Jake Berent

The doors open at Pticek’s & Son and the people rush in.

Very few things can draw a line of folks out the door and halfway down the block in single-digit temperatures like a Polish bakery in Chicago on Paczki Tuesday. The centuries old tradition of gorging oneself the day before swearing off sweets for forty days resonates especially well with the Polish community, and my family specifically. It’s been one of our favorite holidays for as long as I can remember.

“You get five out of your six (adult) kids to come home for Paczki Tuesday?” a friend of my father’s exclaimed over the phone last night. “You guys must really love paczkis!!!”

We do. But not only for their other-worldly deliciousness.

Pticek’s was packed with patrons waiting patiently for their paczki’s.

For those of you who don’t know, a paczki (poonch-key) is a Polish pastry. It’s two pieces of deep fried dough, covered in powdered sugar, and sandwiched together around a whipped cream, custard, or most commonly a fruit filling.

It’s no wonder there were thirty people waiting outside the door of Pticek’s on 56th and Narragansett at 4:45 am this morning. The place didn’t open up for another fifteen minutes, and people were already antsy to get in, get their deep-fried doughy goods and get back home. I know I was.

The 5:00 am paczki-run has been a tradition I’ve enjoyed being a part of since I was a kid. Every Fat Tuesday I’d be up well before dawn with my mother, and we’d embark on our route. We used to have as many as five stops to make on our route, including auntie’s, nana’s and great aunt’s, who were all depending on us to deliver their boxes of treats. It was an honor as a kid, riding shotgun on the Paczki Express. And once we made it back home, it was our time to have our holiday feast.

In my family, however, paczki’s take on an even greater significance. Little did I know that the palatable Polish pastry was the very reason my parents met.

Paczki’s by the dozen.

The year was 1982, the president was Ronald Reagan. A young Jimmy Berent had just arrived at the bar with a few teammates after a CAC (Catholic Alumni Club) volleyball game. The plan was to get their final indulgences in on Tuesday night before the beginning of Lent on Ash Wednesday the next day. So they bellied up to the bar for a few pitchers, and to polish off the remaining paczki’s Jimmy had brought with him.

All of the sudden, a pretty-eyed dark-haired woman walks over to his position. She asks, “Excuse me, are those paczki’s?”

“Yes,” Jimmy responds.

“Can I have one?” the woman asks.

“Well, you kind of have to be Polish,” says Jimmy.

“Well my last name is Budzinski…” says the woman.

After nearly falling out of his barstool, my father sliced up a paczki and shared it with the woman who would go on to be my mother. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Paczki Tuesday is a celebration I invite all of you to join, and you don’t even have to be Polish. Paczki’s are better when shared. So go out and grab a dozen. Actually, make that two. Who knows? You might even find that special someone on the other end of that fried dough.

With a solid 5 inches still on the ground, Chicagoland was delivered another dusting of snow this afternoon. It was light stuff, but came down in a flurried hurry, reducing visibility to no more than 3 blocks for most of the afternoon. So I thought, what a perfect day to go for a run by Lake Michigan?

You might think I’m crazy. In fact, most folks thought I was. I stopped by the Ray Meyer Fitness and Recreation Center to set up a base camp, and then begin my journey about 1.5 miles to the Lake. A few friends there asked where the heck I was going, so I told them, and received nothing but astonished reactions. Who  goes out for a jovial jog in blinding snow, 20º temperatures, and 15° wind chill? What loon thinks it a thrill to brave conditions that would force most of us to barricade ourselves indoors with blankets, warm beverages and TV marathons, just to see more piles of snow and a frozen over lake?

I do.

So in the locker rooms I began to prepare myself for the trek. My feet would be protected by socks, plastic bags, another pair of socks, and shoes. Compression shorts, gym shorts, and track pants on my lower half, with a dry-fit, t-shirt, heavy longsleeve, and raincoat over my torso. Headgear was crucial if I was going to survive. A bandanna, a toboggan, a beanie, a face warmer and two scarves bundled my face tighter than Ralphie’s little brother in A Christmas Story. I cued up some classics on my iPod classic, and was ready to run.

The only footprints I saw were my own.

The cold was not an issue. I had layered successfully. The real struggle was the terrian. Short, choppy steps were necessary to keep my foot moving at a brisk pace. It was a relief when strolling along a freshly shoveled sidewalk, but those were few and far between. The snow was coming down too quickly. I found footing in the tracks of others through the rough stretches of unattended sidewalks, but even then my ankles plunged into tracks that were lumpy and slippery.

As I approached the Lake from the entrance at Fullerton avenue, there were no signs anyone had been down this path in a while. The only footprints I saw were my own. A trailblazing sense of triumph went through my veins. Was I the only nut out here? Am I the singular reason they put up signs during weather like this saying, “Lakefront Trail CLOSED?”

I’ve been running to the Lake many a times, and never saw it like this. Never saw it so desolate and undisturbed but at the same time so lively and picturesque. Lake Michigan was frozen, the snow piling up on top of the sheet of ice. Snowdrifts building on the banks where ice met sand. The furiously falling snowflakes veiled the colossal buildings of Chicago’s downtown. From Fullerton and the Lake, what’s usually a vibrant view was now vividly void of color. The sight was panoramic white.  And nobody was around to take in this breathtaking sight but me.

I got as far as that trail closed sign, then turned back and made my trip back. I was feeling high, and more importantly dry. The old Polish trick of lining your gym shoes with plastic bags had worked perfectly, and my layering was holding up to the stiff winter breeze. I trudged my way back through Lincoln Park, stopping only once at a statue of William Shakespeare, just to see how he’s dealing with this weather, and finally made it back. I survived. No hypothermia, not frozen toes, not even a cherry nose.

Was it stupid? Maybe. Dangerous? I didn’t think so. What I saw it as, was an hourlong adventure to Lake Michigan in a daunting snowstorm to take in an awe-inspiring glimpse of chaos, remoteness and serenity.