I have a confession: I love delivery; the miraculous appearance of a banquet at your door, steaming, aromatic, lulling to be eaten. Yes, I have food in my fridge, ingredients to prepare my own meals, but where's the divine mystery in that? I know the chef and he's terrible! Apparently I did not inherit Dad’s talent for cooking, his knack for turning leftover bread and fish into a supper that would leave the masses begging for more. He learned his resourcefulness from dziadek and babcia. My grandparents, looking for their own land of milk and honey in Stalin’s post-vendetta hellscape, took their children and left Ukraine for Poland because it was the United States of the Soviet Bloc. While they were packing, my grandparents’ neighbors, in shawls and illegal crosses dangling from their necks, asked them in wonder, Why would you leave? You even have flour and sugar on holidays!
Eric Odynocki is a teacher and writer from New York. His work is often inspired by his experience as a first-generation American of Mexican, Ukrainian, and Jewish descent. Eric's work has been published or is forthcoming in Green Mountains Review, PANK, Magma Poetry, and others.