Ural Pelmeni

     One cold afternoon, I came back home, and my father, who came to visit from Russia, opened the door of my Overland Park apartment wearing my apron. Proudly, he held a tiny pelmeni – sort of Russian dumplings – that he made himself.

     “Wow! Papa! I never saw you wearing an apron! You never cooked!"


     "How did you get to the store to buy beef? You never cooked in your entire life!”

     “I do now!” I went into the kitchen and found everything so neatly organized: the Russian Orthodox Spiritual cookbook was opened on the page with the pelmeni recipe. Russians value only tiny pelmeni, the sign of exceptional professionalism. My Dad’s pelmeni were the tiniest I had ever seen.

     “You think I will sit here, waiting for you to come home hungry? Your son needs real food, so I walked to the store and got everything I needed. Then I found the book and I cooked. Voila!” My Dad smiled like he was a magician, who just performed his best trick. I was still in awe: my father never cooked!

     Since then, each guest in our house was treated not just with food but with my father’s lesson in Russian semantics. 

     “The word ‘PELMEN’ takes it roots from the language of the Komi tribe and from the Perm region. ‘Pel’means ear. If you look carefully, pelmen is shaped just like a human ear. The whole word means ear-bread.” My father’s pelmeni were so neatly shaped that his lesson had accurate visual illustration.

     When I was a little girl, it was a tradition in our family to make pelmeni together. It was teamwork. Each family member was supposed to pitch in. When I turned 14, I swore to never do it again because my pelmeni looked way too clumsy, but the view of my father covered with flour in my tiny kitchen melted my heart. I didn't have to be perfect. Making pelmeni is not about competition, it is all about communication.

     “Dad, let me help you.”