A year ago today, I was headed to Poland. I take you along for the ride that still enters my dreams.

The Russian invasion of Ukraine is eight weeks old. Ukrainians are fleeing in droves, boarding SRO trains for the slow ride to Poland. (Between February 24 and April 22 of last year, more than 2.8 million Ukrainians fled to Poland, according to the United Nations Refugee Agency.)

The first stop out of Ukraine is Przemysl, a small Polish town about eight miles from the border. Przemysl (Shem-ish) is where World Central Kitchen, the nonprofit founded by chef Jose Andres, has set up a production kitchen. A kitchen where volunteers from around the world, like this one, make thousands of ham and cheese sandwiches a day. Where cold salads get tossed and hot stews simmer in gigantic paella pans on wheels, are packed up in cambros and loaded onto trucks. Those trucks deliver food to several spots in town, including the train station, where weary travelers disembark two, sometimes three times a day. They queue up in lines that snake for a few blocks just to clear customs. The first thing waiting for them is a bite to eat. The hell of their lives can wait.

My friend Marek (whom you can read about here) meets me at the Krakow airport. It is my first time in his country, without a word of Polish in my pockets. He can see right away that I’m tired from my three-flight journey. But unlike the women lining up for a cot in the Krakow train station, my fatigue is temporary, my troubles not even in the same league.

Over my first-ever plate of pierogis, Marek lays down four words: The war is here. I actually ask him what he means because it seems so simple, so obvious. It can’t just be the banners we see and the demonstrations in the square, the women lined up for a cot, right?

Right, said the philosopher.

It’s everywhere, overnight. You’ll start to see it and feel it.

He was right, of course.

As I board the train to Przemysl, Marek assures me that the station is walking distance to the studio I’ve rented. But fret is what I do for three hours. As I make my way off the train, the station building is packed. I’m surrounded by people with much bigger problems.

Just outside the doors, I spot people milling in and out of a World Central Kitchen tent, where tables and chairs spill onto the cobblestones, where the scent of home cooking hangs in the air. Volunteers from other aid organizations are in the street, wearing their tell-tale vests, assisting with luggage, speaking into walkie-talkies.

The war? Oh, yes, it’s right here.

The volunteers I meet first thing in the morning come from all walks of life — airline pilot, judge, school principal, retired engineer, film director, country music singer-songwriter. A priest from Baja. An accountant working in New York whose parents refuse to leave Kharkiv. There’s a handful of us who know our way around a chef’s knife. Our differences in age, geography, religion, education are irrelevant. We are random strangers who have flown thousands of miles to southeastern Poland with a common purpose — to cook for people who have been forced from their homes, their communities, their country.

Here in this kitchen, the war is here. Our assignment is to assemble 3,000 sandwiches (sometimes more), with plenty of seasoned mayo so that everything sticks to the bun. So that there are plenty of calories for someone who may not have eaten in a while. Our assignment is to peel and mash 400 pounds of bananas for trays of banana bread. So that others may have something sweet to offset the deep well of sorrow and uncertainty.

The food we make is scaled up but it is still homemade. It’s the same food we eat for lunch. It is the opposite of institutional chow or MREs. It is good food. It keeps us going. Because the war is everywhere you look.

At the border one day, I lock eyes with a babushka with piercing blue eyes and a hair coming out of her chin. I place my hands on her shoulders. She is taken aback.

“Valentir?” she asks. [Volunteer?]

I nod yes.

She points her finger at her chest.

“Ukraine.”

I do the same.

“America.”

“Dyakuyu,” she says. [thank you]

I give her a bear hug. I can hardly see straight, my eyes flooding.

At the Krakow airport on my way home, I’m in line behind a young man, his dog and his cat. They are all from Ukraine. The search for documents to get out of here reminds me once more that the war is right in front of me. And then again from my window seat where I watch the crate with the big white dog being loaded onto the cargo hold.

Four hundred twenty-some days since the invasion began, the war is STILL not over.

Keep the people of Ukraine in your hearts. Give when you can. And please let’s not forget them.

I spoke with SmartTalk host Scott Lamar earlier this week about my experiences in Poland. Lamar’s weekly show airs on WITF, the NPR affiliate in Harrisburg, Pa. You can listen to the conversation here.

