#polish reader

Christmas had always been your favorite time of year. Back in Poland, the holiday season meant tradition, chaos, and, above all, family. You would spend hours helping your babcia in the kitchen, rolling dough for pierogi and making barszcz with beets that stained your hands. The cold air outside would carry the sound of carolers, and even amidst family arguments, the festive spirit was undeniable.

But this year was different. For the first time, you were far from home, celebrating Christmas in Spain with Alexia and her family. You loved her with every fiber of your being, but a part of you couldn’t shake the ache in your chest.

——————

Alexia found you sitting by the window that morning, staring out at the rolling hills. The sunlight was soft, but the festive warmth inside the house felt far away. She approached you quietly, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Estás bien, amor?” she asked softly.

You looked up and forced a smile. “I’m okay. Just… thinking.”

Alexia crouched beside you, studying your face. “Tell me,” she urged, switching to English.

You hesitated, unsure if you could even put the feelings into words. “I just… I miss it,” you said finally. “Christmas back home. The traditions, the snow, the way my family used to come together—even if we argued the rest of the year.”

Alexia frowned, her thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’m sorry, cariño. I know how it’s hard being away. But… is there something else? You seem… sadder than usual.”

A lump formed in your throat as you nodded. “They didn’t invite me, Alexia. My family. They didn’t invite me for Christmas. I know they don’t really accept us yet, but I thought, for one day, they might…”

Alexia’s eyes filled with sympathy as she pulled you into her arms. “Oh, mi amor,” she whispered, holding you tightly. “Lo siento. I’m so sorry.”

You leaned into her, the tears you’d been holding back finally spilling over. “I keep thinking about how, even when they fought, Christmas was the one time they made it work. But now, because of who I love, I don’t even get that. It’s like… I don’t exist to them anymore, I didn’t do anything wrong, I just love, I don’t know.”

Alexia didn’t say anything right away. She just held you, her hands running soothingly up and down your back. After a moment, she pulled back slightly to look at you.

“Listen, mi amor,” she said, her voice firm but full of love. “I know it hurts, and I hate that they’re making you feel this way. But you’re not alone. Aquí, con mi familia, tienes un hogar. You have a home here—with me. And we’ll make this Christmas beautiful, I promise.”

Her words, so steady and full of conviction, brought a fresh wave of tears. But this time, they weren’t entirely sad. You nodded, leaning your forehead against hers. “Thank you, Alexia. For everything.”

“Siempre,” she whispered. “Always.”

——————

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of preparations. Alexia insisted that you show her every detail of your transitions, from cooking the dishes to setting the table.

“What’s this one called again?” she asked, gesturing to the dough you were rolling out.

“Pierogi,” you said, smiling as you worked. “This one will have potatoes and cheese, and this one—” you pointed to another batch—“will be sweet, with fruit.”

She furrowed her brow in concentration as you showed her how to fold the edges. “So, I pinch here?”

“Close,” you said, reaching over to guide her hands. “Like this.”

Alexia glanced at you, her lips twitching into a small smile. “If I learn to make these, will you marry me sooner?”

You snorted, shaking your head. “You’ve already proposed, remember? No need to bribe me with pierogi.”

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. “But what if I want to make you fall in love with me all over again?”

You laughed, your chest warming despite the lingering sadness. “Then you’re off to a good start.”

—————

When the table was finally set, you carefully placed the opłatek wafers in the center. Alexia’s family gathered around, curious but respectful as you explained the tradition in halting Spanish.

“Es para compartir bendiciones, blessings,” you said, fumbling over the words. Alexia stepped in to help translate, her hand brushing yours as she spoke.

One by one, her family broke pieces of the wafer with you, sharing kind words and wishes for the year ahead. When it was Alexia’s turn, she took a piece from your hand, her dark eyes locking onto yours.

“Wszystkiego najlepszego na święta,” you said softly, your voice trembling with emotion.

Alexia smiled, her accent clumsy but endearing as she repeated the words. “Wszystkiego… najlepszego… na święta.”

You laughed, a tear slipping down your cheek. “Perfect.”

“Did I say it right?” she asked, her expression earnest.

“Close enough,” you teased, wiping your eyes.

—————

Later that evening, after dinner and a few christmas songs, Alexia pulled you aside.

“I have something for you,” she said, leading you to the couch. She handed you a carefully wrapped box, her face glowing with anticipation.

You opened it slowly, revealing a scrapbook. On the cover was your name, written in both the Polish and Spanish version.

Inside, the pages were filled with photos and mementos Alexia had collected throughout your relationship. There were pictures from your first date, tickets from your trip to Poland, and pressed flowers from the bouquet she’d given you when she proposed. But what caught your breath was the final page—a letter, written in her slightly messy Polish handwriting.

