I'm slicing a pound of butter into six cups of milk. Suddenly, it's 1985, and I'm sitting in the living room of my Crest Hill duplex.
My mother-in-law is cradling my three month old son; Christoper and Sarah are toddling around; and my father-in-law is explaining how, step by step, his mother had made Pascha (Ukranian Easter bread), even though it's nearly Christmas and not Easter.
He wasn't telling me anything I didn't know, for I had been married into this family four years now, and had experienced several Byzantine Catholic Easters--and Christmas Eve's too--celebrations that centered around certain food stuffs--eaten only at that time of year--and good fellowship with family and friends.
I had not grown up with that link to the past. My parents were each "one of two" children, as was I, and both parents seemed disconnected from their extended families. I, however, desired, from my earliest years, a large family--at least ten children (I have six)--and that I wanted to create, from their earliest years, a heritage that would outlast us all.
In short, I didn't just want to raise a family. I wanted to build a legacy.
Well, my first husband enjoyed prancing around some dangerous pastures, so the family broke down, and we're experiencing another breaking as I write this. I honor and respect the past, but I'm not one to dwell in it for that sake, when it's necessary and prudent to move on.
Yet, even as we press forward, as we all must, toward that incorruptible prize awaiting us, we find comfort and strength in the ribbon of tradition that is unchanging, a cord that defines us and connects us to each other, even as it binds us to those no longer with us, and forms new ties with the coming generations.
When my children were small and napping before the midnight Resurrection services, and my husband was busy with other food preparations, I had the task of dozing over the double boiler and, while clutching a wooden spoon, stirring the liquid hrudka, lest it scorch the bottom of the pan. When it formed curds, I folded the cheesecloth and held it over the sink, while my husband poured the mixture, then molded and tied it up to drip dry.
Now, Christopher who years ago, was the peon keeping the ever-growing stack of dishes washed, cooks most of the meats and all of the hrudkas. This time, he also had the help of a buddy, who came to join the fun. My youngest son Daniel performed dish duty.
When Sarah was old enough to assume the braiding of the bread, I thankfully relinquished the task, since it was time-consuming, and my task list, especially with babies and toddlers underfoot, was long and ever-changing and never-ending. (Her braids were better than mine, anyway). This year, I mixed the dough, and child number four, Timothy, a chef in training, kneaded all eight loaves and washed dishes.
Did I mention Rebekah kept moving laundry and cleaning up after the rest of us and helped Christopher with the grunt year?
I can no longer make Pascha without recalling the first year we prepared a little basket of Easter food for my husband's grandmother, who longer cooked them for herself. She called to thank us, but especially to marvel at my bread.
Being ignornant of the entire process, I had borrowed the recipe from an older gentleman at our church, a good friend no longer with us (and the recipe had been his mother's). Anyway, it was the first time in many decades Grandma Horkey had tasted bread the way her mother baked it. Yes, I use this very recipe every year.
Tonight, we will pack those foods into an oversized picnic basket, top with a specially embroidered cloth (THAT'S a separate blog post), and leave that basket on a long table, next to everyone else's baskets, all waiting to be blessed after services, to process, candles in hand, in the dark parking, around the dark church, waiting for Fr. Boris to bang on the door with a cross and begin singing, "Christ is risen!"
Excuse me, but I have to run downstairs to punch down the bread.
My mother-in-law is cradling my three month old son; Christoper and Sarah are toddling around; and my father-in-law is explaining how, step by step, his mother had made Pascha (Ukranian Easter bread), even though it's nearly Christmas and not Easter.
He wasn't telling me anything I didn't know, for I had been married into this family four years now, and had experienced several Byzantine Catholic Easters--and Christmas Eve's too--celebrations that centered around certain food stuffs--eaten only at that time of year--and good fellowship with family and friends.
I had not grown up with that link to the past. My parents were each "one of two" children, as was I, and both parents seemed disconnected from their extended families. I, however, desired, from my earliest years, a large family--at least ten children (I have six)--and that I wanted to create, from their earliest years, a heritage that would outlast us all.
In short, I didn't just want to raise a family. I wanted to build a legacy.
Well, my first husband enjoyed prancing around some dangerous pastures, so the family broke down, and we're experiencing another breaking as I write this. I honor and respect the past, but I'm not one to dwell in it for that sake, when it's necessary and prudent to move on.
Yet, even as we press forward, as we all must, toward that incorruptible prize awaiting us, we find comfort and strength in the ribbon of tradition that is unchanging, a cord that defines us and connects us to each other, even as it binds us to those no longer with us, and forms new ties with the coming generations.
When my children were small and napping before the midnight Resurrection services, and my husband was busy with other food preparations, I had the task of dozing over the double boiler and, while clutching a wooden spoon, stirring the liquid hrudka, lest it scorch the bottom of the pan. When it formed curds, I folded the cheesecloth and held it over the sink, while my husband poured the mixture, then molded and tied it up to drip dry.
Now, Christopher who years ago, was the peon keeping the ever-growing stack of dishes washed, cooks most of the meats and all of the hrudkas. This time, he also had the help of a buddy, who came to join the fun. My youngest son Daniel performed dish duty.
When Sarah was old enough to assume the braiding of the bread, I thankfully relinquished the task, since it was time-consuming, and my task list, especially with babies and toddlers underfoot, was long and ever-changing and never-ending. (Her braids were better than mine, anyway). This year, I mixed the dough, and child number four, Timothy, a chef in training, kneaded all eight loaves and washed dishes.
Did I mention Rebekah kept moving laundry and cleaning up after the rest of us and helped Christopher with the grunt year?
I can no longer make Pascha without recalling the first year we prepared a little basket of Easter food for my husband's grandmother, who longer cooked them for herself. She called to thank us, but especially to marvel at my bread.
Being ignornant of the entire process, I had borrowed the recipe from an older gentleman at our church, a good friend no longer with us (and the recipe had been his mother's). Anyway, it was the first time in many decades Grandma Horkey had tasted bread the way her mother baked it. Yes, I use this very recipe every year.
Tonight, we will pack those foods into an oversized picnic basket, top with a specially embroidered cloth (THAT'S a separate blog post), and leave that basket on a long table, next to everyone else's baskets, all waiting to be blessed after services, to process, candles in hand, in the dark parking, around the dark church, waiting for Fr. Boris to bang on the door with a cross and begin singing, "Christ is risen!"
Excuse me, but I have to run downstairs to punch down the bread.
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