Here in Lancaster, I’m speaking at a local synagogue. No need to be Jewish to attend; everybody’s welcome. Join us Monday, May 16, 7 p.m. ET. The event is also being filmed via Zoom; contact me (kimodonnel@substack.com) for the link + log-in details.

Lots of folks are asking if I’m returning to Poland. The answer is: I’m thinking about it. I’m brainstorming with a dear colleague and I promise to share updates as I have them.

I leave you with this number: 21,000.

That’s how many sandwiches we made the week of April 25.

My volunteer pals who stayed last week report that they made even more, just under 30K.

More and soon.

Peace, love and lentils,

KOD

It’s 4:30 in the morning. I’m at the Krakow airport, not yet caffeinated and second in line to check in. In front of me is a man, probably in his twenties. He’s standing at the counter with a large white dog, lying at his feet, and two animal crates, one containing a cat.

The trio is headed to Dublin, via Amsterdam. The airline agent asks the guy for all kinds of paperwork. He is visibly stressed, rifling through his bag for the required documents. Out comes a dog bowl and a bag of dog food.

The agent announces she needs to step away and make a photocopy of one of his documents. The spoiled impatient American in me is rolling my eyes and starting to fret.

The agent returns several minutes later. She needs more documentation.

They have words.

“But I am from Ukraine,” he said.

But he is from Ukraine, I say to myself, and this is why this is a shit show of a check in.

But for this young man, this is the war rippling into the Krakow airport like pounding rain rushing into a gutter. This is the war that goes with him wherever he goes, just like the Jon Kabat-Zinn aphorism, wearing his heart on his dog hair-covered jacket sleeve, with no possession other than that dog bowl in the knapsack. This is the war that never sleeps and lives until someone makes it fucking stop.

Another agent motions me to the adjacent desk. While she checks me in, I walk over to him, where I see all the dog hairs up close.

I wish you all the best.

Thank you. I’m going to need it. His eyes got leaky.

I went back to my regularly scheduled program of being an American with preferred seating and my only concern that I have time for a cup of coffee before boarding.

I’m in 3F, a window seat on the right side of the plane, the same side as the cargo hold. I watch the baggage handlers loading bags. A few minutes later, a station wagon arrives. The dispatcher opens the hatchback and loads two animal crates onto the belt. It’s the big white dog and its feline companion. The dog is visibly shaking.

At the beginning of this trip, I introduced you to Marek, my introduction to Poland. He’s the one who taught me that “the war is here.” As I put in my ear plugs and readied myself for a transatlantic jouney back to the States, I hear Marek’s words.

The war is here.

In a cargo hold.

In this pressurized cabin about to take off for Amsterdam. And in Dublin, where this young man and his companions will land for who knows how long.

Wherever we go there we are, and for as long as the senseless war continues, so too does it pack a bag. We must not forget, even when we get weary of headlines. We must not un-see the dog hairs on the black jacket at the airline counter. We must hold space for as long as it takes.

Note: I am back in the United States and finishing up posts that I began writing while still in Poland.

The days in the WCK field kitchen have been long, leaving little time to explore Przemysl. But when I heard about the farmers market in the center of town, I knew I had to make the time.

Those who know me know that the farmers market — no matter the location — is my happy place. The farmers market is a sign of life. It’s where neighbors meet and exchange gossip and recipes. It’s where you get the first whiff of spring onions and summer basil. It’s where you can strike up a conversation with the person who grew that basil and get the scoop on the tomato harvest. It’s where you can always get grounded and feel a smidge of hope, even on the darkest day, even in a war.

To satisfy my curiosity, I skipped coffee one morning and made a quick detour before heading to work. Sure enough, there were signs of spring, with lettuces, leafy herbs and radishes front and center. Locals were shopping for supper, making stops for bread and living

Then I went in search of coffee, something that is hard to come by in this lovely town, at least for that first morning cup. (A different story at 5 in the afternoon, when there are multiple options, but no matter.) I stumbled upon a stand, where I practiced my “Dzien dobry” (good morning) on the owner, a woman named Bozena. She immediately told me she spoke English and we became friends in about 45 seconds. While she steamed milk for my espresso, Bozena (pronounced Bor-jana) asked about my time here and smiled wide when I told her I was cooking for displaced Ukrainians.

