Parts of the skillet:
the hanging ring, the handle and tang, the iron side and bottom,
the seasoned surface, the weight.

She’s showing me how to make golabki—she says the word 
slowly, go-om-pkee, so I’ll understand—how to scald the cabbage,
how much rice to cook up, the pinches of salt and the measure
of thyme, what cuts of pork and beef are best, what attachment
to use on the meat grinder that has the raised foundry’s name
under the lip of the hopper.

What’s golabki mean, I ask, I mean literally.

Parts of the knife:
the rivets on the handle, the bolster, guard and heel,
the back of the blade, the blade, the free edge, the point.

Golabki means golabki, she says. She sniffs. Some people call it
pigs-in-a-blanket. But that was after the Nazis and Stalin. Now
here’s how to make the sauce, my secret: sour cream,
Hungarian paprika, and the fat from the pan juices, and flour.

Without this, they lie like unclothed bodies side by side.