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Tvaroh Piroh

 

Smooth Argentine hands, old Czech recipe, a Spanish summer song, meld inside an English mission cabin of polished wood, above a river swelled with mountain rain, all for a Slavic son so young to savor, a last time; the flavor of innocence.

 

Sparkling eyes twinkle above the slight mash of cottage cheese.

Elegant lips sing as eggs mix with milk, sugar and the juice of lemon’s sour.

Love’s light laugh drops raisins in one – by – one adding the sweetness of heart.

A fresh pie shell waits to be filled with ingredients never to be tasted the same

A simple memory bakes at 375 degrees for forty minutes until a knife can return clean.

 

In French quarters of re-birthed lofts above a river with no flavor it’s simply a cottage cheese pie;

simply a cottage cheese pie,

I bake every July.

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6 thoughts on “Tvaroh Piroh

  1. smiles..baking can be so much more than just baking..love all the details here… the Smooth Argentine hands, old Czech recipe, a Spanish summer song..takes me around the world but grounds me in reality with the simplicity of cottage cheese..isn’t it that the most simple things are the best after all… loved it henry

  2. i think a lot more goes into that pie than just the flavors…and once you have had that moment it becomes so hard to recreate it….lots of nice layers in this…

  3. You embed the simple recipe inside the complexity of a multi-cultural and multi-ply located life. But the eyes, lips, laugh, sweetness! Is the river swollen with rain, with tears, or is it truly alone–a river of no flavor? No! It’s a good-bye pie! It is a fear that the taste and memory will fade. I hope.

    Oh! how long has it been since I had cottage-cheese pie? I will never find my paternal grandmother’s czech recipe again–or czechoslavakia either–but I will find something on-line tomorrow and make it for myself. Thank you.

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