“Here, what would you like?” I say, brandishing a can of tuna and some crackers in a friend’s face as he sat patiently waving away my advances. “Popcorn. D’you want popcorn? I might have some. You sure you’re not hungry?” I continue pulling things out of my fridge and cupboards until he agrees to have some of my left over lasagne and I sit across from him, sipping on chocolate milk and completely self satisfied.
Visits with my mother’s (and polish) side of the family has always meant meeting relatives I never knew existed, struggling through conversations in broken English, cheek pinches, ass pats and being fed more than I could possibly have needed as a girl of any age. Wandering in and out of the kitchen, my Babcia would tsk at how “skinny” I was and my aunts were consistently disappointed when I declined a fourth helping of dinner. After all, I was their unfortunate guest and there to be fed, watered and pinched.
As I got older, though, it became clearer that it was not only some odd poor-country impulse but something that simply made them happy. I tried for years to turn down the generous, albeit constant offers for food or drink and my polish family were not only disappointed, but ridiculously persistent. At the very least I would need to eat some fruit and have a drink. It took a couple of years before I learned that I would have to pass from household to household tactfully eating only a small bowl of my Babcia’s homemade chicken soup so that I could manage to eat one of the sandwiches my aunt had made and later the cakes presented to me by a great aunt twice removed, each one of them carefully watching and beaming as I forced my way through the ninth meal of the day.
One family-filled month I spent a morning watching my grandmother butter half a loaf for breakfast and pondering how to subtly get rid of the pierogies she would feed me an hour later, directly before an aunt came to pick me up for lunch. My aunt in turn could not figure out why I didn’t finish the pot of rice that she had made alongside my tray of vegetable chicken only to ask “How about dessert, Nishy?” squeezing my face with her hands. Later that evening I would be treated to a reunion barbeque and half a bottle of Zubrowka vodka - to be chased with homemade cherry liqueur, of course. Despite being raised Canadian and lacking what I would see as an old country need to feed, my mother herself will sit me down the instant I get home from a flight, place a beer in front of me and then point inside her fridge asking what, exactly, I might like to eat. At least being Polish generally means I get a few beers or Vodka shots with my indigestion.
I believe my own symptoms surfaced around the time I was graduating high school and started taking on the sole responsibility of entertaining my friends. Before, I would have already microwaved myself a pizza pocket only asking “Oh, you want some too?” once I’d seen my friend eying my plate at the table. But gradually I got into the habit of sitting them down, grabbing them a glass and then running through the list of what was available in the cupboards. Having drinks at my house soon meant that everyone would be standing around the kitchen island while I chopped cheese and salami, occasionally interrupting the flow of conversation to squeal and run to the cupboards when I remembered the crackers.
On my way from the beach one day, leading a troop of drunk guys home for dinner before the bar and in the right frame of mind for some deep self contemplation, it hit me. “I’m fucking polish!” (while smacking my roommate for proper emphasis.) There I was, marching my friends to my kitchen so that I could dice carrots, boil pasta and watch to ensure that every one of them was properly fed and nurtured before a big night on the town. I was the very product of my genetics and bloody well incapable of denying it.
Visits with my mother’s (and polish) side of the family has always meant meeting relatives I never knew existed, struggling through conversations in broken English, cheek pinches, ass pats and being fed more than I could possibly have needed as a girl of any age. Wandering in and out of the kitchen, my Babcia would tsk at how “skinny” I was and my aunts were consistently disappointed when I declined a fourth helping of dinner. After all, I was their unfortunate guest and there to be fed, watered and pinched.
As I got older, though, it became clearer that it was not only some odd poor-country impulse but something that simply made them happy. I tried for years to turn down the generous, albeit constant offers for food or drink and my polish family were not only disappointed, but ridiculously persistent. At the very least I would need to eat some fruit and have a drink. It took a couple of years before I learned that I would have to pass from household to household tactfully eating only a small bowl of my Babcia’s homemade chicken soup so that I could manage to eat one of the sandwiches my aunt had made and later the cakes presented to me by a great aunt twice removed, each one of them carefully watching and beaming as I forced my way through the ninth meal of the day.
One family-filled month I spent a morning watching my grandmother butter half a loaf for breakfast and pondering how to subtly get rid of the pierogies she would feed me an hour later, directly before an aunt came to pick me up for lunch. My aunt in turn could not figure out why I didn’t finish the pot of rice that she had made alongside my tray of vegetable chicken only to ask “How about dessert, Nishy?” squeezing my face with her hands. Later that evening I would be treated to a reunion barbeque and half a bottle of Zubrowka vodka - to be chased with homemade cherry liqueur, of course. Despite being raised Canadian and lacking what I would see as an old country need to feed, my mother herself will sit me down the instant I get home from a flight, place a beer in front of me and then point inside her fridge asking what, exactly, I might like to eat. At least being Polish generally means I get a few beers or Vodka shots with my indigestion.
I believe my own symptoms surfaced around the time I was graduating high school and started taking on the sole responsibility of entertaining my friends. Before, I would have already microwaved myself a pizza pocket only asking “Oh, you want some too?” once I’d seen my friend eying my plate at the table. But gradually I got into the habit of sitting them down, grabbing them a glass and then running through the list of what was available in the cupboards. Having drinks at my house soon meant that everyone would be standing around the kitchen island while I chopped cheese and salami, occasionally interrupting the flow of conversation to squeal and run to the cupboards when I remembered the crackers.
On my way from the beach one day, leading a troop of drunk guys home for dinner before the bar and in the right frame of mind for some deep self contemplation, it hit me. “I’m fucking polish!” (while smacking my roommate for proper emphasis.) There I was, marching my friends to my kitchen so that I could dice carrots, boil pasta and watch to ensure that every one of them was properly fed and nurtured before a big night on the town. I was the very product of my genetics and bloody well incapable of denying it.
Some weeks later, sitting on a plane after a couple of days spent with my Babcia and doubting I could ever eat again, I found myself wondering if the guy beside me might like a few of the chips I had with me. He did, of course, look kind of undernourished.
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