The “Polish Mule”

Christmas was “The Best of Times, and the Worst of Times”, for my 17-year-old friend.

The “Best of Times”, was dreaming about a New Set of “Hogan” Golf Clubs -The “Woods” made from Persimmon. The “Irons” with stiff steel shafts & forged club faces milled to perfection. Balls hit correctly on the “Sweet-Spot”, felt like hitting butter. The possibility of getting Foot-Joy leather golf shoes was beyond imagination.

The “Worst of Times’ was dreading to deliver boxes of his father’s Homemade “Kielbasa” to dozens of his Father’s Business Customers. These wealthy, cultured Industrialists couldn’t possibly welcome Julian’s “Little Bags of Mystery” into their homes. (Pork Parts, Seasoned with Onion & Garlic (and Julian’s secret spices), encased in animal intestines). It’s disgusting just to describe “Kielbasa”.

Much more to have a 17-year-old self-conscious son deliver it in person to distinguished gentlemen, or their sophisticated wives. (Dozens of deliveries in the city, suburbs, and Southeast Wisconsin were required before Christmas.) The body odor, from a car filled with dozens of boxes of “Kielbasa” in the back seat, lingered well past Christmas, regardless of the number of showers taken, or soap, used. Teenage girls stayed away in droves. They called him, “The Polish Mule”.

My friend’s Ego was scarred for Life.

At his Father’s Funeral, Customer after Customer, shook my friend’s hand to offer their condolences. Each Man & their Wife (without exception) said, “We will miss your father. He was a kind & generous man. We will also miss his wonderful, delectable “Kielbasa” Christmas Gift. It was a delicacy that All of our family & friends waited for with great anticipation at Christmas.”

Now it was the “Best of Times. And Worst of Times”. Again. It was the “Best” to hear the Captains of Industry & their cultured wives praise his father. It was the “Worst” to be embarrassed for being embarrassed about delivering his father’s “Kielbasa”. His father taught him an invaluable Lesson: “Esse quam Videri”: “To be, rather than to appear.” Substance over style. People admire what is True, and Good, and Real. They Thirst for the Genuine Article. (They spot the “Knock-Offs” a mile away.)

The customers knew the enormous Effort and Love that was required for Julian to make his homemade “Kielbasa”:

The kitchen table was stretched to its limit.

Then rolls of brown paper covered the table.

Platters of “Choice” pork products were hand-stuffed into a large meat grinder.

The ground results were spread onto fresh brown paper.

Onion, Garlic, and Julian’s “Secret Spices” were hand-spread over the ground meat with the precision of a “watchmaker”.

The resulting product was hand mixed and stuffed into another machine that pushed the ground delicacy into long tubes of animal intestines, that were twisted & bound, at 8-inch intervals.

The finished product was wrapped in Butcher’s paper, and boxed for delivery.

Julian spent incalculable man hours making enough homemade “Kielbasa” for ALL of his customers. Perhaps, St. Peter got a whiff of “Garlic & Onions” when he shook Julian’s hand, and said, “Merry Christmas, Julian. And Welcome Home, in Heaven.”

The Making of a Paczki – For Fat Tuesday – Madi Gras

My friend shared with me the Legendary, Generational Secret Process to make Paczki – for “Fat Tuesday” – Mardi Gras. Paczki is Polish for a deep-fried donut, with a sugar encrusted outside, and a filling of your choice, inside. (No caloric estimates are available,) The required minimum digestive period is 2 days. But the Poczki ROI is Priceless. One Paczki is akin to Nirvana, the nectar of the gods, a delicacy beyond the imagination of mortal men – To die for. (Literally, if you eat too many.)

Lore has it, that people who ate 3 Paczki’s at one sitting, fainted from arrested breathing & heart stoppage, with the eerie appearance of their eyes rolling back into their head. (Do not try this at home, alone.)

The recipe for making Paczki is more treasured than “an ancient Chinese secret”. My friend’s family was “Blessed” with the wisdom & artistry of the “Grand Potentate of Paczki Production”, Pauline.

Pauline was a Polish cleaning lady, who cleaned my friend’s childhod home every Friday. But she was much more than that. She gave my 3- year-old friend “horsey-back rides”, while she scrubbed the kitchen floor on her hands & knees. She rocked him to sleep, after all her chores were done. And in between, told stories and played games, while always leaving a pristine, clean home. But, Pauline’s “Crowning Glory” was her annual production of “Paczki”, with prunes, for the Fat Tuesday, before Lent.

It was a magical, mysterious, moment, that only my young friend was allowed to witness.. Three days before “Fat Tuesday, the kitchen table was stretched to its maximum length. Then, a long, brown piece of paper covered the table. A mountain of dough was rolled flat, and cut into dozens of round shapes. A pit-less prune was placed in the center of each doughy circle, and rolled into a ball by hand. Dozens of spherical shaped, density defying objects were stacked on the counter next to the stove.

These doughy depth-charges were dropped into a large, white-speckled, blue metal pot of boiling lard. They sank to the bottom, then bobbed up to the top of the pot. When a light, brown crust appeared, they were carefully removed by a ladle, held in a rubber gloved hand.

Concurrent to all of the above activity, the kitchen table was cleared of the brown paper, dough-filled remnants, to make way for a new roll of brown paper ensconced in sugar, from border to border. The recently fried donuts were rolled over the sugar, again and again, until their greasy exteriors absorbed the maximum amount of sugar possible. These insulin overwhelming, diabetic nightmares were then placed into another blue pot, covered, and carried to the unheated front hall, until “Fat Tuesday”.

Then, with the ceremonial fanfare of a King’s Coronation, the blue pots of Paczki were carried to the kitchen, where the long table displayed glasses of milk and cups of coffee. Family members took their places, as platters of Paczki were placed before them. The cacophony of grinding teeth, slurping beverages, and inevitable groaning rivaled the distressing sounds of a medieval torture chamber.

At the end of the day, many were grateful for “Ash Wednesday” & Lent – 40 days of fast & abstinence.

Perhaps, that was the purpose of Paczki, all along.