The Povitica Polka
Discovering this savory bread while learning about my heritage
I have always been intrigued to learn about my family’s heritage and even dabbled in a bit of genealogy to see what mysteries I can reveal. Thanks to hundreds of hours of research and Ancestery.com, I can trace my lineage on my mother’s side back to the first rulers of Scotland. However, my father’s side was impossible to figure out. When he was alive, I’d try to ask him as many questions as I could to understand “Where did we come from?” Each time I would ask, I got the same answer:
“We’re Croats.”
I can tell that he did not know much about his own family’s heritage, but he always spoke affectionately of it; especially when it involved povitica.
(poh-vee-TEET-sah) A sweet pastry bread stretched thinly and often filled with a various ingredients; Often consumed during celebrations or special occasions.
One Saturday morning while watching cartoons in the kitchen while eating my Lucky Charms, Dad was conducting his regular morning routine…Drink a heaping cup of black Folgers coffee and read the newspaper.
“Whatcha doin’ today?” he asked.
I put my spoon down and starred at my swirling bowl of cereal (minus all the marshmallows because I eat them first). I had a feeling that he was going to put me to work with some random chores and contemplated about fibbing to get out of whatever he was going to assign me. Instead, I chose to tell him the truth.
“No plans today,” I responded.
He rubbed his chin and recalled that my older sister is a night owl and sleeping in as usual and my younger sister was at a birthday party. “Want to go to a festival with me?”
Nodding my head, I zipped into the bedroom, got on my favorite New Kids on the Block t-shirt, brushed my teeth, and made my way to his Grand Am.
We drove — for what felt like — forever. We were somewhere in the abyss of Missouri, jamming out to Aerosmith with the sunroof open, and I relished in the thought that I had him all to myself that day. If it meant driving to the end of the world, I was game for it.
Out of nowhere, we pulled down a gravel path and into a huge meadow where cars were being directed to park along a rope barrier. I could hear the tall grass scratching the car’s underbelly as we were directed to a spot. It was unlike any festival I had been to before. I expected balloons, a ferris wheel, or street performers. Instead, all I saw were various tables and vendors scattered around and the sound of polka music in the distance.
“What kind of festival is this?” I asked.
“It’s a Croatian Festival,” he gleamed.
I could tell he was excited to be here and made a beeline to the tables that left me in the dust. I started to catch up to him, but was slowed down by the sudden wall odor that knocked the breath out of me. When I finally reached him at the first table, I looked up to him with my nose tucked inside the crook of my arm. “Dad! What is that smell?”
Sticking his nose in the air and sucking in a deep breath, “It’s stuffed cabbage. Want a piece?”
Before I could respond, the woman behind the table lifted the lid off the pot and pulled out two rolls of stuffed cabbage. My eyes barely reached the rim of the crockpot, but was face-to-face with whatever foreign concoction he ordered that smelt like a slow-cooked footlocker.
He can’t be serious.
Before I could pick one up to examine further, my father woofed his down like a ravage dog and let out a moan of satisfaction. Holding the plate in front of me, I started gagging from the pungent smell. Taking in a deep breath, I picked it up and slowly pulled it to my lips.
Come on kiddo. You can do this!
However, the closer it got to my lips, the more I gagged. Dad knew that I had no problem trying out new things, which was probably one of the reasons he brought me. I shut my eyes, but still no success. Reluctantly, I passed the cabbage roll to my Dad who looked at me confused that I could not devour the stinky morsel. We went all day keeping my eyes peeled for something that I felt like I wanted to try.
I walked past countless tables and watched my dad sample a little bit of everything. I tasted the variety of tender meats dipped and marinated in various saćes, but nothing that struck a cord with me. We passed various dishes like Zagorski Štrukli, Istrian Yota, and Souerkraut. I even saw a lamb roasted on a spit and pasted with čripnja. I was fascinated in this culture that I was oblivious to know that I was affiliated with. I heard the unique language and accents while I navigated my way through the crowd.
I could feel my tummy still rumbling and knew it was going to be a long drive back home. Before I knew it, my dad grabbed my arm and rushed me to the table nestled under an apple tree at a speed that made me believe we were about to miss a plane departure. Finally reaching the table, I bent over to catch my breath.
What could have him so excited?
Looking up, I saw a towering wall of povitica in front of me. I had a feeling if I were to touch a single loaf that it would come crashing down on me like a bad game of Jenga.
There were countless flavors of sweet bread that I did not know were possible to create; especially when each one looked like a loaf of edible marble. I circled around this buffet seeming to do my own version of the polka. As I spun around each loaf, I sampled each slice offered to me: Cream cheese, strawberry cream cheese, walnut, pecan, chocolate marble, and honey nut to name a few.
My taste buds could hardly believe what they were experiencing! I felt my saliva absorbing the moist layers of bread on my tongue and chewed each savory bite as thought it were my last meal. I felt like the luckiest child in the world to be able to not only taste something this wonderful, but to let it digest in my belly.
Rubbing my small, swollen, happy stomach, Dad pulled out a crumpled wad cash from his tattered leather wallet. Laying it on the table, the baker started filling the large grocery bags full of bread. Plopping a bag into my arms, I held on tight to it as I waddled back to the car.
I was ecstatic to know he had introduced me to a part of our culture and felt as though I could walk on clouds after my experience at the festival. I could hardly wait to get home to bat my big blue puppy dog eyes in attempt to persuade him teach me how to make my own. However, before I could look up at him to mutter my request, I fell asleep in the back seat and dreamt about having my next slice somewhere along the coast of Croatia’s Adriatic Sea.
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