Of Yarn & Storytelling

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 and consequently, without any real reason, many things were labeled “Polish” including certain idiosyncrasies of various family members. If you look up chrusciki on the internet, you can find the recipe.

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.