Growing up Polish...

I realize that the name of my blog indicates that I'm Polish but I have said very little about what that has meant to me throughout my life. I am Polish on my mother's side. She is 100% Polish. Her father, my Grandfather, was born in Poland though we have two birth certificates for him and one of them says he was born in Germany. That's because at various times throughout it's history Poland was occupied by Germany, then liberated, then occupied again. He was definitely Polish. Stanislaus Rezske was his given name. When he came to the US he was called Stanley. My Grandmother was born here in the US, the first US born daughter to a Polish immigrant family. So, you see, I have strong Polish roots.

Growing up, my mother would lace her conversation with "splashes" of Polish language. When we asked what was for dinner, which we did incessantly, she was get frustrated and tell us we were having "piat". Later, I found out that was the slang equivalent to crap. If we were acting like fools, which we did frequently, she would calls us a "bunch of dupas"! Again, later I realized she was calling us asses. When my mother would be with her sisters they would talk about growing up on the old farm and the great Polish food my Grandmother used to make. For us, Polish food is now synonymous with Christmas.

Being raised before Vatican 2 meant that we good Catholics (well, I was at that time) could not eat meat before Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. We would have an early dinner of smoke salmon and salads. Then later, after Midnight Mass, which back then was truly at Midnight so after Midnight Mass usually meant 2 or 3 AM, we would have a Polish Christmas breakfast. This consisted of kishka, kielbasa, cookies, cakes, eggs, and home made cinnamon rolls. Kishka is a Polish sausage made of pigs blood. Kielbasa is a fattier smoked sausage. Delicious! We would sing carols and open our gifts on Christmas Eve staying up into the wee hours of the morning. It was magical. It still is and we still always have kishka and kielbasa each Christmas Eve.

A while ago my sister came across a cassette of my mom and one of her sister's singing Polish Christmas carols in Polish. It's priceless.

So what does it mean to be Polish? It means good food, good fun, hard work ethic, and strong, unbreakable family ties. I thank Stanislaus and Anna for that. My Grandparents instilled that in their girls and they've passed it on to their children. I'm proud of my Polish side. And my Irish side too. But there will be more about that side at another time!