She may pull through . . .

Yes! There is a light at the end of the tunnel. Don't worry, the train has already run over me, or at least that's how I felt. Today brought somewhat of a return to normalcy, though I thought the first day back at work this week would never end. But I got through it, and now the shining light is the whole next week of bona-fide vacation!
No, not a go-somplace or do-something vacation. Just some time off work to do nothing in particular except whatever I might feel like doing, plus spend some time with my sweetie, maybe take in a movie. Plus he mentioned the other day (and I've felt the stirrings for about a week) that he thought the Polish genes were kicking in. Yes, they do every year about this time. It's pierogi season!
I refer to the Polish traditional Wigilia, the family-based Christmas Eve observance. It remains one of my dearest childhood memories. When all the aunts and uncles and cousins gathered for the evening meal, it was quite a crowd. All the aunts would prepare their part of the feast in advance -- one would bring the soup, another the fish, and so on -- and we'd come around the table and share the bread wafer sent from family ties in Poland.
Now my mom wasn't Polish, but she married into the tradition. And the "official" family pierogi-maker, Aunt Isabel, lived in Pennsylvania, three states away. Needless to say, Mom got pierogi lessons over a summer visit and proved a roaring success. Anyone who has made pierogi knows the work involved, so of course anyone who would make pierogi for that mob was bound to be popular. Curiously, none of the other aunts ever volunteered to make them, always protesting theirs weren't as good as hers (They were right!). So year after year, the pierogi would be made in our kitchen on Christmas Eve Day. I remember Dad and Mom working together all day on them, and the smells of onions frying in butter to slather on them as they were layered in the big roasting pans to be carried to the feast. As I grew older, I felt very important to become part of the process, and Dad readily surrendered his apron, but still hung out in the kitchen to make sure I was doing it right.
As years passed, the family expanded and the tradition went where so many of them do. We sort of kept the observance in our own immediate family units, and we'd send a pan of pierogi over to Aunt Nellie's and she'd send us soup and fish, and so on. But the cousins married and got involved in their new families. Many of us drifted miles and states away. I've never thought of myself as one who grieves over sentiments or memories of bygone days. They are just that -- gone -- not forgotten, but savored, not mourned. Times and circumstances change.
But let me indulge in a bit of seasonal nostalgia. Time to go make a shopping list. Let's see. . . potatoes, cheese, sauerkraut, butter, onions, flour. . .
I wasn't sure where this posting would end up when I started out. I didn't expect this!