Everett and I made peroghies with Karen and her sister-in-law yesterday. My sister, rolling dough on the countertop, looked over at us busily pinching dough at the kitchen table and said “It’s not hard to tell who the real Ukrainian is.” Sharon was leaving us in the dust, pathetic pedeha pinchers we.

We layered the peroghies between wax paper on cookie sheets to freeze, cleaned up our mess, and went to Grandma's. She was laying on the couch with game shows on TV, so we watched a couple with her, then switched the channel so we could catch Coronation Street before bolting for home to meet Emil's bus.

This morning I bagged the peroghies up and stuck them back in the deep freeze, except for one bag. I sent it and a loaf of raisin-rye bread along with Manful. He was headed for the city to drop off beef for my friend and have lunch with his baby boy, who has flown in from Calgary for the weekend.

Everett insisted on boiling some up for his lunch, but was immediately in tears when he tasted them because he does not like the cottage cheese in them. Oops. Looks like we'll be back at it again next week, but with a filling he can stomach.

Meanwhile, the 22 dozen little dumplings will not be wasted.

Manful left before 8 o'clock this morning and every time I walk past the bathroom downstairs I smell his aftershave, and smile.

A couple in town waited four years for him to do their basement. The wife said “We don’t mind waiting, for the best.”