Pierogies: The Best Kind of Christmas Package

Pierogies: The Best Kind of Christmas Package

 

In a Polish household, the holidays arrive in a flurry of flour and frenzied dumpling making

 

By Sarah Karnasiewicz in the Wall Street Journal

BY MY PERSONAL calendar, the start of the Christmas season isn't heralded by Bing Crosby crooning on the radio or fresh-cut pines perfuming the sidewalks. Instead, for as long as I can remember, my family's holiday has begun in the kitchen, with the piles of flour and the steaming pots of water that go into the making of pierogi—the plump, crescent-shaped dumplings that are centerpiece of our Wigilia, the meatless Polish Catholic Christmas Eve feast.

Oh, the mixing, the kneading, the rolling. The mashing of potatoes, the slicing of mushrooms, the slow simmering of cabbage. The cutting and filling, boiling and bagging. Preparing pierogi is no stroll in the park—especially not in the quantities it takes to sate a clan that's been looking forward to the meal all year. Sure, in these days of culinary globalization you could walk into a grocery store in almost any corner of the country and pluck a styrofoam pack of pierogi from the refrigerated case. They'll do fine for a weeknight side dish or as a cushion for Bloody Marys at Sunday brunch. Christmas, though? This isn't the time for shortcuts.

Naturally, when I was a child, I took all this hard labor for granted: I wasn't there in the weeks before Wigilia to see my father's mother, Sophie, at her kitchen counter, her narrow shoulders and crop of brown curls bent over the big yellow Pyrex bowl, her thin hands feeling their way through scoopfuls of flour, a drizzle of milk, some eggs, some salt—without a measuring cup in sight. Pressing circles from the dough with the rim of a favorite water glass, filling and folding the dumplings into half moons, sealing the edges tight with the tines of a fork and packing them into the freezer to await the feast, all as quickly and busily as a house wren.

Toward the end of her life, when my grandmother's arms were too weak to wrestle the dough to the desired thinness, she instructed my grandfather—a man I never knew to cook before—as he rolled it for her. Arriving on Christmas Eve, I'd scurry up the steps of my grandparents' split-level and find my place at the doily-strewn table, paw past the platters of herring and pickles and bowls of ruby soup, and gobble as many onion-flecked dumplings as I could manage. Only later, in adolescence, when the pierogi assembly fell to my own mom, did I begin to understand the commitment and stamina it all required.

The role of pierogi tsarina is one my mother has since played happily (though not without noting the irony that the Irish daughter-in-law was tapped to carry on the most traditional element of our family's Polish dinner). And, she did have some training: Way back, when she and my father were dating, my mother made note of the reverential way he described the Christmas pierogi and asked my grandmother to show her how to make them. "I guess I was pretty innocent," she told me with a laugh. "Because I actually expected there to be a recipe."

Instead what Mom got was a riddle—about how to cook pierogi, but also, she suspected, about something else. "I kept asking Sophie questions the whole time. 'How much milk should I use? How long should I knead it? When will I know when the dough is ready?' The answer was always the same: 'You'll just know when you feel it.' " A few years later, my mom said, her own mother told her the same thing about delivering a baby.

My grandmother's dough was true to her roots, plain and peasanty (just flour, milk, egg and salt), but wholly unforgiving to the unpracticed. And so, for a few sad seasons, success eluded mom. Fifteen bags of flour and days in the kitchen might yield only three batches of pierogi that were edible. Until one bright autumn day, a few years after my grandmother's death, my grandfather brought a distant "auntie" from Poland around to visit. That was our pierogi turning point.

Tosha was gray and round and more or less mute—her English as nonexistent as our Polish—but when my mother, who was still battling with Sophie's dough, asked my grandfather to see if she'd show us her pierogi technique, Tosha lit up with an elfin twinkle. As she bustled from refrigerator to counter, one crucial difference became apparent: Unlike Grandma, Tosha enriched her dough not with milk, but with scoopfuls of sour cream. The results were supple and slipped through the fingers with silky elasticity. My mother plunged her hands into the bowl and smiled. Her face said, "I feel it."

So, finally, she wrote down a recipe, one that blended Sophie's elemental formula with Tosha's richer additions. Thousands of pierogi later, it hasn't failed. This is the recipe I've internalized, watchful, by my mother's side, the one she presented to me in a spiral-bound book when I got married. It's the one we devour by the pile each Wigilia, the dumplings sautéed in butter and onion and packed with fragrant sauerkraut, sharp cheese, potato, herb-flecked mushrooms—my favorite kind of holiday package.

