...for I have sinned

The beginning of the year is a good time to examine one’s conscience to see if there are things hiding that need to be brought to light. However, I didn’t need to meditate or rend my clothing or roll in sackcloth or ashes or visit a priest to know that there was some abject selfishness deep in my heart, and deep, deep in my fridge. I only need to look at the little plate next to my cup of tea to be reminded of my sin. Moreover, this is a seasonal sin which begs the question of the sincerity of my annual repentance.

My sister-in-law, Judy Armstrong Murphy is not only an air quality expert with long-time service for the State of Montana, but she is also a renowned cook. When her children were little, she taught a course in baking. This provided much excitement one time at a family dinner when I tried to brag about Judy’s expert status, calling her a Master Baker. When my teenage sons recovered from spewing beverages through their noses, I realized how my declaration had sounded. From that time on, I decided to say, “Judy is really good at baking.”

And every year I look forward to the package that arrives before Christmas from Montana. I open it and carefully removethe tight brown loaf. It’s not shiny or sticky. It’s just a brown lump of bread. But when you slice off the plain end, it’s like opening a geode to find the crystals inside. Swirls of delicate yeast bread caress a filling of finely chopped nuts, a touch of sugar, honey, and cinnamon, which meld together with love and tradition to become Povitica. Our Serbian neighbors pronounced it “po-`vee-tee-zuh.” Around Butte and Anaconda the rest of us say “po-vah-`teet-zuh.”

Anyone who has roots in the Balkans knows this lovely bread. And their friends have probably been the recipient of a tasty Christmas gift. Judy learned to make Povitica when she and my brother John lived in the little town of Anaconda, Montana. That was around the time she decided to send it as a Christmas gift to family members.

This is when my seasonal transgression became fully formed. Since my sister and brother also lived in the Puget Sound area, and since I was the one most likely to be home to receive a package, Judy sent three loaves to my house. Of course I intended to deliver the “packages” to my siblings, but sometimes my brother or sister would be traveling or out of touch. I felt it was my duty to eat said loaves while they was fresh. It might have been a few years before my brother and sister even knew that I had been receiving Povitica with their names on them. For this I am heartily (hardly?) sorry.

Last year, my twenty-something first-born son stopped by one morning, and caught me eating Povitica. I felt obligated to offer some to him. He is the pickiest of picky eaters, especially turning up his nose at nuts. I was a bit disappointed when he said, “sure.” His next words were, “What IS this? Did YOU make it? Can I make it?” I remember watching my Serbian neighbors in Butte, a gaggle of laughing, chatty women, coaxing the dough over a cloth covered table until it was so thin that you could practically read through it. They spread the filling across the dough, then rolled, rolled, rolled it. They cut it into loaves, proofed, baked, and enjoyed with strong coffee. I told him about the process. Neither of us has tried to make it.

I know that Judy has incorporated the Povitica-making party into her family. I’ve seen photos of her daughter and daughter-in-law bent over the table with floury aprons. As other nieces and nephews have grown into the thought of having their own households, and after they have enjoyed Judy’s generous gifts, they have begun to ask her about giving lessons. With the advent of Facebook, there has begun a movement to have Judy teach the rest of us whenever we can carve out some time together. I can imagine a day with cousins and sibs gathered around Judy’s table in her beautiful country home in Montana.

Judy now sends separate boxes to my brother and sister. I confess that I never tell my husband or my children when our Povitica arrives. I wrap it carefully, and hide it behind the eggs in the fridge. Now my secret is out, but the Povitica is gone. I think I should feel some guilt, or at least a little shame about my selfishness.

I should.

I don’t.

Thanks, Judy and your Povitica crew. It was sinfully good!