She also happens to be married to the mayor. In recent weeks, her husband, Wojciech Bakun, has been overseeing the massive flux of refugees into Przemysl and thrown into the limelight. You can watch his interview with Scott Pelley of “60 Minutes” here.

As I told my pal Peter about my market adventure, he said he made a discovery of his own — a closet-sized bakery in the center of town. They’re baking bread in a brick oven, he said. There are copper bowls and loaves with seeds and it’s kind of magical.

Before getting an early dinner at Cuda Wianki, my new home away from home, we went next door to have a peek. We lucked out; it was open. And I kinda fell in love with her.

There was no English-Polish overlap, so we used Google Translate to share our enthusiasm. We told her clumsily we were cooks.

No cook, she said. Baker.

Yes, yes you are, madame.

I grabbed a bag of buckwheat flour wafer cookies off a wooden hutch and a half-dozen of these chocolate crinkle-like cake lovelies for good measure. I added my payment of 12 zloty in a shallow basket on the counter next to a “self-serve” placard. I just wanted to stay and watch her, but she would be having none of that.

There’s no way to forget that a war is going on, less than a half hour away. But meeting these women is my reminder to appreciate these little moments that make life not only interesting but worth waking up for. Even when so many others are suffering.

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Note: I am back in the United States and finishing up posts that I began writing while still in Poland.

If you’ve ever worked in a kitchen, you know it’s kind of like of being in the circus. There are performers and non-conformers, jugglers and fire breathers, mental gymnasts, a designated DJ and a ringleader. It’s one of the most intimate places you’ll ever be with a bunch of strangers.

The thing is, that kind of synergy takes time to build. It may never happen. And once in a while, the kitchen strikes gold, and you get a mix of humans that synch up, like the best salad, perfectly dressed. In many ways, that salad effect took place this week. Fifteen or so random strangers from all walks of life flew thousands of miles to southeastern Poland but with a common purpose — to cook for people who have been forced from their homes, their communities, their country.

We are district judges and airline pilots, school principals and private chefs, nonprofit execs and former military. Here’s a sampler of this week’s cast and crew:

Rick is a surfer and a pastor based in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, where he’s known as The Surfing Pastor. He’s been in Poland for a month, biking 5 miles each way to work.

Michelle is married to Paul. For decades, they owned a popular seafood restaurant in Saco, Maine that had been in his family for 52 years; they sold it in 2020. While Paul worked the “hot side,” Michelle, along with Rick, became the Dream Team of sandwich wrappers.

Nick — whom I dubbed “Young Nick” — is a singer-songwriter born in Texas and based in Nashville. His mother, who was born in Kiev, is a physician, and volunteered at the border village in Medyka, Poland, while Nick was with us in the kitchen.

Peter is co-owner of Saul’s Deli, a Jewish deli in Berkeley, Calif. He is in the process of handing the business over to the next generation and spending more time out in the world like he’s doing in Poland.

Marsha, of Kansas City, Missouri, is in her fifth week and plans to stay for another seven. She’s raised more than $27,000 to buy supplies, from cell phones to fabric bolts for women in Ukraine hand sewing bullet-proof vests.

Jeff works in film, as a writer, director and special effects guy. He is about to finish up a month-long stint. He liked keeping everyone informed of how many crates of sandwiches we filled (and how many more we had to go).

Bob is a retired engineer for General Motors (he architected the Ford Focus Electric), who may have packed a few family-sized jars of Jif in his suitcase.

Julia is an American chef living in the UK with a masters in refugee studies. She’s been in Poland for a month and plans to stay until her money runs out.

Note: I am back in the United States and finishing up posts that I began writing while still in Poland.

The main rail station in Przemysl is just a cobblestoned block from the studio apartment I have called home over the past week-plus. Every morning on my walk to the WCK field kitchen, I pass through the station’s pedestrian tunnel. Most days, I enjoy a concert from a busker playing the accordion.

I pass the steps leading up to Platform 4, the very platform where the trains arrive from Ukraine. In the early weeks of the war, more than 350,000 Ukrainians came to Przemysl on one of those trains, packed to the gills. It’s the first stop away from the country they were forced to leave behind.

