My name is Michael, I’m 37, and I live in Pittsburgh with my wife, Anna. If you know anything about Pittsburgh, you know that pierogies are practically a local religion.
Anna’s family takes that tradition very seriously.
Every year, usually right before the holidays, the entire extended family gathers at her parents’ house for what they proudly call the “Pierogi Marathon.”
When I say marathon, I mean it.
We start around 8 a.m. and go until late afternoon. The kitchen fills up with relatives rolling dough, scooping potato filling, sealing dumplings, and boiling them in giant pots.
At first, when Anna and I were dating, I thought it was kind of charming.
Everyone laughing, flour everywhere, family stories being told around the table. It felt like a wholesome tradition.
The first couple years I participated enthusiastically.
But after nearly a decade of this event, I’ve realized something.
I hate the Pierogi Marathon.
Not the food itself — pierogies are great.
It’s the process.
Hours of standing in a hot kitchen.
Flour covering every surface.
Someone constantly yelling that we’re “behind schedule” like we’re running a dumpling factory.
Anna’s aunt Maria acts like the pierogi production manager, assigning tasks with military precision.
“Michael, dough station!”
“Michael, you’re sealing too slow!”
“Michael, focus!”
By noon every year my back hurts, my hands are covered in flour paste, and I’m questioning every life decision that led me to a dumpling assembly line.
But for years I kept my feelings to myself because Anna loves the tradition.
Last weekend the topic came up again.
Her mom texted the family group chat announcing this year’s marathon date and asking everyone to confirm they’d be there.
Anna turned to me and said, “I can’t wait. It’s my favorite day of the year.”
And without thinking, I said the sentence that apparently detonated an emotional bomb.
“I actually kind of hate it.”
The room went quiet.
Anna looked genuinely shocked.
She asked what I meant, and I explained that I love spending time with her family, but the all-day pierogi assembly line isn’t exactly my favorite activity.
I thought I was being honest but respectful.
Instead, Anna got really quiet.
Later that night she started crying and said the tradition means a lot to her because it reminds her of growing up and spending time with her grandparents.
Now I feel terrible.
Not because I lied — I didn’t — but because I clearly underestimated how meaningful the event is to her.
At this point I’m not sure what the solution is.
Part of me wants to suggest a shorter pierogi session, maybe two hours instead of eight.
But another part of me suspects the family would treat that suggestion like I proposed canceling Christmas.
So for now I’m mentally preparing myself for another year of standing in a flour-covered kitchen pretending I’m an enthusiastic dumpling artisan.
Because apparently in Pittsburgh…
Marriage sometimes means committing to a lifetime of pierogi production quotas.
