Pierogi are Polish dumplings filled with a variety of things. Dietitian Annie Hauck-Lawson says, “Fillings can be as simple as berries sprinkled with sugar” (“Polish American Food”). A pierog can hold anything, but at my family's Wigilia there are two options: potato or kapusta, which is sauerkraut. A game of Polish roulette began the moment platters of pierogi were passed around. Instead of a lone bullet in a revolver, it is a kapusta pierog hidden among the ranks of delicious potato pierogi. After losing my first game, I refused to take such a risk again; the promise of potato goodness was overshadowed by the fear of kapusta sucker-punching my taste buds and taking my lunch money. However, that Christmas, my grandma taught me a lesson in fair trade economics by giving me a new rule: no pierogi, no cookies. Fueled by a child’s insatiable appetite for sugar, I had to play the game. 

A Wigilia veteran can spot the darker hue and slimmer figure of the kapusta pierogi, but my inexperienced eyes got lost in the shades of beige and light brown from the rolling dunes of buttery crescents. There was sauerkraut hidden in this Sahara, but I could not hesitate: there were cookies to eat! I stabbed my fork into the closest pierog and shoveled it into my mouth. The warm, doughy exterior and creamy potato interior told the whole story. I won the game. Not only did I avoid the stringy mass of sour cabbage, but I was now rewarded with a sparkly, sprinkle-covered treat. 

Pierogi are a competition. My brothers and cousins always try to see who can eat the most. The all-time record belongs to my late grandpa, Pops, who once ate twenty-four – a number never reached by the rest of us, in principle out of respect and in practice because no one can eat like he could. I first started competing in my early teens. Unfortunately, one has to eat many of the lighter kapusta pierogi to have enough room to score competitively. My desire to eat as much as my brothers outweighed my disdain for sauerkraut, and I began to add kapusta pierogi to my plate one at a time, only able to stomach half at a time. But I ate them all the same.

The copious amount of pierogi devoured at the Wigilia requires considerable effort to make. When I was very young, my dad took me to my grandma’s house to help. I don’t remember being especially useful, but it was fun to just spend time with them. Culturally, it is a significant event when family members come together to make pierogi (Pope). Hand-rolling dough and crimping the edges is a tedious process. Not only are pierogi made with love, they are made with immense effort – a testament to Polish resolve and enthusiasm.

After the Wigilia, my family gathers to sing Polish Christmas carols. I know very little Polish, but the experience is a strong connection to the cultural roots from which my family came. My great-grandmother immigrated to the United States from Poland in 1928, bringing the language and recipes with her.  Like with my family’s story, other immigrant “food traditions from the homeland still form a quiet but persistent language in the new world” (Hauck-Lawson, “When Food is the Voice”, 21). I may not understand the words of the songs we sing, but I do understand the generations of love wrapped into each pierog. 

I am nineteen studying to be an engineer. The other day, I underperformed on an important exam, and my dad came to visit me while I was at my lowest. He brought me a plate of my favorite food: pierogi. Although I love potato pierogi, my favorite ones are filled with sauerkraut.