Per your advice Patrick made piragi (aka Latvian Bacon Buns) to take to cooking club tomorrow. The recipe, no doubt, can vary but the one he consulted called for a pound of bacon, a pound of ham, an onion, a stick of butter, whole milk, three egg yolks, some caraway seeds so you know where you are relative to the Baltic and a ridiculous quantity of yeast.
So, two pounds of smoked pork wrapped in a brioche dough... what's not to love?
Patrick has learned something with each cooking project and this one was no different. Tonight he learned why your Latvian grandmother only made them for special occasions:
1. If you eat one pirags you will feel compelled to promptly eat ten more and if you do this on a regular basis you will have a heart attack and die
2. You need the scope of a holiday - a span of time devoted to selfless nurturing - to make piragi because no one in their right mind should do this on a Monday night. The chopping and the sauteing and the mixing and the kneading and the RISE and the second RISE and the rolling and the cutting and the filling and the crimping and the third RISE... I kept popping my head into the kitchen, looking at the clock, compressing my lips, shaking my head and then walking out again. If I had a hard time not whipping his egg whites for him during cake week it was nothing compared to the agony I experienced not managing his time for him tonight*. I had to stuff my head under the couch cushion.
That said, they turned out quite nicely and I cannot wait until, say, Latvian Independence Day
[Ha! I just looked it up and guess what? TODAY is Latvian (restoration of) Independence Day! What are the odds?]
So only 364 more days until Patrick takes over my kitchen again for five interminable floury hours.
Like I said, I can't wait.
*I never, ever realized the depth of my control issues until I had children. Just watching them put on their little socks so inefficiently... ugh.