and hold hands. It is enough. Our sips are measured, and we finish within seconds of each other, my mom crunching the last morsel of sugar in her teeth while I shake the final cherry morsel from my glass. She smiles.
“Pelmeni.” It is a statement, not a question. She gets up and I put our tea things in the sink while she gets the big bowls out. “I make dough, you do meat, nu?”
“Yes, Mama.”
She dumps flour into her bowl, adding eggs and salt and milk, mixing by hand until she has smooth, plastic dough. I put the ground-meat mixture into mine, seasoning with salt, black pepper, and ground caraway seeds, an unusual and delicious family addition to the traditional recipe. She begins to roll thin rounds with a small wooden dowel, flours them and stacks them on the table between us so that I can fill them. She’ll finish the dough well before I finish pinching the fat dumplings closed, her hands a blur.
“Zho. Why you no bring my Dumpling to make dumplings, eh?” She loves Dumpling like another grandchild, and adores dressing him up and taking pictures when I leave him with them when I travel. She especially loves theme pictures for holidays, and while I would never in a million years dream of dressing him up myself, I secretly love the photos she takeswith the ridiculous outfits and props. My favorite so far is the Dumpling Lama, draped in an orange scarf like a monk’s robes, in honor of Chinese New Year.
“Dumpling is working today.”
“Ah, zho busy, zho hard to be dog een America, have to have job. Pull up by paw straps.” Her eyes twinkle as she teases. She once ran into Barry and Dumpling while she was visiting a sick friend in the hospital, and got to see them in action. She was very proud.
“Everyone has to contribute,” I joke back. “How are you guys doing?”
“Goot, goot. Sasha and Alexei brink all boys over Sunday to watch Bears.” She sighs deeply, shaking her head in disappointment, remembering the spanking our beloved team got. “Like throwing peas against the vall.” She throws her hands up and sucks her front teeth disparagingly. “Tsssk. Monday we go recital for ballet for Natalia’s girls. Lia, she is goot, graceful like Natalia. But leetle Racheleh. Not so goot. Not maybe supposed to do the ballet. The dancing, ees like small elephant putting out fire in own shoes. Like you, remember?”
Of course I remembered. I took ballet for one session when I was six. I spent four months clomping around, spinning the wrong way, endlessly pulling my leotard wedgies out of my little butt, stepping on the teacher’s feet, accidentally kicking the girl in front or back of me, knocking over the portable barres, and, on one memorable occasion, pirouetting with as much force as I could muster and clocking the lithe little princess next to me right in the face. I had never seen a nose expel that much blood in that short a time. They politely said to Mama that they did not think there was a place for me in the next session, and that was the end of my dance career and the beginning of flute lessons. There is nobloodletting with the flute. Mama continues listing her week of activities. “Tuesday mah-jongg, I win. Today, pelmeni with you. Plehnty busy.”
“Good for you.” I roll small balls of the meat mixture, and cover them with the thin dough, pinching carefully to seal, making sure there are no air bubbles. The first time I made pelmeni with Mom, I was about nine. I was careless with the dough, and when we boiled them, the air pockets I left made the dumplings explode, ejecting their fillings with little muffled pops, like edamame squeezing out of their pods. Mama strained out the mess, winked at me, dumped some tomato sauce over it and called it pasta kerchiefs and meatballs. Ever since that day, I have been very diligent about air bubbles.
“And Patreek? You bring him pelmeni, nu?” My mom is not immune to the charms of Patrick. My dad is more leery, especially since he believes that
“Pelmeni.” It is a statement, not a question. She gets up and I put our tea things in the sink while she gets the big bowls out. “I make dough, you do meat, nu?”
“Yes, Mama.”
She dumps flour into her bowl, adding eggs and salt and milk, mixing by hand until she has smooth, plastic dough. I put the ground-meat mixture into mine, seasoning with salt, black pepper, and ground caraway seeds, an unusual and delicious family addition to the traditional recipe. She begins to roll thin rounds with a small wooden dowel, flours them and stacks them on the table between us so that I can fill them. She’ll finish the dough well before I finish pinching the fat dumplings closed, her hands a blur.
“Zho. Why you no bring my Dumpling to make dumplings, eh?” She loves Dumpling like another grandchild, and adores dressing him up and taking pictures when I leave him with them when I travel. She especially loves theme pictures for holidays, and while I would never in a million years dream of dressing him up myself, I secretly love the photos she takeswith the ridiculous outfits and props. My favorite so far is the Dumpling Lama, draped in an orange scarf like a monk’s robes, in honor of Chinese New Year.
“Dumpling is working today.”
“Ah, zho busy, zho hard to be dog een America, have to have job. Pull up by paw straps.” Her eyes twinkle as she teases. She once ran into Barry and Dumpling while she was visiting a sick friend in the hospital, and got to see them in action. She was very proud.
“Everyone has to contribute,” I joke back. “How are you guys doing?”
“Goot, goot. Sasha and Alexei brink all boys over Sunday to watch Bears.” She sighs deeply, shaking her head in disappointment, remembering the spanking our beloved team got. “Like throwing peas against the vall.” She throws her hands up and sucks her front teeth disparagingly. “Tsssk. Monday we go recital for ballet for Natalia’s girls. Lia, she is goot, graceful like Natalia. But leetle Racheleh. Not so goot. Not maybe supposed to do the ballet. The dancing, ees like small elephant putting out fire in own shoes. Like you, remember?”
Of course I remembered. I took ballet for one session when I was six. I spent four months clomping around, spinning the wrong way, endlessly pulling my leotard wedgies out of my little butt, stepping on the teacher’s feet, accidentally kicking the girl in front or back of me, knocking over the portable barres, and, on one memorable occasion, pirouetting with as much force as I could muster and clocking the lithe little princess next to me right in the face. I had never seen a nose expel that much blood in that short a time. They politely said to Mama that they did not think there was a place for me in the next session, and that was the end of my dance career and the beginning of flute lessons. There is nobloodletting with the flute. Mama continues listing her week of activities. “Tuesday mah-jongg, I win. Today, pelmeni with you. Plehnty busy.”
“Good for you.” I roll small balls of the meat mixture, and cover them with the thin dough, pinching carefully to seal, making sure there are no air bubbles. The first time I made pelmeni with Mom, I was about nine. I was careless with the dough, and when we boiled them, the air pockets I left made the dumplings explode, ejecting their fillings with little muffled pops, like edamame squeezing out of their pods. Mama strained out the mess, winked at me, dumped some tomato sauce over it and called it pasta kerchiefs and meatballs. Ever since that day, I have been very diligent about air bubbles.
“And Patreek? You bring him pelmeni, nu?” My mom is not immune to the charms of Patrick. My dad is more leery, especially since he believes that
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