My grandmother's pierogies were wrong. I know this now because I've eaten pierogies in Warsaw and Kraków and from three different Polish grandmothers in Pittsburgh. Hers were too thick, the filling was half potato and half cream cheese (not traditional), and she fried them in margarine instead of butter because it's what she could afford in 1974 and she never switched back. They were the best pierogies I've ever eaten, and I will never be able to make them because she didn't use a recipe. She used "enough flour" and "you'll know when it's right" and her hands, which were calloused and exact and are gone now. I've been trying for six years. I'm getting closer. The dough is almost right. The filling is wrong in the right way. The margarine is non-negotiable.

Third shift at a gas station in rural Ohio, winter of 2019. There's a regular who comes in every night at 2:15 AM and buys a single banana and a black coffee. Never says a word beyond "evening." I have no idea where he comes from or where he goes. There's nothing open for miles. One night the power went out during a storm and I was standing behind the counter with a flashlight. He walked in at exactly 2:15, looked at the dark store, looked at me, put $1.50 on the counter, took his banana and coffee, and walked out. The register wasn't working so I just pocketed the $1.50 and wrote it up as a loss. I think about that man once a week. I never learned his name.