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Watching that wild Christmas episode of Hulu’s The Bear reminded me a little of what Lent could be like for my Polish Catholic clan when I was a kid. Forty days of semi-dedicated fasting, psycho-flagellation, and a steady subsistence diet of God-awful salmon patties turned the three women who raised me into growling, prowling animals just looking for a fight. By the time they holed up together in our kitchen to make scratch kielbasa and pierogi for the entire family’s Easter Sunday dinner at our house, Momma Bear, Grandma Bear, and Auntie Bear were really snarling and showing their teeth.
“I thought you gave up those damn cigarettes until Sunday,” I remember my Aunt Helen calling out my mother for walking back into the house reeking of Lucky Strikes after a way-too-long trip to the alley to “take out the garbage.”
“It’s Thursday night,” Mom clapped back, crediting herself fully for time served.
“Every day’s Thursday for you, Ginka.” Ironically, my aunt always used my mother’s Polish-affectionate nickname.
“And what did you give up, Helen?”
“Two bedrooms, remember?” Aunt Helen’s constant reminder to my mother that she and I were boarders in her house tended to have a last-word effect on their ever-flaring exchanges. Then Grandma would intervene with some admonishment in Polish while pointing to me, piping two of her rival daughters down, and redirecting all that negative energy into grinding pork or rolling out dough, though rarely managing to separate them.
“I’ll grind. You hold the casings, Ginka.”
“Something you’re good at,” Mom snarked, making sister seethe again, and leaving Grandma trying to keep things quiet with her pleading, leveling look.
“Hold those damn casings out straight!” Aunt Helen snapped viciously at any break or bubble in the long, loud, link-making ordeal.
Watching Jamie Lee Curtis in The Bear play nearly that exact same persona to a T triggered my unhappy household-made PTSD to a point I could pretty much taste again. To this day, I more than contentedly and routinely make many dishes my family made: pierogi, city chicken, borscht, stuffed cabbage, kapusta. But fresh kielbasa? No thanks. I take no pleasure in the process, having had my fill of all that noise.
And just now as I’m writing this, I see the reality of the residual scarring written into Chef Carmy’s psyche in The Bear. Mine has also manifested as an obsession to cook for everyone in my world. Talk about revelation and catharsis. It suddenly occurs to me that the entire time I’ve spent at the stove, whether making my living or just trying to make good things for friends and family to enjoy, I’ve been trying to make things right that went so wrong in my boyhood home so long ago. Holy crap, Chowhound readers: is there a therapist in the house willing to take smoked mushroom enchiladas, green chile stew, and jicama salad as payment for a session or two? If so, I can offer you those three dishes (or whatever) as down payment, then when we’re done, I’ll treat you to renditions of the same Polish Easter dinner staples I’ve reworked over the years. It’ll be as therapeutic for me as it might prove tasty to you: curried smoked salmon cakes with charred red onion and lime-dill crema, chipotle-honey and clove-roasted ham, poblano-cotija pierogi fried empanada-style, and crisp-skinned New Mexican sausage just in case my anti-fresh-made kielbasa aversion isn’t cured by Lent’s end.
“So, how’s dinner everyone?” Aunt Helen would fish for compliments around our Easter dinner table, as always. “Bobby, did you try my kielbasa yet? It’s delicious.” She’d try to make nice while noticing I hadn’t.
“I’ll have some more ham, please,” was my standard response in silent protest. Then I’d see my grandmother look toward me with a wink in her wise old eye, breaking the language barrier between us and letting me know she understood exactly all I wasn’t saying.
She got me completely, God bless her heart and soul. And I guess I’ve finally gotten a whole lot more from what’s at the center of The Bear. It’s something universally true that Chef Carmy and all of us cut our teeth on to some manageable degree or otherwise: real family dysfunction. It’s hard to swallow when it happens, and something that takes time to even begin to digest let alone leave behind and flush out of our systems.
In hindsight, I’ve had three bears to deal with. Two could be so hot-tempered or cold-blooded toward each other. One was always just right when I needed her. That’s probably as close to a Goldilocks family experience as most anyone comes.
On the bright side, no one at our house ever drove a car through the living room while we all sat lobbing soft insults and accusations (but no silverware) back and forth at each other across the dinner table. As I explained in a previous column over the holidays, Aunt Helen hated having to drive even short distances.
Applauding a great place in Allen Park: Nothing but a big, loud bravo from me for Gus & Us Grill, which friends just introduced me to last week. From the outside, the restaurant appeared pretty mom-and-pop typical for a minute, until I noticed the number of cars packing the parking lot late on a cold, dreary Tuesday morning. It’s no wonder. From soup to nuts (food and service), everything I sampled was way better than what I expected to be treated to. Hand-battered fried mushrooms ($7.29) and zucchini slivered like breadsticks (same price) were crispy, piping hot, and fresh. My friend’s two stuffed bell peppers ($13.99, I think) were a generous portion, beautifully homemade, and emblematic of a long list of hearty daily features ranging from American to ethnic homespun, that complimented a comprehensive, Coney-meets-family steakhouse menu. Service paced our three-course luncheon perfectly, sociably, and professionally. This place is a peach, and serves bargain-priced beer, wine, and cocktails to boot.
Gus & Us Grill is located at 17445 Hamilton Ave., Allen Park; 313-359-2700.
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