Strawberries I picked on my family's farm and the strawberry compote with noodles my Aunt Stasia whipped up. Photo by Suzanne Rozdeba
My uncle Janek Szymanski is a strawberry farmer. He is a salt-of-the-earth man with rugged hands, six children, and a farmer wife, my Aunt Malgosia, who wakes up with her husband every morning between five and six a.m. to till the land that my family has owned for more than five generations. They also have raspberries, wheat, pigs, and chickens that sustain them and keep them busy year-round.
My Uncle Janek Szymanski with the youngest member of the house. Photo by Suzanne Rozdeba
I took a train from Krakow to visit them on their farm in Chociszewo, a small village about an hour-and-a-half from Warsaw. Their home is never empty. Ever since I was a child, I remember never less than 10 people at once milling around the farm. When I would visit with family from the U.S. and Krakow, there would easily be around 20 people sleeping in the house, squished into beds and futons. There was laughter, gossip, eating until you burst, and more gossip.
Now, my Great Aunt Stasia lives there, along with my uncle, aunt, their four boys and a grandchild. It was where Aunt Stasia and her sister, my Grandmother Henia, were born, and the same land where some fascinating, World War II family history that I am currently exploring has deep roots. Pawel, the oldest, is in line to become the next family farmer, and was riding a tractor near his share of the strawberry fields when I took a stroll with Aunt Stasia.
My Aunt, Stasia Szymanska, with my cousin, Pawel. Photo by Suzanne Rozdeba
It was the end of the strawberry season when I visited in early July during a small reprieve for the family. As the strawberry season was coming to an end, they had a two-week break before their raspberry bushes were in full bloom. Polish strawberries are the most delectable I’ve ever tasted — “the most delicious on Earth,” my family will assert. My uncle Janek says it’s the soil, weather, and Polish environmental conditions that produce such unbelievably sweet, soft, bright red, juicy strawberries.
During the summer season, my uncle hires Ukrainians who travel just for the season to help pick strawberries. They are doctors, lawyers, teachers, and other often highly-educated workers who earn more picking strawberries across the border in Poland than they do in their careers in Ukraine.
My family's pigs and piglets! Photo by Suzanne Rozdeba
It’s incredibly arduous work. Workers wear kneepads to get down and pick from the rows and rows of small plants. Otherwise you are bent over all day, and it can be backbreaking work. For every basket workers fill with strawberries, my uncle pays them one zloty, or 35 cents. On average, they fill between 150-200 baskets a day, and earn the equivalent of $50-$70. My uncle then drives several times a week to a local farmers’ market to sell his produce. Strawberries are increasingly being imported from China, he said, but travel far and are often hard and unsweet, compared to local strawberries. But this year, there was a fear of strawberries coming from Asia because of the Japanese nuclear disaster, and imports and sales were low, he said. Polish strawberry farmers earned well.
But the season was coming to an end, and the last Ukrainian workers had gone home the morning after I arrived. I walked through my cousin Pawel’s strawberry fields with my Aunt Stasia. “I don’t know if there are any left,” she said. I spotted one bright-red fruit, and another, and yet another. Soon I had about 20 strawberries cupped in my hands. I was ecstatic. I turned around, and my aunt laughed, holding about the same. “Here, wrap them in this,” she said, ripping off a few nearby huge, green leaves.
Pawel and his brother Michal, changing out the tires to get ready for raspberries. Photo by Suzanne Rozdeba
We walked in the house, proudly showing off our picks. “Pawel, we picked the rest of the strawberries from your field. You’re not mad, are you?” said my aunt. Pawel smiled. He probably knew my aunt was going to cook up something clever. She immediately got to mashing the strawberries, and made a cold, chunky, strawberry compote, mixed with homemade noodles.
Aunt Stasia, Pawel with his daughter, and Pawel's brothers. Photo by Suzanne Rozdeba
She placed a bowl brimming with the compote in front of me. “Here, eat this before dinner. But don’t tell your aunt – she’ll be upset that you won’t eat your dinner,” she said. My Aunt Malgosia was busy mashing potatoes to make placki ziemniaczane, potato pancakes, which I was expected to eat 30 minutes later. Never having a choice when it comes to eating in their home, I happily dove into my handpicked strawberries. Knowing I had plucked them with my own hands, they tasted even more delicious.
Aunt Stasia holding her freshly-picked strawberries. Photo by Suzanne Rozdeba
