I recall certain events of over thirty years ago as if they happened but a few days ago.  My Grandmother, Jennie Rektorik (Johanna Mrazek Rektorik) would be there in her kitchen.  There was a large crockery bowl which she used for making her dough.  First, she would place two cakes of yeast  and some warm water in the bowl.  We would stir the yeast until it dissolved.  It was a pinkish-gray color.  As it dissolved, a warm, earthy aroma would arise from it.  Next, she would say we needed to "feed" the yeast so we added sugar, stirred it in, and set the mixture aside while it bubbled and foamed. As a very small child, it was a very wonderful concept to "feed" the yeast and then really watch it change in form and size.

Grandma's kitchen had a very high ceiling and cabinets all along the west wall.  The top cabinets had glass-paned doors and were always curious and lovely to me.  Next to the sink, there was a bottom door which when opened, exposed a large metal bin for flour built right in!  There were pounds and pounds of flour in there as well as a shiny metal flour sifter with a handle crank.  I found the bin and sifter almost as fascinating as I did the large coffee bin and grinder that hung on the wall.  Oh how I enjoyed the smell of freshly ground coffee...and how unpleasantly surprised I was when I was finally allowed to taste it!

I also vividly recall the scent of prunes stewing and how my fingers burned when I tried to help remove the pits from those steaming prunes.  Also, I can still see, in my mind, the shape of the glass jar in which the poppy seeds were kept and the small grinder which was used to mill the poppy seed before it was used as filling.  And, sometimes, I would slip my finger into and taste the popsika.

When she finished kneading the dough, Grandma would place it back in the bowl which she had since coated with melted butter.  A large white cloth was placed over the bowl and the dough was left to rise.  When it was cold, the bowl was placed on the stove top or in the oven with the door slightly ajar and only the pilot light for heat.

I did not get to participate in the actual making of the dough but I loved to watch.  I recall peeking under the white cloth and noting how much the dough had risen.  And, what an odd thing it was when Grandma "punched" down the dough.

When the kolaches were shaped and filled, Grandma would sop them with the golden, melted butter that I thought looked so delicious but tasted salty and unpleasant when I tasted some.

When we were done, there were rows and rows of plump kolaches and the house smelled wonder.  More than once, I burned my tongue eating a too hot kolache.

Susan Rektorik Henley