These days, there are three such trains — one at 5 a.m., one at 8 p.m. and one in early afternoon. Due to heightened security and crowded conditions, trains are frequently delayed, or maybe not show up at all. The journey from Kiev — 2.5 hours before the war — may now take as long as 12.

After disembarking, new arrivals queue up outside of the immigration and customs building. Just a few hundred feet away is a WCK tent, open 24 hours, where they can sit, get a bite to eat and a warm welcome.

It’s Saturday night and I join the night crew to help receive arrivals on the 8 o’clock train. Clint, a retiree from Lafayette, Louisiana, is the first one to greet me. For nearly two weeks, he’s been working the 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. shift. When I asked him why he came all this way, Clint said this: “I was tired of yelling at the television. At least this way I can help the people I’m so upset about.”

Clint showed me the ropes on the coffee and tea station. I quickly learn that the word for tea is “chai” and coffee is “kawa.” There’s a bowl of cookies and squares of a carrot snacking cake. A crowd forms just before nine.

While I serve hot drinks, Laura (who speaks Polish) and Yuliana (who speaks Ukrainian) work the panini press. Alla, a native Ukrainian speaker, is handling the hot food. We are set.

One of my first customers is a boy traveling with his family. He asks for chai. He knows as much English as I do Ukrainian. But somehow we communicate. He manages to tell me he’s 12. His name is Nazar. He and his family are going to Britain. He asks for a second cup of chai. He points to the cake. Can he have more please. He reminds me of Loren, my special 11-year-old pal in Seattle.

Where am I from, he wants to know. He smiles when I tell him America.

When it’s time to go, he comes back.

“Thank you.”

No, Nazar. Thank you.

A group of us went to the Ukrainian border yesterday in Medyka, Poland. It’s about about eight miles from Przemysl, but at about mile 7, the line of trucks headed to Ukraine begins. The line is not moving. It might take a few days to cross.

We drive through this small, bucolic village until we arrive at a muddy field to park. We walk for a few hundred feet until we approach a walkway to passport control. That walkway has morphed into a tent city, for lack of a better word. Relief agencies from around the world have set up shop, offering everything from food and clothing to temporary shelter and baby strollers.

We caught up with our World Central Kitchen cohorts manning two different tents — one for some of the hot food we cooked earlier that day…..

…and another grab-and-go tent with those ham and cheese sandwiches I wrote about here.

We cooks, who have been holed up in a warehouse, were able to see the food we had prepared actively being distributed, giving much-needed context to why we are here in the first place.

I leave you today with this final vignette.

As we make our way back to the car, I lock eyes with a babushka with piercing blue eyes and a hair coming out of her chin. I place my hands on her shoulders. She is taken aback.

“Valentir?” she asks. [Volunteer?]

I nod yes.

She points her finger at her chest.

“Ukraine.”

I do the same.

“America.”

“Dyakuyu,” she says. [thank you]

I give her a bear hug.

While my eyes flood with tears, Peter and Michelle take my place and give her more hugs.

I can hardly see straight.

For the “cold side” kitchen volunteers, our days include a mix of prep — peeling and chopping massive amounts of uncooked vegetables — and making ham and cheese sandwiches.

Designed by WCK founder José Andrés himself, the sandwich was conceived as a real-food alternative to the government-issued MREs (meals, ready-to-eat) in Puerto Rico after Hurricane Maria. The bun, at least the one in Poland, is about 3 inches tall, with an English muffin-style bottom and a pillowy burger-style top.

WCK has partnered with a bakery (piekarnia in Polish) in Przemysl to bake several thousand buns daily for this massive sandwich-building operation. Tucked inside the bun is a generous two-to-one ratio of ham to cheese. But what really sets this sandwich apart from any other ham-and-cheese on the planet is the sauce. A mix of mayo, ketchup, mustard and maybe dried herbs, the sauce is added twice via a pastry bag. It has multiple functions, including: keeping the sandwich moist, adding emergency calories and elevating flavor.

On average, our group is making about 3,000 sandwiches daily. By the end of Thursday, we cranked out 12, 258 sandwiches. For this kind of volume, an assembly line is critical. Everyone has a job, from laying down rolls to cutting plastic wrap.

The work is harder than it looks. It’s repetitive, physically grueling and tedious. It’s messy. Move left to right, keep it going. There’s the business of ham juice dripping from the package and getting the sauce in the middle of the bun. And yet, this mind-numbing assembly is mission critical to providing sustenance to people in crisis.

