Perogies

It was snowing the day my grandmother made perogies, and it had taken us twice as long to drive to her house. Our van was too warm, hot air blasting out of the little vents near our feet. My mother was arguing with my father, looking for an excuse to turn around.

“We’re going to end up in the ditch.” My mother grabbed the handle above the door.

“It’s fine,” my father answered.

“She doesn’t need us.” My mother tried. “What the hell is a pierogi even? I certainly don’t know.”

“Perogies are like ravioli but with potatoes inside,” my father said for the dozenth time. “She wants the girls to learn.” He looked at my sister and me in the mirror.

“They’re too young.”

“I don’t ask a lot.” My father said, and she snapped her mouth shut because he didn’t.

***

My grandmother’s kitchen was also hot, with three enormous pots of water boiling on the stove. My grandmother stood at the counter, dough piled in front of her, like faded play-dough waiting for shapes. My sister stood on a stool on her other side, her dark hair tied back in a braid woven by my grandmother’s wrinkled hands. They said that my grandmother's hair was once that dark, but that was a long time ago. I tucked my hair behind my ears and stood on my tiptoes to watch as my grandmother rolled out the dough, showing the proper thickness and how to spread flour to make sure it didn’t stick. Her hips were angled toward my sister so that I saw only her back with her apron tied in a sloppy bow.

My sister peeled the dough off the counter, stretching it too much, and I longed to reach in.

“Can I try?” I finally asked after my sister bungled another circle.

“You mash the potatoes.” My grandmother nodded to a mountain of boiled potatoes in a metal bowl in the sink. I took the potato masher and attacked them, the metal edge of the sink banging into my underarm. In the end, I achieved chunky, lumpy results, and my grandmother frowned.

“Those need milk,” she said as if I should have known. She mixed in a little milk and fluorescent yellow cheese. Once smooth, she set it on the counter, where I was unable to reach it. I went to the kitchen table and dragged a chair over, but my grandmother frowned again.

“Don’t stand on that.”

“I was going to kneel.”

“There’s no room,” my grandmother said. So I shoved the chair back and left, going to the living room, where my mother sat on the couch, arms crossed, watching TV.

“Why is Jill her favorite?” I whispered.

“Because Jill looks like their family,” my mother said. “You look like my family.”

“Am I their favorite then?” I asked, perking up.

“No, my family doesn’t play favorites,” she said, eyes on the television.