Scalloped Portobello Mushrooms — The Recipe Card I Held to My Chest

The funeral was on Tuesday. St. Josaphat Basilica. The same church where Babcia went every Sunday of her life, where Mom was baptized, where I was baptized, where the Kowalski family has worshipped for four generations. I was a pallbearer. For the second time in my life. The first was Danny, at seventeen. Now Babcia, at twenty-one. The coffin was light — she was so small at the end — but I carried it like it weighed the world because it did. The entire Bay View Polish community came. The pews were full. People I hadn't seen in years. People from the Polish Center. The woman from the pierogi class who'd helped me learn. Mrs. Wojcik was there, the patient old woman who'd taught me technique. She held my hand after the service and said, "She was so proud of you, Jake. She told everyone." Babcia told everyone. I didn't know that. She never told me she was proud. She told me my dough was too thick. She told me to add more dill. She told me the pierogi were "almost right" and then, at the end, "right" and then, at the very end, "good." That was her love language. Not praise. Precision. The love was in the teaching, not the applause. The reception at the Polish Center was catered with Polish food. Pierogi, gołąbki, bigos, kielbasa, barszcz. I couldn't eat any of it. It all tasted like Babcia's cooking but wasn't Babcia's cooking, and the gap between the two was unbearable. Dad spoke at the funeral. Tom Kowalski, who has never said more than four words at a time in his life, stood at the podium and said: "Helen made this family. She fed us. She taught us. She loved us the way she loved her food — completely, without reservation, and always with more dill." The whole church laughed. Dad's voice cracked on the last sentence. He sat down. Mom held his hand. That was the most I've ever heard my father say, and he said it perfectly. I didn't speak. I couldn't. Kowalski men carry things. But some things are too heavy for words. I went home that night and pulled out Babcia's recipe cards. Forty-seven cards. I spread them on the kitchen table and looked at them — her handwriting, her mother's handwriting, the grease stains, the worn edges. These are mine now. This is the inheritance. I picked up the mushroom soup card — the original, the one she gave me for my birthday. And I read it, in her mother's handwriting, in Polish that I can only half-decipher. And I held it to my chest and I cried. Not silently. Not the Kowalski way. I cried the way Babcia told me to — out loud, without shame, putting it down for a minute before picking it up again. Good, Jakub. That's good.

The mushroom soup card was the one I kept coming back to — Babcia’s original, the one she gave me for my birthday, in her mother’s handwriting, in Polish I can only half-read. Mushrooms meant something in her kitchen: they were the base of bigos, the filling she’d sometimes tuck into pierogi on meatless Fridays, the smell that meant she was cooking something serious. I couldn’t make her soup that night — not yet, not without losing it completely — but I needed to do something with my hands, something that honored that card without trying to replicate what I’m not ready to replicate. These scalloped portobellos aren’t Babcia’s recipe. But they’re made in her spirit: simple ingredients, layered with care, nothing wasted, more dill than you think you need.

Scalloped Portobello Mushrooms

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 35 minutes | Total Time: 50 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

• 4 large portobello mushroom caps, stems removed and wiped clean
• 3 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided
• 1 medium yellow onion, thinly sliced
• 3 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 tablespoon fresh dill, chopped (plus more to finish)
• 1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
• 1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
• Salt and black pepper to taste
• 1 cup heavy cream
• 1/2 cup sour cream
• 3/4 cup shredded Gruyère or sharp white cheddar
• 1/4 cup grated Parmesan
• 1/2 cup plain breadcrumbs
• 1 tablespoon olive oil

Instructions

1. Preheat and prepare. Preheat your oven to 375°F. Lightly grease a 9x13-inch baking dish with butter or cooking spray. Slice the portobello caps into 1/2-inch strips and set aside.
2. Sauté the aromatics. In a large skillet over medium heat, melt 2 tablespoons of the butter. Add the sliced onion and cook, stirring occasionally, for 8–10 minutes until softened and beginning to caramelize. Add the garlic and cook 1 minute more until fragrant.
3. Cook the mushrooms. Add the portobello strips to the skillet, season with salt, pepper, smoked paprika, and thyme. Cook for 5–6 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the mushrooms have released their liquid and the pan is mostly dry. Stir in the fresh dill.
4. Build the cream sauce. Reduce heat to low. Stir in the heavy cream and sour cream, scraping up any browned bits from the pan. Simmer gently for 3 minutes until the sauce is slightly thickened. Remove from heat and stir in the Gruyère.
5. Transfer and top. Pour the mushroom mixture into the prepared baking dish and spread evenly. In a small bowl, combine the breadcrumbs, Parmesan, olive oil, and remaining tablespoon of melted butter. Mix until the crumbs are evenly coated, then scatter over the top of the mushroom mixture.
6. Bake. Bake uncovered for 20–22 minutes, until the top is golden and the sauce is bubbling at the edges. If you want a deeper crust, run it under the broiler for 2–3 minutes at the end — watch it closely.
7. Rest and finish. Let the dish rest for 5 minutes before serving. Scatter fresh dill generously over the top. Serve alongside crusty bread or as a side to kielbasa or roasted chicken.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 420 | Protein: 13g | Fat: 33g | Carbs: 18g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 480mg