Yulia, a fellow sandwich maker, tells me that the word for bun in Ukrainian is bulochka.

And in her native Ukraine, the bulochka provides. It is a symbol of comfort, maybe even security. It’s what kids want for a snack.

There is power in the bun, she says.

Born and raised in Kharkiv, Yulia, 31, lives in New York, working as an accountant. Her parents remain in their apartment in Kharkiv, refusing to leaving their home, their city, their country.

I’m hoping they have access to a few good buns.

I woke up to the news that Russia’s state-run gas company had halted shipments of natural gas to Poland and Bulgaria, as an eff-you to their support of Ukraine. Here in Poland, the shut-off translates into just under half of its natural gas consumption, mostly for heating and cooking, according to this New York Times story.

It remains unclear how this latest move by the Kremlin will impact the cost of natural gas throughout Europe. But the news rattled me, as it’s one more reminder of the unpredictability — and proximity of this war.

As volunteers cooking for Ukrainian victims of war, we arrive each morning without a heads up on the menu or that day’s to-do list. We are happy to do what we’re told because we are united in our mission to feed Ukraine for as long as it takes.

But I must admit I felt like I caught a break when I was asked to chop a few ten-pound bags of onions.

It’s true; chopping onions makes me cry, every single time. The sulfur compounds inevitably make their way into my clothes and in my hair, resulting in a wretched perfume. And yet, I get grounded with an onion as if I were on my yoga mat. When raw, it’s sharp, but when gently cooked in butter, oil or bacon fat, it mellows into sweet jam. It is happy to be the lead actor in a dish or be part of a supporting cast. And it reminds me, every time, of its power of simplicity.

When we chop onions, we are scratch cooking, even if it’s dinner for a few thousand. We are creating a temporary oasis. We are not thinking about the headlines and the death and destruction of war. With onions, we are starting anew.

Then gather 12 of your new friends around a 63-inch paella pan and with all 24 hands, mash the bananas into a chunky puree. Make small talk while you give your fingers a really good workout.

Stir the batter with an oar in yet another ginormous paella pan until smooth and well mixed. Then portion into parchment-lined hotel pans.

Bake until golden and slice into 2,700 servings, give or take a few dozen.

It’s that easy.

Say Shemish. Then quickly add a soft “l” at the end. That’s the guidance I got for pronouncing Przemysl, a small river town in southeastern Poland less than 10 miles from the Ukrainian border. For a small town — with a population of about 60,000 — “Shemish-l” is anything but quiet these days. For nearly three million Ukrainian refugees to date, Przemysl has been the first stop after crossing the border into Poland; the trains are coming from Lviv, about 70 miles away. Bus, too.

As soon as passengers disembark, there’s food, supplies and help at the ready inside the train station. What was once a shopping center has morphed into a hub for humanitarian aid. Hotel rooms are hard to come by because relief workers and volunteers like myself are filling them.

This is a quick note, as I need to get some overdue sleep. Along with about 30 volunteers from all over the United States, I started my shift today at World Central Kitchen. Some ten, maybe 12, were dispatched to various feeding centers, including the border, and the rest of us made ham and cheese sandwiches. About three thousand of them. More on that and the merry sandwich brigade united in our mission to feed body, mind and spirit. Night night.

That’s what my friend Marek said (meet him here) as we walked through the main train station in Krakow a few days ago. He pointed out the food pantry (pictured above) and temporary shelter for Ukrainian women and children who have no place to go. There are volunteers from various agencies and security detail keeping close watch.

Once he said those three words, I began seeing for myself just what he was talking about. Signs of war were everywhere, and not just the banners hanging on terraces like this one…

…or blackboards outside bars like this one….

…or even rallies and heart-felt speeches in the Rynek Główny (Main Market Square) in Old Town like this one…

I’m thinking of the young woman in the train station, maybe in her twenties, who was struggling with her suitcase as she tried pulling it up a flight of stairs. I lent a hand, then patted her arm. She began to cry. So did I. She turned away and joined the line for supplies.

I’m thinking of the three boys, maybe brothers, who threw a bouncy ball against a low wall several feet from the World Central Kitchen tent outside of the train station, presumably to pass the endless hours of unknowing and uncertainty.

