My children were born and raised in Michigan. They are just two of the younger generation who have fled our state for warmer climates and a more promising job market. To make it plain, they don’t like it here. However, there is one thing about Michigan they both miss, and that is paczkis.
As a mother, I send occasional care packages to the West Coast, but both kids know when to clamor for paczkis. I usually send each of them six, enough to gorge and enough to share.
Of course, the flight of the paczkis must be made Next Day Air. A day-old paczki isn’t bad, but if the donut has been taking the scenic route via Pony Express, it’s a tragedy. You might as well open a package of Ho-Hos and call it a day. Paczkis are not made with preservatives and would likely not survive Priority Mail transit.
The guys at the UPS store know me well. This year I didn’t have enough time to package my plump, little paczkis, so I walked in carrying them in their bakery boxes with PACZKI emblazoned all over them in red ink.
I’m surprised my little taste treats made it to California, but they did.
I haven’t told my husband yet, but I did share with the kids that the going rate of those donuts was about $13 a piece.
I’m going to take it out of their inheritance.