porcelain doll. For many years my grandmother picked out a new porcelain doll to give me for Christmas. Each and every one was special to me. All throughout my childhood my dolls were displayed on my dressers, shelves, and any other open spaces I had in my room. I spent hours playing with them and combing their hair (which I found out later was not a great idea – doll hair is not like human hair). I still have my dolls, and now my daughter enjoys playing with them and taking care of them. Grandma always loved dolls, and I was not the only one she bought porcelain dolls for. She also bought them for the other girls in the family, and for herself. She once told me that when she was a little girl, her family didn’t have much money, but she remembered getting a doll when she was young – a treasured possession. I often wonder if this was why she continued to collect dolls. A few days ago, my great-uncle sent me a document that had been written by my great-grandfather (my grandma’s father) in 1977. In this document, Great-Grandpa reminisced of Christmas’ past, and I found a special mention of my grandmother (Connie) inside of it. Christmas was better as our children came and gave us incentive for celebrating. Connie started Sunday school and the first year at Christmas program I remember her little poem, yet- so, it goes: ‘Presents large and presents small But this is the best gift of all (she held up her doll).’ ~Roy Falk Reading this brought back the memory of my Christmas porcelain dolls – a Christmas memory that is still one of my favorites. I like to imagine the magic my grandmother must have felt when she opened up the doll she was given at Christmas when she was young. Was it the same kind of magic she gave to me each and every Christmas when I was a child? I’d like to think so. To my readers: I hope you had a very Merry Christmas. A Christmas that was filled with tradition, loved ones, and fond memories. Do you have any special Christmas memories? I would love to read about them if you would be so kind as to share them in the comment section below. Wishing you a Happy New Year! `Erin
Tradition: A Swedish Cranberry Dessert
Thanksgiving on the Farm As my family and I sat down at the table to celebrate Thanksgiving, I felt a warmth wash over me as I gazed around the room. Here we were, sitting around the table as a family on the farm that my Swedish ancestors homesteaded in 1884, our chairs sat on the wood floors that my great-great-grandparents walked on over 100 years ago, “Come Lord Jesus” is a prayer that we would soon be reciting together – a prayer that was said by my ancestors, and the delicious homemade food we were about to eat came from recipes that have stood the test of time. Traditions Tradition: “the handing down of information, beliefs, and customs by word of mouth or by example from one generation to another without written instruction”. Traditions are more than things that are passed down through the generations. Oh yes! They are much more than that. Traditions have a way of dredging up memories, of allowing you to live in the past – if only for a fleeting moment, and of surrounding you with warmth, happiness, and contentedness. My son and I were both diagnosed with celiac disease (part of our Swedish genetics we’re not so fond of), so for the past three years we were unable to eat stuffing, green bean casserole, and cranberry salad due to the gluten in the dishes. Because of this, Thanksgiving didn’t feel complete. Over the past few years, my family has learned to make all things gluten free, so this Thanksgiving, my son and I would get to indulge in the foods we had been missing. Finally! A complete Thanksgiving meal. A Cranberry Treat The cranberry salad was the dish I was looking forward to eating the most. This salad is more of a dessert, so I’m not sure why we call it a salad. Although, I have a feeling this article explains it well: Minnesota: Land of 10,000 Dessert Salads. Or, maybe we simply call it a salad so it sounds a little more appropriate to serve as a side dish with the main meal (as we serve pumpkin and apple pie for dessert). Sneaky, I know. Hey! We only do this once a year. Layers of crumbled graham crackers, jellied cranberries, and sweetened whipped cream make this sweet, but tart dish a treat. My mother recently told me that my great-grandma Falk served this dish at Thanksgiving, and the family has continued to make it every year. After hearing this, I Googled the ingredients that are in my great-grandma’s cranberry salad, and read that this particular dish is a Swedish dessert. Research is one of my favorite hobbies, so I contacted a few relatives who live in Sweden to ask about this cranberry dish. One was able to confirm that our favorite cranberry salad is in fact an old Swedish dessert called “giftas” (pronounced ‘yiftas’). So, maybe the recipe was actually brought over to the United States by my great-great-great grandparents when they emigrated from Sweden. Either way, giftas is a special dessert – a Thanksgiving tradition that evokes warm memories, satisfied smiles, and allows us to step back in time for just a moment. I leave you with my great-grandmother’s giftas recipe (or is it my great-great-great-grandmother’s?): Giftas Recipe Crumble 10 oz. of graham crackers (about two packages of regular graham crackers). My kids and I made homemade gluten-free graham crackers. If you would like the recipe for the gluten-free crackers, you can find it here. We crumbled the entire recipe, and had about 1/2 c. of graham cracker crumbles left over. Our chickens enjoyed a little Thanksgiving treat. Growing up, my family used to crush the graham crackers using a rolling pin, but now a food processor finishes the job in less than a minute. Tecnhnology – a blessing or not? Whip a quart of heavy whipping cream on high until soft peaks form. Sweeten the cream by adding a 1/4 c. of powdered sugar, and 2 teaspoons of pure vanilla extract (or in our case – 3-4 teaspoons as we can’t get enough vanilla flavoring). Mash three – 14 oz. cans of jellied cranberries. Using a clear serving bowl, layer the graham cracker, cranberries, and whipping cream, paying particular attention to making sure the layers show on the outside of the bowl. Finish the gifta with a layer of whipping cream and add sprinkles of graham cracker crumbs on the top. Ingredients 10 oz. of graham cracker crumbles (about two packages) 1 qt. heaving whipping cream 1/4 c. powdered sugar 2 t. pure vanilla extract 3 – 14 oz. cans of jellied cranberries Do you have favorite traditions or foods that make your holidays special? I would love for you to share them. Skål! – Cheers!