Christmas Polish Bows
My sister
and I were very fortunate to have many weekends spent at my Nana’s place when
we were young. Throughout the school year and even over the summer, she would
collect us in her boxy ivory Volvo on a Friday afternoon and we would embark on
our 24 hour girls only time. Our visits included: two meals eating at a
restaurant, watching the Merv Griffin show and a shopping trip to Macy’s
department store, previously named Bamberger’s.
Once on the
long flight of stairs to her upper apartment, the familiar soapy smell of the
pink Caress bar in the bathroom enveloped our sense of smell like a welcoming
hug. Her apartment wasn’t large by any means but to Chris and I, this was a
true retreat for a girl. Her many dolls and sculptured collectible cats greeted
us as did the bright warm sun that always seemed to shine through her large
front window. Occasionally, she would ask us to dust and vacuum her apartment
which meant the living and dining rooms. She rarely cooked in her tiny kitchen so
the dining room was barely used except when we were there visiting. That was
the place where she taught us the rules and strategies of her favorite card
game canasta.
The
conclusion of our visit would end at her restaurant of choice - the Mountainview
Diner which ironically didn’t have any view of a mountain except the vast
expanse of the macadam parking lot. We became so familiar with this diner over
the years that it felt like going to a dear friend’s place to eat. Nana would
always have coffee with a light meal unless strawberries were in season which
she would order to perch atop a Belgian waffle – her favorite. We could order
whatever we wanted on the menu as long as it was enough to fully fill our
stomachs.
These
visits were close to routine but we never considered them a mundane obligation
because we loved Nana and she reciprocated with abundant kindness and
generosity. She truly treated us like princesses. I am so grateful she wanted
to spend so much time with us because unlike many of my childhood memories,
these memories spent with her are almost completely intact.
I resist
subscribing to the commercialism of Christmas for it is the simple memories of
loved ones from my past who are no longer here and making new memories with the
next generation of our family which I truly cherish above material things. I
realize that may sound ridiculous or overly sentimental, however, over the
years I have amassed a treasured collection. My mind has a virtual album of
recollections I like to pick up often and look through. This time of the year
holds a special memory. Although Chris and I had much fun at Nana’s, when we
were summoned to go there to make Polish bows it meant serious businesses and
we took it as such. Oh, she loved us so much that it was never a chore nor did
we ever resent helping her.
Polish bows
have a different name outside of our family. Nana’s family emigrated from Poland
By the time
we would get to her house to make the Polish bows, she had the yellowy dough
already prepared since it had to rest in the refrigerator for several hours.
The process began with her cast iron pot and getting the oil inside it up to
temperature. While that was beginning, the dough was rolled out until it was
very thin. Chris usually took that task since she liked to sneak a few pieces
of the raw dough to eat. Once it was satisfactorily thin, the dough was cut
into long thin strips, the strips then cut again into three or four pieces each
with a small slit cut in the center. The end of a piece was very gently pushed
through the slit to create a knot or a bow. I would bring these over the pot
where Nana supervised while I would carefully drop them in. She would cook them
until puffy and slightly golden; transferring them from the oil via a fork to
an unfolded brown paper bag once they were out of the oil so they could dry.
The final touch included a healthy flurry of white powdered sugar.
We ended up
with dozens of these wonderful treats. We were allowed to sneak a few but Nana
knew that once we got the highly addictive taste of the sugary
melt-in-your-mouth delight, Chris and I would have assaulted them to
obliteration into our stomachs. The next day we would bring them to the large
family gathering where we were met with “oooo’s” and “ahhhhh’s”. I felt great
pride in that not only did we get such a reception (rather the bows we were
carrying did) but that Nana chose only Chris and me to make the Polish bows
Christmas after Christmas.
I never did
get the recipe from Nana. Once I awoke from the stupor of my young adulthood
and settled into the life I now live, I deeply lamented that I let her leave
this life without endowing me with her recipe - simply for the fact of being
able to actually hold a piece of the memory in my hands. Without having the
real name of the Polish bows, I couldn’t even look up the recipe on the
internet. And then years later as I was reading a December issue of Gourmet
magazine, my heart rejoiced when I saw a picture of them complete with recipe.
I immediately called Chris who shared my excitement when I told her the
treasure I discovered. We made them that Christmas to share with our family and
to my amazement; it was clear in everyone’s eyes that for a brief moment as
Chris and I presented our surprise that the spirit of Nana was amongst us in
the form of a simple delicious treat.
