“The Catechism of the Kolache”

by James Konicek

For all I knew as a child, it was in a church basement where Kolaches were
first conceived. My father, the son of immigrants from a small provincial
village in Czechoslovakia, spent a large part of his childhood at church. St.
John Nepomuk, in Racine Wisconsin, a Catholic church, grade school and
essentially a community center for the local Czech population. In addition to
weekly or even daily mass, all major family events were celebrated there. But
it was in the basement of St. John’s where we gathered post eucharist.
Weddings, anniversaries, funerals, baptisms, first communions,
confirmations. It was a sacramental rental hall filled regularly with Uncles,
Aunts, grandparents, grandchildren, cousins, and… Kolaches. 

Even more numerous to count than my cousins, that basement birthed tens of
thousands of those crusty doughy pastries over the years. A chewy bread-like
dough stuffed with apricot, raspberry, fig or cheese. Some round, some
oblong. all set atop plastic clothed folding tables and neighbored along side
hot aluminum coffee urns, each one dusted liberally with powdered sugar
and served on paper plates or cocktail napkins.

I suppose it never occurred to me as a child, lined up single file waiting my

turn to worship at the alter of Kolache, that these pastries were uniquely
Czech in any way. I never saw or ate them anywhere else than at Konicek
family gatherings. Other than the glass dome encased "Infant of Prague" doll
in my Grandparents living room, signs of the old country were infrequent,
and rarely offered as evidence of family pride. For me and my cousins
Kolaches, were simply the signature of a career grandmother. My generation
seemed to take them for granted. Yet for the older generations, they must have
been a sort of bite sized link to the homeland.

As Grandma aged, and the older generation began to pass, it became

forebodingly clear, that some day Grandma’s occupation as sole Kolache
maker would end. And even though her mother Josephine lived to 101, it was
inevitable that that generation would come to a close, and along with it, the
Kolache tradition. 
Over the years the family gatherings still reliably bore a bounty of pastries,
but they became a little less bountiful every time. And it was my sister who
offered herself as an acolyte. Grandma gladly donned the apron, lit the oven,
and when not only my sister but a number of the female cousins descended
upon her tiny kitchen wishing to become apostles, the tradition began to have
a new life. Cousins would get married or a new great grandchild would be
baptized, or an aging family member would pass, and soon a devoted
Konicek or a Mutchler or a Summers would appear at Grandma’s door,
offering a second pair of hands thereby bearing witness to the "Catechism of
the Kolache”.

My Grandmother, Mary Konicek, true to genetic fortitude, lived to 100. Even

as a centenarian she continued to oversee the production of Czech
confectionery, now in the capable hands of the younger disciples. And a few
years ago, at the celebration of her long life, in the basement of the
immigrant’s church, it was apparent to all of us that Kolaches had outlived the
old country, the tradition had ascended, and the powdered sugar covered
sacrament would continue to be observed.