I’m thinking of the sound of chanting I heard from my hotel window, coming from the Orthodox Christian church just a few hundred feet away. It was midnight, the first moment of Orthodox Easter. People gathered in the street, holding candles. Some carried baskets filled with provisions for the priest would bless. The priest looked down at the crowd from a second-floor window of the church. They sang and chanted well into the night, maybe until around three.

When Marek came to meet me for breakfast around nine, a new, even larger group of worshippers emerged, standing in the rain in a line that extended for several blocks. We marvelled at the massive crowd (pictured above) and then it occurred to Marek: Orthodox Christianity is the dominant faith in Ukraine (not Poland, which is majority Catholic). Faith is one of the few things Ukrainians have left. This is why they stand in the rain waiting for their baskets to be blessed and for a glimmer of hope that one day soon, this horror will end.

But for now, the war is here.

(For a deeper dive on Orthodox Christiantity within the context of war, I recommend reading this great explainer in The Washington Post.)

This is Marek.

He’s a scholar deep in thought, a writer on deadline and an all-around mensch. He’s also my introduction to Poland.

Marek and I have mutual friends in Roanoke, Va. who have a knack for collecting interesting and big-hearted people. As soon as he got word that I was flying to Krakow, he got right to work arranging my hotel and was at the ready answering my many pre-travel questions.

Just as promised, there he was, waiting in the arrivals area at the airport, ready to take me on a Krakow adventure. We arrived at the main train station in Krakow, just a few blocks from my hotel in the famously historic area known as Old Town. As we walked through the station, Marek pointed out the service areas for Ukrainian refugees, including a shelter, a food pantry and hot food. The long line, comprised of women and children, was my introduction to the war in Ukraine. (As of April 22, more than 2.8 million Ukrainians have fled to Poland since February 24 , according to the United Nations Refugee Agency.)

After hotel check-in, we set out on foot in search of lunch. He had an old favorite in mind, a homey spot called Jadlodajnia U Stasi, just a few blocks away. He wasn’t sure if the restaurant had survived the pandemic, but sure enough, the tiny yellow dining room was full of locals slurping on soup and tucking into pierogis. Of course we followed their lead, and to drink, I had my first-ever cup of kompot, a lightly sweetened fruit juice.

Before the pandemic, Marek ran his own business as a tour guide specializing in the renowned historic area known as Old Town. As we walked through the cobbled streets, he shared historical tidbits and what I could see as a deep love for his town of 20 years.

A few months ago, I left my full-time food writing job to figure out what's next. A few creative projects have percolated, for which I'm grateful, but I'm also called to do something that is bigger than me, bigger than all of us. So in a few weeks, I am taking my cooking skills on the road, headed to Poland to volunteer with World Central Kitchen.

Founded by chef Jose Andres in 2010 in response to the devastating earthquake in Haiti, WCK is an amazing nonprofit that responds to worldwide disasters with food. Almost as soon as Russian forces invaded Ukraine, WCK has been a stalwart presence inside Ukraine and in Poland, where more than 2 million refugees have fled (according to the United Nations Refugee Agency), feeding people who have been displaced and who have no idea if they will have a home to return to. 

Preparing the simplest of dishes — a bowl of oatmeal, a fried egg, a cheese sandwich — is arguably the stuff of magic, even when we do it for ourselves. Now imagine all the fairy dust that gets sprinkled when a whole bunch of cooks come together and feed those who cannot feed themselves. It’s the thing that keeps hope alive, even in the darkest, most horrid moments.

For a minute, as I contemplated this trip, I wondered how my efforts could make a dent in the abyss of war. But then my friend Grace Young, who has been tirelessly raising awareness and money for AAPI communities across America, reminded me of this saying from the late great Desmond Tutu: “Do your little bit of good where you are; it’s those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world.”

In other words, we can make a difference, crumb by crumb. And this is why I'm going. 

As I embark on this adventure, I am finally giving birth to a Substack account that I created a few years ago and had ignored. Watch here for updates, random thoughts and other tidbits. Feel free to post your thoughts in the comments, or send me a note when the mood strikes or just because.

Keep the spirit of cooking alive. Keep the people of Ukraine in your thoughts.