Holiday Baking: A Bittersweet Taste of My Ethnic Roots

My parents, children of immigrants, grew up during the Depression. They followed a typical path to success: education and assimilation. But their ambivalence about their ethnic roots weakened when the winter holidays approached.

I’ve always associated the winter holidays with two special holiday sweets: Scottish shortbread, a unique version passed down by my late father; and potica, a rich Slovenian yeast bread my mother learned to make from her mother. Their preparation took on the character of ritual during my childhood. I’ve kept up the tradition.

My father supervised the shortbread making. We started early, just after Thanksgiving, so the shortbread would be properly aged by Christmas. The ingredients were simple: butter, flour, sugar, and a touch of salt.

We would gather around the kitchen table, with a massive pile of butter and sugar in the center, salt-laced flour off to the side. Then five pairs of hands started kneading. My father was very particular about the method: long kneading with warm hands, to allow as much flour as possible to be incorporated into the butter-sugar mix.

Once the shortbread had been worked to the point of being dense, smooth and warm to the touch (a process that could take as much as an hour), my father pressed it thickly into rectangular pans and scored it with a fork. The dough was allowed to rest and then baked to a pale golden brown. Finally, the shortbread was cut into squares and stored in tins between layers of paper towels, to draw off excess moisture.

My father was very clear about the desired outcome: a hard, dry, buttery cube that offered significant resistance to the tooth. Anything less than that, anything thin and crisp and tender, he dismissed as “Lorna Doons.” In other words, commercial shortbread for Americans, about as authentic as chop suey.

My father had learned to make shortbread from his Scottish mother, an angry woman who was often ill. She died before I turned three. Grandma Kilpatrick despised Catholics and had little use for anyone who wasn’t British, according to my mother. Any good baker will tell you that her approach to making shortbread was completely wrong. But in my family, it became the gold standard.

My Slovenian American grandma, who lived into my adolescence, was a sweet, loving woman. She worked magic in the kitchen of that little bungalow on Cleveland’s East Side she shared—unhappily—with my immigrant grandfather. I didn’t learn they were both alcoholics until years after their deaths.

My grandmother’s crowning achievement was potica, a rich pastry masquerading as bread. Potica (pronounced “puh-teetza”) is a national dish in Slovenia—a very small country in Central Europe, about the size of Massachusetts, with a population of around two million. Until the Balkan Wars of the 1990s, it was probably unknown to most Americans. It has a long history of falling under the control of one or the other of its powerful neighbors.

Potica occupies the border region between bread and strudel—just like the Balkans, at the crossroads of east and west. It begins with a rich sour cream yeast dough, rolled out thinly, then spread with a filling of butter, sugar, cinnamon, and walnuts, drizzled with honey. My own mother has always always managed to find one extreme or the other, with the honey: drenching the dough in sweetness, or forgetting it entirely. Next, the potica is rolled up, formed into a loaf or coil, and baked. Potica is usually reserved for special occasions. In my family, it is rationed out like gold—or caviar.


My family’s version of potica has always tasted like baklava. Other fillings do exist: raisins, curd cheese, chocolate, poppy seeds. But I’m partial to the potica I have eaten every Christmas of my life. I now make it myself, but my attempts don’t measure up to my grandmother, my mother—or even my younger son, who first made potica as a project for his ninth grade ethnic studies class.

So this month, just like every December I can recall, I’ll make shortbread and potica. I’ll knead the dough and remember. I’ll taste the sweetness and the sadness. I'll remember the lives of my ancestors. Hard and sweet.

Reading Louis Adamic (An Introduction)

I've just started reading Louis Adamic's Laughing in the Jungle, published in 1932. It's subtitled The Autobiography of an Immigrant in America.


It was Adamic's second book. His first, Dynamite: A History of Class Violence in America, 1830-1930 came out the previous year. Both books were well-received. But it was Adamic's next book, The Native's Return(1934) that established his reputation as a social critic and chronicler of the immigrant experience. It became a best seller and a Book-of-the-Month Club selection. It sold 70,000 copies in the first two weeks of publication! I read The Native's Return three years ago. Until recently, that was the extent of my exposure to Adamic's writing.

