Heavy, sour, smoked and slow. Polish cooking was built for long winters and short growing seasons, and it never really stopped being built that way.
Sauerkraut, fresh cabbage, mushrooms and whatever meat there is, cooked down for hours. It is better on the second day and better still on the third.
Soured with fermented rye flour, poured into a hollowed loaf, with white sausage and half a boiled egg. Easter breakfast, and a hangover cure the rest of the year.
Pounded thin, breaded, fried in butter, served with potatoes and dill. This is what Sunday dinner at a grandmother's house looks like.
Deep red, sharp and clear rather than creamy. On Christmas Eve it arrives in a cup with tiny uszka dumplings floating in it.
Pressed in a carved wooden mould, brined, then smoked over spruce in the Tatra mountains. Sold grilled with cranberry jam. Protected by EU origin law.
Made with twaróg, not cream cheese, so it is drier and more crumbly than the American kind. Often with raisins, which people have strong opinions about.
Most of them are older than the church calendar they got attached to. Water, fire, grain and wax — pre-Christian habits wearing saints' names.
Everybody throws water at everybody. Buckets, hoses, water guns from a balcony. No one is exempt and there is no way to opt out.
Midsummer. Girls float flower wreaths with candles down the river; whoever fishes one out downstream is supposed to be the match.
The end of the harvest. A crown woven from the last grain is carried in, and the village eats outdoors on long tables.
Fortune-telling night. Hot wax is poured through a keyhole into cold water and the shadow of the shape it makes is read for your future.
Twelve meatless dishes, and nobody starts until the first star is seen. A place is laid for an unexpected guest, and everyone shares the opłatek wafer.
Poland spent 123 years not existing on any map, and came back twice. That fact explains most of the rest of the country.
Mieszko I is baptised. Historians treat this as the birth certificate of the Polish state.
The Union of Krewo ties Poland to Lithuania by marriage, creating a European heavyweight.
The Union of Lublin makes it formal: one elected king, one parliament, two nations.
The first codified national constitution in Europe, and the second in the world after the USA.
The third partition. Russia, Prussia and Austria divide the country and Poland leaves the map for 123 years.
11 November. Independence is restored at the end of the First World War. It is still the national holiday.
Germany from the west on 1 September, the Soviet Union from the east on the 17th. The Second World War starts here.
Partly free elections in June. Solidarity takes almost every seat it is allowed to contest, and the bloc starts to come apart.
Seven grammatical cases, three genders and no words for “the” or “a”. The spelling looks impossible and is actually almost perfectly regular — every letter is always said the same way.
W Szczebrzeszynie chrząszcz brzmi w trzcinie.
Poland has five officially national dances. Four of them are in triple time, which is why so much Polish music sounds like it is leaning forward.
Slow, stately, walked rather than danced. It opens formal balls and every school leavers' ball in the country, exactly a hundred days before the exams.
Fast, proud and full of heel clicks and stamps. The national anthem is written in its rhythm.
The only one in duple time. Syncopated, jumping, danced in the peacock-feather hats you see on every postcard from Kraków.
The slow, sad one. Swaying and lyrical, usually played as the calm before an oberek breaks out.
The fastest of the five. Constant turning, lifts and drops to the floor. The name comes from obracać się — to spin around.
Born 1810 near Warsaw, left at twenty and never came back. He wrote around 58 mazurkas and 16 polonaises — folk dances rebuilt as concert music. He is buried in Paris, but his heart was smuggled back to Warsaw in a jar of cognac and sealed into a pillar of the Church of the Holy Cross, where it still is.