Photo Twenty Six.
Observations: Chicken Sausage and Pierogi Night. From the culinary mind of Barron Biros I have learned to make a tasty little meal of sauteed chicken sausages, assorted bell peppers and onions, and boiled pierogi (frozen from a box of course, do I look like Giada or something?). If I do say so myself it turned out quite well, despite the fact I can’t flip the stuff in the pan quite like Barron can. More practice is definitely needed on this front. It was nice to make a meal for my family, since they are usually the ones feeding my little free-loading mouth. It is also nice to see something that you put effort into that fills such an immediate need and gets such quick gratification (especially with the eating habits of my family).
For some reason, I believed this dish was German and so reminded me of some news I was told recently by my mother, being as my mother’s side of the family is mostly German. Now, stay with me because this is a bit of a tangent that has little to nothing to do with pierogi, which I found is actually a Polish dish.
My mother has not spoken to her mother in quite some time, as long as I can remember. In fact, I cannot remember ever meeting my grandmother. There is a lot of family history, hurt feelings, mean words, and craziness behind all of that. Anyway, my mother’s nephew David called my mother relatively out of the blue this week informing her, among other things, that he had visited her mother (my grandmother). He said he visited her in a nursing home somewhere in Illinois, her birthplace. David mentioned that she seemed to have a hard time keeping on a coherent conversation and mentioned names over and over again. The entirety of my grandmother’s family is either deceased or refuses/does not care to have contact with her. For some reason I feel no attachment to my maternal grandmother, anymore than I would feel to anyone else I had never met. To many this may, and does, seem odd. Maybe there are parts of my personality, my life, my character that would make sense if I knew my grandmother. However, I am not sure I will ever get to know. I almost want to call this probable outcome unfortunate, but that would not be the truth. It is interesting to know where she is now but I still do not feel any desire to delve deeper into knowing her at this point. Maybe I will regret this decision in the future, but I don’t have that sense of curiosity even enough to warrant a visit. Perhaps my time to know my grandmother has or will pass me by, but to pursue it would be out of an obligation of societal pressures to “know my roots” or ancestry. The idea of my ancestry matters about as much as whether those pierogi are German or Polish. At this point, no matter how callous it may seem, I am at peace with knowing what I know.