No way my little Polish Prince (actually, Jimmy is half Polish, half Bohemian, not to be confused with the half-Astors of last week's most popular post) could pass up this golden opportunity (as in paczki, "little packages" of exquisitely fried doughnut-sized puffs of cream-filled pastry that melt in your mouth) to revisit the days of his youth, albeit no paczek (singular for paczki) is ever quite as good as the memory of those lovingly prepared by one’s busia (BOO-sha, the Polish word for grandmother). I was off the hook and out of the kitchen minus a Polish heritage.
Apparently, the practice of last minute binging was born of necessity thousands of years ago, designed to rid the pantry of any and all perishables (lard and eggs) which were prohibited during the Lenten season. Who knew tradition could be so tasty.
Who knew John Dough was Polish?
But the proof is always in the pudding/filling, as they say, although the paczki looked promising. Of course, who was I to judge, growing up without a busia.