1866, a Finnish woman slaved over a blazing oven

to alleviate her famished husband’s hunger.

He had spent all morning in the U.P. mine

and would stay there until supper.

She knew he needed a heavy hearty meal

to provide for his family.

So she acquired a recipe

for an ancient Cornish pasty.

She peeled and sliced golden russet potatoes,

and chopped rutabaga and onions into quarter inch cubes.

She sliced stew meat into tiny chunks

then mixed the filling together in a pot.

She compressed the freshly prepared dough gently

and smoothly glided the rolling pin.

She swaddled the filling

tightly in a blanket of hearty crust.

She rolled the edges over forming a crisp edge

like a wave rolling on the shore

So he could hold the edge with his hands

to avoid consuming mine arsenic.

She placed her hard-work in the oven

and set the timer for an hour.

When the hour was up, she removed them

then waited for them to cool.

2016, I devour my Great-Grandmother’s pasties.

The pasty is much more than a food delicacy.

It is a cultural mark that gives Finns an identity,
a gift passed down from generation to generation.