Basic Pierogi

Active Time: 1½ hours Total Time: 2½ hours (including resting dough) Makes: about 48 pierogi

2 cups full-fat sour cream

2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, plus 3 tablespoons for serving

2 eggs plus 1 egg yolk

2 teaspoons salt, plus more to taste

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

4½ cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting

1 recipe's worth of filling (see recipes below)

1 yellow onion, diced

Freshly ground pepper

1. In a very large bowl, combine sour cream, 2 tablespoons melted butter, eggs and yolk, 2 teaspoons salt and oil. Gradually sift in flour, then, using your hands, gently knead until ingredients are combined and a soft, pliable dough comes together, 2-3 minutes.

2. Divide dough into two equal-size portions and wrap each tightly with plastic wrap. Place in refrigerator to rest 30 minutes-1 hour. (Dough can also be frozen at this point and used later.)

3. Place a large stockpot of water over high heat and bring to a boil. Remove one ball of dough from refrigerator. Flour your work surface. Roll out dough to 1/8-inch thickness. Cut 3-inch rounds from dough using a glass or biscuit cutter. Gather dough scraps together, reroll and cut again until no dough remains.

4. Place a teaspoon of filling at the center of each round. Fold dough over filling so that it forms a half-circle. (The dough is very elastic—you may need to stretch the rounds a bit with your fingers.) Pinch edges closed or use a fork to gently crimp. Set finished pierogi aside on a sheet of parchment paper. (Do not overlap pierogi or dough will stick and tear; if you need to stack, place parchment between layers.)

5. Remove second ball of dough from refrigerator and repeat rolling and filling process.

6. Line two or three large baking sheets with paper towels. Working in small batches, drop pierogi into boiling water. They will sink, then rise to the top. Once pierogi float, let cook 1 minute more, then remove from water with a slotted spoon. Place in a single layer on paper-towel-lined baking sheets to drain. Repeat with remaining pierogi. (Once cooled, pierogi can be bagged in batches and frozen.)

7. In a large sauté pan over medium heat, melt remaining butter. Add diced onion and sauté until golden. Working in batches, add pierogi in a single layer and sauté, turning once, until a bit crispy at the edges and golden brown on both sides, 5-7 minutes. Repeat with remaining pierogi. Season generously with salt and pepper and serve.

Classic Pierogi Fillings

Cheese and potato: Peel and chop 3 russet potatoes. Place potatoes in a saucepan, cover with cold water and bring to a boil. Simmer until potatoes are fork-tender, about 20 minutes. Drain off water and mash potatoes. To potatoes add: 1 cup grated sharp white cheddar cheese, ¼ cup sour cream and 2 tablespoons butter. Season generously with salt and freshly ground black pepper and stir.

Mushroom and onion: Peel and chop 1¼ russet potatoes. Place in a saucepan, cover with cold water, and bring to a boil. Simmer until potato is tender, 15-20 minutes, then drain off water and mash potato. Set aside. // In a large sauté pan over medium heat, melt 2 tablespoons butter. Add 16 ounces chopped mushrooms (use a variety, such as white, cremini and shiitake) and 1 large yellow onion, chopped. Decrease heat to low-medium. Sauté mushrooms until soft and dark and onions are tender and golden, about 15 minutes. // Stir mushroom mixture into reserved mashed potatoes. Add 2 tablespoons butter, ¼ cup sour cream and a pinch of dried thyme. Season generously with salt and freshly ground black pepper, and stir.

Cabbage: Place 2 pounds sauerkraut in a colander and run under cold water, periodically squeezing water out of cabbage, until thoroughly rinsed, about 5 minutes. // In a large sauté pan over medium heat, add 2 tablespoons butter and 1 large yellow onion, diced, and cook until onions are soft and turning golden, about 5 minutes. Stir in sauerkraut, ¼ cup sugar and 2 tablespoons caraway seeds, then add enough water to just cover. Decrease heat to low and simmer sauerkraut mixture, adding more water as it evaporates to keep cabbage moist, until very soft and deep golden brown, 45-60 minutes. Season generously with salt and freshly ground black pepper, and stir. // Place mixture in a colander and drain again. Hang a cheesecloth over a medium-size bowl. Spoon cabbage mixture into cheesecloth, twist cheesecloth tightly, place bowl in refrigerator and let drain again overnight.