How to Feed a Family of Three on a Million Polish Zlotych Per Month in 1990
by
Karol Lagodzki
When inflation rate gets up to 500% and you get paid in cash, it pays to plan. Take a wicker basket to work on payday. A canvas tote might be enough if you haven’t been at the Polish Telecom as long as me.
Hunt mushrooms. Since you live in a small town on the edge of a primeval forest, that shouldn’t be too hard, should it? Make sure to avoid the poisonous ones, or have the mother of your good-for-nothing deadbeat husband taste them first when she stops by and forces you to serve her tea.
Oh, and filberts, and blueberries, blackberries, and wild strawberries. In fact, spend as much time in the forest as you can. The green will calm you down.
Make preserves.
Does your daughter have a boyfriend? Too young? Does she have friends, then? Have her eat at their houses. Your son? You feed your son yourself, for you are a Polish mother.
If your son brings his girlfriend home, you feed her, too, but make a pained expression and keep bringing up how you’ll be out of money by the 15th. Once they leave for dessert at her place, take a pain pill—you know what he’s having. Say a few hail Mary’s.
Never eat where anyone can see you. Never eat before ten in the evening.
When you run out of money on the 16th, go borrow some from one of the men who think you’re still pretty. Your son won’t ask where it comes from. Your daughter might guess.
Do not give what the men want. Remember this, for you will be tempted.
Go to mass. Take holy communion. Leave banknotes on the plate.
By the 25th, you’ll have run out of the borrowed money. Don’t despair. Sorrel grows wild, too. Back to the forest with you. On the way back, stop by your sister’s house. Remember to ask about her children and husband first. Then see if she can spare an egg and a potato. By now, you’ll know not to mind the look on her face.
Repeat the above until your sister turns you down. If you’re lucky it might be the 28th.
You’re in the home stretch now. No one has died because of fasting for a couple of days. At the market, you haggle for a few potatoes that have started to turn. Your children love potato babka, and you bake one to great fanfare. Ration it through the 31st. Tell your daughter you ate at night. Don’t worry, your son won’t ask.
On the first of the month, bring a wicker basket to work.
Hunt mushrooms. Since you live in a small town on the edge of a primeval forest, that shouldn’t be too hard, should it? Make sure to avoid the poisonous ones, or have the mother of your good-for-nothing deadbeat husband taste them first when she stops by and forces you to serve her tea.
Oh, and filberts, and blueberries, blackberries, and wild strawberries. In fact, spend as much time in the forest as you can. The green will calm you down.
Make preserves.
Does your daughter have a boyfriend? Too young? Does she have friends, then? Have her eat at their houses. Your son? You feed your son yourself, for you are a Polish mother.
If your son brings his girlfriend home, you feed her, too, but make a pained expression and keep bringing up how you’ll be out of money by the 15th. Once they leave for dessert at her place, take a pain pill—you know what he’s having. Say a few hail Mary’s.
Never eat where anyone can see you. Never eat before ten in the evening.
When you run out of money on the 16th, go borrow some from one of the men who think you’re still pretty. Your son won’t ask where it comes from. Your daughter might guess.
Do not give what the men want. Remember this, for you will be tempted.
Go to mass. Take holy communion. Leave banknotes on the plate.
By the 25th, you’ll have run out of the borrowed money. Don’t despair. Sorrel grows wild, too. Back to the forest with you. On the way back, stop by your sister’s house. Remember to ask about her children and husband first. Then see if she can spare an egg and a potato. By now, you’ll know not to mind the look on her face.
Repeat the above until your sister turns you down. If you’re lucky it might be the 28th.
You’re in the home stretch now. No one has died because of fasting for a couple of days. At the market, you haggle for a few potatoes that have started to turn. Your children love potato babka, and you bake one to great fanfare. Ration it through the 31st. Tell your daughter you ate at night. Don’t worry, your son won’t ask.
On the first of the month, bring a wicker basket to work.