Louis Adamic was prolific: A dozen books, plus a large number of articles and essays in his twenty year writing career. It ended too soon, with his mysterious death in 1951. A suicide or a political murder, depending on who you believe. But more on that later.

Except for Dynamite, which has just been re-issued, Adamic's books are out of print. There are lots of vintage copies floating around on the Internet, usually at modest cost. Except for Laughing in the Jungle, which seems to be pretty scarce. I paid about $45 for my copy.

I've just been reading about Adamic's school days at a gymnasium in Ljubljana, now the capitol of Slovenia. He writes that his mother used to visit him at his student boarding house every couple of months. It wasn't such an easy trek from their peasant village of Blato ("mud.") She would bring him fruit and potica. "Carniolan cake," Adamic called it, using one of the old names for Slovenia.

Potica. That makes me smile. It's the one bit of our Slovenian heritage my family never lost. We make potica every Christmas and ration it out like gold. But I found a little bit in the freezer, left over from last year. So I've been defrosting a slice now and then.

I thought potica out of season might function like Proust's madeleine. At the very least, I figured it might help put me in the mood for my new writing project. Potica is very rich, with all that butter and honey, so it does keep well. But this particular batch was definitely the worse for wear after a year in the freezer.

Time for a new batch. Here's a nice potica link.

Just off the boat. (Found them at last!)

It's been quite a day. I finally found the immigration records for my grandfather and for my grandmother's parents.

I'd been looking around that Ellis Island website for a few years, on and off. For the last two weeks, I've been searching one of the big subscription genealogy sites (Ancestry.com). But no luck.

Finally, today I read the fine print. I checked out the search instructions I'd ignored. I figured out how to use the "wild card" search feature, where you simply approximate the name you are searching for.

My eyes are crossed and my neck is sore. I've been poring over passenger manifests. I've seen more variations than I care to recall on Adamic-Adamick-Adamich, Strukel-Struckel-Strukelj, and Kozlevcar-Kozlevchar-Kozleviar (not to mention Louis, Alois, Alvis, Aloije, Josephine, Josefa, Pepa.)

And wouldn't you know, my elusive Grandpa Carr (aka Kozlevcar) seems to have come through by way of Philadelphia, rather than New York. No wonder I couldn't find him on that Ellis Island site!

I feel like a very successful P.I.

Plymouth Rock or Ellis Island?

Like so many Americans, my roots in this country don't go back very far. My family was part of that great wave of immigration that peaked in the early part of the twentieth century.

No Mayflower or D.A.R. for us. It was Ellis Island rather than Plymouth Rock, in the words of the Slovenian American writer/journalist Louis Adamic (1899-1951), who emigrated as a teenager in 1913. Adamic went on to become perhaps the most prominent chronicler of the early 20th century "new immigrant" experience.

They called them "new immigrants" to distinguish them from the "old stock" Americans who had came earlier, from Great Britain and Western Europe. Mostly, these new Americans were Catholics and Jews from Southern and Eastern Europe. They had funny accents and hard-to-pronounce last names.

Many of the "old stock" Americans worried about the consequences of opening the doors so wide. Eventually, the doors slammed shut, with restrictive legislation in place by the mid-1920s.

So I'm grateful that the doors were open long enough for my family to slip through. My Slovenian grandfather came through Ellis Island around 1913, just like Louis Adamic. My grandmother was born to parents who had emigrated from Slovenia around 1900. (Louis Adamic was her cousin, according to family lore.) When my mother with very young, they spoke only Slovenian at home.

My late father was Scottish, an ethnic background that's always been acceptable to "old stock" Americans. But I think there was something a little dodgy about how he got here. His family seems to have slipped in by way of Canada. My father didn't figure out he needed naturalization papers until he was drafted in World War II.

So now the "new immigrants" and their descendants have become the old guard. Too many of them—of us—are worried about the newest immigrants, legal and not, from all those other places. Mexico and China. India and the Middle East and Africa. How many of us are prepared to shut the door now that we have safely passed through it ourselves?

We need to remember where we came from and be grateful. And, when we can, we need to open doors and not close them.

(Note: this was originally written as a post-Thanksgiving essay on gratitude, in connection with the Red Room writing community. It seemed like a fitting way to initiate this new blog.)