Perogies, known as “pierogi ” in our home  were pretty much a staple. I have never tasted better perogies anywhere other than my Mam’s.
Although she did say to one of my sisters when she was in Poland, “I think these perogies are better than mine. It’s all in the dough”.

I have a fond memory of standing with my plate waiting in-line waiting for my perogies to be placed on my plate as my Mam, the perogy making machine, dolled them out of the boiling water.

Being the youngest of five children, I had to wait in line for my turn as I watched the perogies raise to the top of the water in the pot. That meant they were ready. I started with eating 6 perogies, then worked my way up to a dozen, and by the time I was in high school, I was able to eat two dozen perogies in one sitting dolloped with farm sour cream and caramelized onions in butter. That was always after a long day at school, which included a volleyball practice, a game, or track & field.

I’m still not as good as making perogies as my Mam, but have passed on the tradition to my twin boys. They have me beat. At the age of 12 they’re already eating a dozen. One prefers meat, my favorite, and the other potato with white cheese.

When it comes to my husband, well he’s still trying to consume a dozen. He’s not quite there yet, half a dozen and trying.