Performed at Fourteen East Live 2026, "Nosalgia".
I am ten years old, and the smell of sauerkraut makes me roll my eyes.
On some Sundays, we go to my great-grandfather’s house to visit him. My grandfather epitomizes the Greatest Generation’s idea of a Slovak-American — in his younger years: a high school baseball star, a Ford assembly line worker, and a soldier, and later: achieving minor fame as the trumpeter in a locally revered polka group. That’s him in the front.
My grandpa was my favorite person in the world and my love for him knew no bounds. He always made sure we knew our heritage and that we were proud of it. But at this moment, at ten years old, I really want McDonald’s, and I wish we didn’t have to eat kielbasa and sauerkraut every time we came to visit.
I identify as an American, but the majority of my family immigrated to the U.S. during the Industrial Revolution from the southern regions of Poland and the north of Slovakia. Forced to leave due to conflict and poverty in the wake of World War I, my ancestors sought work in the American “steel belt” — an abundance of manufacturing mills churning and whirring on the lip of the Great Lakes. Eventually, they found their way to Cleveland, Ohio, and more than a century later, most of my extended family remains in the area.
Unlike my great-grandparents and grandparents, my parents don’t speak Polish or Slovak, take us to Catholic mass or have any close relatives back in the motherland. They did, however, make a concerted effort throughout my childhood to employ a diet that regularly reminds my sister and I of our ethnic roots. It’s equal parts mountains, colorful folk dresses and hearty ingredients alongside steel mills, church basements and “whatever’s on sale.”
As a kid, the smell of sauerkraut made me roll my eyes, but I never realized just how much I’d miss the scent at twenty-two. Quite often, I find myself recreating the recipes that shaped my childhood in my tiny apartment kitchen — a hearty rolodex of traditional dishes that have been passed down throughout families for generations. Pierogi, kielbasa, stuffed cabbage, cabbage and noodles, kolaczki, paczki, Easter bread, city chicken and more.
A semi-well-known fact about me is that I have a fascination with regional American cultures and how they different from one another. It wasn’t until I came to college that this affinity began. Sometimes, I wager that the Cleveland metro area is sort of a “black hole.” It feels like everyone who’s born there is destined to stay forever. You don’t seem to meet many people from, well, anywhere else.
As you can see in this map, I’m actually not too far off. People from the area tend to stay in the area.
When I came to DePaul, I was thrust into an entirely cosmopolitan environment. Suddenly exposed to hundreds of other college kids from all across the country and the world. Unique individuals with their own distinct cultures that modeled their identity.
So it got me thinking about the centuries of circumstances that shape the dishes we choose to immortalize. Some are born out of grim cases, people filled to the brink with hunger, a dire and desperate need in the face of oppression. Craftiness. Food is a fundamental part of existence as a human being and integral to life. Therefore, food is sociopolitical.
The question of, “What dish makes you nostalgic?” can open up that door, and I decided to.
I proposed a survey to my community at DePaul and beyond, asking them about their roots, a dish that makes them nostalgic and why.
“Thai omelette (Kai Jeow). There’s nothing else like it. It reminds me of my childhood and it’s probably the first thing I learned how to cook as a kid. My mom has been making it since she was 5 — it’s so comforting and delicious.”
“Rice and yogurt — chawal and dahi in Urdu. Makes me think of accommodation and love. Being half white and half brown in a brown family of 15 people, mostly extended family, always meant we (me and my siblings) were a bit odd compared to the rest of the kids but this was a beautiful way for us to still eat our cultural food and not be pushed outside of my comfort zone. Just really hones in on the feeling of how accepting and loving and willing to share my family is.”
“Pollo guisado always reminds me of my grandma who passed in 2020. Every Christmas (and for my birthday) we would make this dish together. When I make it by myself or for my family, they all tell me how it tastes exactly like hers used to and that makes me really happy. It makes me feel connected to her.”
“Tater tot casserole was a staple in my house growing up. When it gets dark early in winter and my mom leaves the oven open to help heat the kitchen. When me and my siblings kick each other under the table and use far too much ketchup in one sitting. When I tried to pick around the vegetables, every bite had to have a tater tot in it or it wasn’t worth eating.”
So, it becomes even more clear. The people who come before us and the streets that raise us are two instrumental parts of our roots as human beings. Even just naming a dish that makes you nostalgic — let alone cooking it — can help connect you to the very soil your ancestors walked upon thousands of years ago. The first ingredients they found and used and have kept close to their chest for hundreds of years.
When you look up the words “American food,” the first images you see are of hot dogs, hamburgers and fries. It isn’t until you look closer that you realize that “American food” could never be defined by just one category. Nothing is quintessentially “American” when the majority of our population is not supposed to be here. We stand on land that was stolen and pillaged for the sake of capitalism, to line the pockets of the wealthy and build up a society whose entire identity is rooted in neverending consumerism. So of course, they show us hot dogs and hamburgers, just like they force-feed us commercials for American Express cards and GLP-1s.
This is why I implore that European-Americans, such as myself, do the work to look deep within ourselves. Find the circumstances that shape our unique identities, instead of submitting to the sadomasochistic label of “whiteness” thrust upon us. We can and should uplift America for what it is — a rich cultural tapestry of unique identities developed over hundreds of years, a place where anyone can seek out their childhood dishes — whether that be in a Polish market, a grocery store taqueria, a halal butcher, a Vienna beef joint or a soul food stop.
I’ll end with this: I didn’t always appreciate kielbasa and sauerkraut while I was growing up. Sometimes, I’ll admit — I audibly groaned when I saw it in the crock pot (sorry mom!).
But, as I get older, I realize more and more that the dish represents something I am lucky to have. Kielbasa and sauerkraut on New Year’s Day, for good luck, and my great grandfather reciting a quick “Bless us O Lord for These Thy Gifts,” before we dove straight in.
It’s something I believe more of us Americans need to tap into. I am undoubtedly an assimilated white American woman, but I also was blessed with a family that held steadfast in strongly rooted traditions that I intend to pass on to my own children someday. It’s something I believe more of us should embrace in the face of a terrifying movement towards homogeneity — endorsed by the evil that lurks within those in positions of power. This administration, utterly piglike, aims to gobble up authenticity in any way it can.
So, ask your friends what food makes them nostalgic. Find a restaurant that serves it. Take them there, and maybe they’ll do the same for you. It’s a small step, but it matters, more than maybe any of us know.
Header Image by Eva Strazek
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