We, the Coronado Scribes, consist of both professional and amateur writers. We have in common a desire to learn, by sharing our efforts and listening to other writers. We hold pressure-less sessions every Wednesday, at the Coronado Library conference room, starting at 1:30. Often we have guests who wish to just listen. They are welcome, and so are you.
Each week on eCoronado, we feature a different piece of prose or poetry produced by one of our writers. Please feel free to comment or ask questions in the comment section below.
Chicago, 1967
December 24
Lydia’s family lived a short distance from campus, and despite Chicago’s snot-freezing cold, I walked over to her home for a Christmas Eve dinner. We had been going out together for a while and I needed to make a favorable impression, especially with her father, since I fumbled and bumbled my way through my first encounter. I knew Lydia was Ukrainian, but totally misjudged the demands of custom and culture in a Ukrainian household. I violated a number of those rules: never bring white Lilies as a gift since white signifies virginity and an even number of flowers is a sure sign that death lurks in the family; never shake hands in the foyer of the apartment since it brings bad luck to the family; and, always remove you shoes before entering. With Lydia’s help, I put together a short list of “do’s and don’ts” to circumvent the awkwardness of that first meeting.
Eugene, Lydia’s dad greeted me at the door. Eugene, a Chicago psychiatrist, appeared serious and cautiously agreeable. We exchanged pleasantries and moved to the front room where Lydia was sitting. I could not help noticing the Ukrainian ceramics, an embroidered tablecloth and chair pillow, decorated eggs while Ukrainian music played. Everyone spoke Ukrainian unless speaking to me. Eugene and all of Lydia’s brothers and sister spoke accent-free English with the exception of Zenia, Lydia’s mom, whose English was broken Her grandmother, Frannie, spoke no English. Eugene went off to the piano to play Ukrainian songs. Zenia and Frannie remained in the kitchen preparing the Christmas Eve meal.
The dinner call came and we headed for the kitchen where we tucked ourselves tight into chairs that surrounded the table. The meal was meatless that night and so we ate whitish herring salad, darkened borsht, pirohy fish, kolach (Christmas bread) and plenty of peppered vodka. Conversations were fun, loud, and educational. Eugene spent several hours talking about Ukrainian independence from the Soviet Union, Christmas traditions, and Ukrainian music. Dinner ended with Kutia, a marvelous dish containing wheat berries, poppy seeds, raisin walnuts & honey.
The food was gone but Eugene, Lydia, and I remained at the table talking, drinking. Eugene spoke about Taras Shevchenko, a Ukrainian patriot, poet, and artist. Zenia and Frannie finished preparing tomorrow’s Christmas dinner. It was late and I was about to leave but Eugene invited me to stay. “It was too cold and too late’, he said. Fine, I unfolded the couch, spread out the starch-faded sheets. I thanked everyone for a special holiday dinner and went to bed putting the embroidered cushion under my head.
I awakened in the middle of the night thirst and hungry. I stumbled into the kitchen. Had a cold glass of water and searched for something to eat. I did not want to disturb the Christmas food that was prepared for later that day. I looked around and saw a bowl of something on the table. It smelled of honey and poppy seeds and I quickly wolfed it down and headed for bed.
A high-pitched and horrifying shriek awakened me. Oj Voja Oj Voja (oh God) The noise was coming out of the kitchen and everyone rushed to see what’s going on. It was Frannie, wailing away in Ukrainian, “Ivan, Ivan” (Ivan was Fannie’s deceased husband). Andrew, Lydia brother and first on the scene, translated what was going on. By this time, everyone was in the kitchen “Kutia, kutia was gone from the bowl” and could mean only one thing: Ivan returned for some Christmas pudding. I waited for the noise to quiet down and then weighed the cost/ benefits against denying that, I ate the Kutia. No, I told the huddled family that I ate the Kutia and issued my rapidly-learned perprochuy (I am sorry) to Frannie. I am so glad that I made that special effort to impress the family.
©Mike Lavin 2013
