Home is … Perogies

This is home to me.  Yes, a big roaster of delicate, melt-in-your-mouth perogies, dusted with fried onions, chopped bacon, and too much artery-clogging, hydrogenated, melted, margarine.  This confused extravert/introvert, and a wanna-be writer will make the connection.  Please be patient with me.

Indeed, the places and cultures we come from and the land we inhabit create home.  A home that we can yearn for and a home that lingers. For me, it also stirs memories. My mother Sophie raised four daughters as a single mother (this eldest daughter was born in 1964). Sophie is a woman of faith and belief, with a fierce heart, and an indomitable, unbreakable, spirit (or so it seems).  With a very limited budget and limited education, she raised us on a farm near Meacham (which I hated, the farm), with a huge garden (which I hated), in a small, cold house (which I hated) and so much work (which I hated).  I think you get the picture.  I could not wait to get off the farm. This is home.

Sophie was born into Ukrainian heritage.  Her father was born in Ukraine and came to Canada as a young boy, with his family (many years before the Holodomor, thank goodness). They settled in the Cudworth area that was designated as north of the five (highway five) or Ukrainian country. There were beautiful Ukrainian Catholic (and Orthodox) country churches built which served as a testament to the many immigrants’ faith and reverence to God. The churches were surrounded by golden, rolling, wheat fields. Wheat, that sustained and secured the hardworking immigrants. Wheat, the fruit of the harvest and fruit of the land.

I remember the bags of wheat flour in the basement (always purchased on sale and always from the Co-op).  You always had to have bags of flour on hand.  I remember many perogy-making days.  Ukrainian aunts and women farm neighbours gathering in the kitchen, bringing their roasters.  Women making delicious “peasant” food with cheap ingredients.  Rolling out the dough with huge, ancient wooden rolling pins that could have been used as weapons. Pinching each perogy so carefully (I tried making it, but it never seemed to work.  You gotta pinch like this….. pinch harder, pinch softer……) Food is love. Food is home.

By the end of the day, each woman would have reported on their garden, their family, have one or two sneaks of a 40 percent-proof beverage by way of a shared, shot glass, and conclude with a “dúzhe dóbre” (very good).  Of course, no cultured and respectful woman would admit to any of this.  But I will.

I honour my family.  I honour the land.  The land connects us to creation, connects us to God, connects us to our food, connects us to life, and connects us to our hearts.  And home is always where the heart is.

Now if you will excuse me, I must go and eat (I will steal from the marketing of Subway), back off get your own perogy!!

This article was originally published in the Summer 2022 Edition of Folklore Magazine.

My name is SHERRY RICHERT and I have always loved writing, but this is my very first submission ever.  You can take the girl away from the farm, but you can never take the farm away from the girl.

“people stories” shares articles from Folklore Magazine, a publication of the Saskatchewan History & Folklore Society. Four issues per year for only $25.00! Click below to learn more about the magazine and to find out how to get your story into the blog!