Every time I eat a pirogue, it makes me proud. And wistful. It reminds me that I’m tied to some part of my heritage. My grandfather used to make big batches of pirogues that blew anything frozen that you can buy today. It amazes me at times that someone so big and strong was so adept in the kitchen and grocery shopping. He didn’t try to teach me anything, but in the way he lived his life I learned a lot about the way that I should eat mine. I have also noticed that my pirogue consumption, over time, has lessened. Maybe that’s good for my heart. Because in my youth, I could easily eat two dozen. I try and make six my limit, now.

Photo – N
Words - S