“I know I didn’t get everything right,” she said nervously. “I had help from a translation app and your friends, but…”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face as you read the words. It was a promise to always honor your traditions, to build a life together filled with love and understanding.

“Alexia…” you whispered, your voice breaking.

She smiled softly, wiping a tear from your cheek. “I wanted you to know that even if your family doesn’t see you, I do. And I always will.”

You threw your arms around her, holding her as tightly as you could. “I love you so much,” you whispered.

“Te amo más,” she replied, her voice steady.

It was a hurried November evening, trying to get all preparations done before the annual Thanksgiving feast that your family had to have; except, this time, you decided to host it. Worst idea of your entire life. Of course, everyone was bringing something to some extent, but your stress was still through the roof. Most of the food wasn’t even Thanksgiving related; czernina, cabbage and mushrooms, fried beets, homemade pickles, kapusta zasmażana…the list goes on. Of course, you wouldn’t have to worry about buying alcohol either, your family always had that covered. Though, this year, things were going to be different. Your family had yet to meet your partner, Mac, and you figured that this would be the perfect opportunity! Once they found out that they would be sitting at a table with your entire family around them, they were a nervous wreck.

Mac was almost angry with you that you wouldn’t discuss this with them beforehand, but they couldn’t. They could never be mad at you. Besides, this was bound to happen one way or the other, the sooner the better. It would be somewhat easier anyways, drunk people are usually easier to get along with; that is, if they aren’t an angry drunk. You would be there if anything went wrong regardless, so that relieved some of their nerves. Not a lot, but it did help a little bit. Mac had a lot of questions to ask about them before their arrival however, “Is your mom nice? What’s your sister’s favorite perfume? Does your brother really like Adidas or is that just a stereotype? Is your uncle a fun drunk or a depressing drunk? Would your auntie be offended if I got her chocolate? Flowers? Is it true that your grandmother bodyshames you? Why the hell can’t you sit on anything cold?!” It was really cute, honestly. They just want to be accepted by their partner's somewhat strict family so, so bad.

This mere fact is how you both ended up here, in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, ingredients everywhere, in a pierogi assembly line. If Mac wanted to impress your family, food was the only solid option, a famous cultural food at that. You’ve learned over the countless Christmases and Easters at Babcia’s house that dumpling folding was an art of its own, and that art wasn’t as easy as it seemed. It was almost frustrating how those small circles of dough always stuck to your hands and never itself, how the tiniest bit of access filling could mess up your folding technique. All of these things led Mac to be the filler and you to be the folder, it was in your blood after all.

While Mac was getting more and more stressed out about meeting your serious yet rambunctious family, their heart swelled with warmth to be included in an almost write-of-passage ritual from your culture. They’ve tried numerous amounts of questionable dishes from post-Soviet Poland, and they decently enjoyed most of them! Though, they refuse to try meat jelly or any dish with pigs feet in it, I mean, who wouldn’t? Though, Mac’s favorites would be rosół, gołąbki, and bigos, though they aren’t opposed to a potato pancake as a snack. Exploring your culture at your side is a huge highlight of being with you, it’s apart of who you are and they get to learn about something new every time you cook! Mac wasn't the happiest sailor when you served them a steaming hot bowl of barszcz in the middle of summer, however.

Mac watched carefully as you portioned balls of sticky, pale dough with ease, how each one was almost perfect compared to the last. They wanted to learn for you, they hope to make these by themselves for you one day. Would they ever be as good as your Babcia or Dziadek? No, probably not, but the effort is worth every mistake.

“Alright, so, I got everything ready. All you need to do is put heaping spoonful of this filling into the middle of the dough, just like this…” you explain, making a pieróg by yourself to give a visual example of the process, “And then you can hand it right over to me, and I’ll fold it and cook them when we’re all finished. I believe in you, Mac.” You gave them a warm smile as you folded the dumpling with ease, your hands and fingers moving quick, almost like it was a reflex. First pieróg down, about fifty more to go…

Mac was terrible at portioning filling to say the least. The first dumpling they ever made, they put so much filling in it that when you went to fold it, it went all over the counter when you tried to close it with your thumbs. Mac gave a shy smile at your laugh, apologizing profusely at their mistake. The second time around, they put too little inside, making basically 80% dough and only 20% filling. You started genuinely laughing at how unskilled they were at proportioning, giving them a quick peck on the cheek before giving them a technique; the filling should be about the size of your thumb, and then press it more inward to the middle of the dough.

“Ah, this explanation is definitely more efficient than your last one, beloved.” Mac exclaimed with understanding, “I’ll be sure not to mess it up this time.”