Growing up in the Chicago area, the annual gluttonous countdown to Ash Wednesday wasn't lined with gooey king cakes. In my Polish household, we looked forward to Paczki Day.
As the weeks wound down toward Lent, the caramel-hued, baseball-sized pastries (pronounced POHNCH-key) would begin arriving from the local eastern European bakery or the kitchens of my great-aunts. Each yeasty bun glistened with a sugary glaze and held the promise of a fruity treasure hidden inside.
The challenge: To guess which mound of fried dough held one's favorite filling. A wrong selection could leave a cherry lover stuck with prune or apricot preserves, or more likely leave a twice-bitten pastry abandoned in favor of a new search for the ideal jelly.
To read the rest of the story, please go to: The Times-Picayune
