The rich, earthy scent of root vegetables simmering in chicken broth greeted me. John had made a pot of Ukrainian borscht.

“I ran into Borys. He brought this gift over. It’s a mini vyshyvanka!” John said.

“It’s adorable, though she won’t be able to wear it for a couple of years.”

“I know, but it’s cute, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I confirmed, and took the fine white shirt in my hands to admire the red embroidery.

“You know, maybe we should get one of those cute cheongsams I saw in Chinatown for the baby? She can have her pick of outfits,” John offered.

“Nah, she doesn’t need anything like that,” I said.

“Why? I want her to know she has two cultures.”

“It’s just that I think the cheongsams are tacky.”

“Okay, well, I also saw that Chinatown Remixed is happening this weekend. You know, that local art festival I was telling you about? Maybe we should go?”

“She’s a baby, John. She doesn’t need to do things like that. Besides, I’m not really up for it. I’m just so tired, you know?”

“Borys also told me that next week the Orthodox Church is having a Ukrainian dinner and the choir is performing. I guess I should tell him we probably won’t make it.”

“Why? We never miss it.”

“Yeah, but you just said you weren’t up for going out.”

“I’ll be up for the dinner. I never miss a chance to eat varenyky.” John and I laughed and hugged.

John went to the large pot on the stove, and I sat down at the table next to the bassinet where the baby was sleeping, looking at the flyer Borys must have given John. The savoury dumplings were what brought us together in university.

It was the fall of my second year in undergrad at the University of Calgary. The second week of school was clubs week, and I was meandering through the tables in MacEwan Hall promoting club after club when a pair of jovial guys shoved a small steaming plate in my face.

“Sour cream?” one offered.

“Uh, what is this?” I answered.

“Perogies!” the blond guy said enthusiastically.

“What?”

“You’ve never heard of perogies before?” the first guy said, incredulous.

“No, I—”

“Potato dumplings. Don’t let this guy bother you. He’s a bit of a jerk,” the guy with dirty blond hair interjected. He motioned me to the other side of the table and scooped a spoonful of sour cream onto my plate.

“Try it,” he suggested.

I cut off a corner of a pillowy dumpling with my fork, dipped it into the sour cream, and placed the bite in my mouth. “Mmmm, this is really good!”

“You’ve seriously never had these before?”

I noticed the cardboard sign on the table that read, Ukrainian Students’ Society. “No, I don’t have any Ukrainian friends.”

“Well, now you do. My name’s John.”

“Lily,” I said and smiled.

“If you become a member, you get a discount at Perogy Night.”