‘Gomboc’ (pronounced gomboats), are the Hungarian version of potato dumplings. Like matzo balls, their success or failure depends on their consistency, practice making perfect. When they achieve the ideal texture of a baby’s plump cheek, they are to die for. Sprinkled with sugar, and served warm, this scrumptious delicacy, is served as a sweet second course after a hearty goulash. Traditionally filled with a pitted plum or apricot, they are also delicious with a jam center. They can be the size of a tennis ball or smaller depending on what treasure they hold within. Once cooked, they are tossed in butter-toasted bread crumbs, which deliver a satisfying crunch as you sink your teeth into the doughy delight.

Three months after my mother died, I go solo in my attempt to make these plum dumplings, finally crying.

‘Gomboc’ were her offering of love, a family favorite made with love. These potato delicacies require an expertise acquired through years of experience. Hers were the best. She’d happily produce them on a whim or a casual request from her children or grandchildren. Watching her work, it seemed simple enough, each step in the process flowing smoothly to the next, as timing is also a critical element in their success. If the dough is too hot or too cold it could end in disaster.  My timing is erratic, taking forever as the dough cools and refuses to coalesce to the desirable consistency. While she commanded her kitchen efficiently, mine is awash with sticky potato dough and flour dusting every surface, including me.

For three months I could not cry and now the full weight of how much I will miss her bears down on me. Fat teardrops fall onto the gummy mess of dough that refuses to be rolled out, sticking to the rolling pin, confounding me.

I can’t pick up the phone to ask her how to solve this problem. She can’t tell me whether the consistency of the raw dough is good enough or if I need to work something else into it. Once done, I can’t share my success or failure, and either bask in her pride, or take solace in her patient encouragement.

My dumplings are a disaster and as I scrape the misshapen, mushy balls into the compost bin, I ponder on how the most mundane of actions can be a catalyst for grief. Even though I’ve experienced grief in my life, it never shadowed me the way her absence has. When my father died, I was devastated, crying suddenly at inapt moments. I think and dream of him often. But the intimacy that I took for granted with my mother has a subtle way of intruding into every aspect of my life. I feel the weight of responsibility to keep her memory alive, to bear witness to her suffering and her triumph in surviving the concentration camps, to never forget.

I also feel the need to remind her grandchildren and great grandchildren of her unconditional love for her family. I do this by trying to recreate those treats that she perfected, dishes that brought the family to the dinner table and kept us together. I try to make the family favorites; wiener schnitzel, stuffed peppers, brisket, cabbage rolls, and of course her famous apple squares. She taught me well, and even though I’ve mastered making her recipes, I will never match her culinary prowess.

To this day, it is the dumplings, whether sugared plum or apricot jam-filled, that remain my greatest challenge. Even if I were to practice until I’m 95, as she was, I don’t think I’ll ever match her perfectly delicious dumplings, and I will miss her always.