Io, Saturnalia!

OTTAWA — This year's winter solstice — an event that will occur next Tuesday — will coincide with a full lunar eclipse in a union that hasn't been seen in 456 years.
The celestial eccentricity holds special significance for spiritualities that tap into the energy of the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year and a time that is associated with the rebirth of the sun.” (This from the Montreal Gazette, addenda’d below.)

Wow. That’s today.

The last time that happened was 1554 say some sources; NASA says 1638. I prefer to go with 1554, since I will experience something not experienced since Cosimo I experienced this, that is if he experienced it. Cosimo might’ve been clueless, as he was busy taking over Siena. The last time the solstice and a lunar eclipse occurred, Cellini was putting the finishing touches on his Perseus. Or maybe he was already in the Loggia dei Lanzi. Perseus, that is.

Then I thought about the Saturnalia, wherein ancient Romans would have been whooping it up an even longer time ago. Was this feasting tied into the shortest days of the year merging into the beginning of more light?

Says the sometimes reliable Wikipedia: “Saturnalia was introduced around 217 BCE to raise citizen morale after a crushing military defeat at the hands of the Carthaginians.[1] Originally celebrated for a day, on December 17, its popularity saw it grow until it became a week-long extravaganza, ending on the 23rd. Efforts to shorten the celebration were unsuccessful. Augustus tried to reduce it to three days, and Caligula to five. These attempts caused uproar and massive revolts among the Roman citizens.”

It sounds a whole lot like Christmas, doesn’t it? Though we’re not sacrificing much of anything (unless you count spending a lot of money which you don’t necessarily have on presents) and the Romans surely did (probably the obligatory and unimaginative ram), Saturnalia involved giving presents, allowing gambling (even for slaves), Saturnalia, continues wikipedia.org, “ was a time to eat, drink, and be merry. The toga was not worn, but rather the synthesis, i.e. colorful, informal "dinner clothes"; and the pileus (freedman's hat) was worn by everyone. Slaves were exempt from punishment, and treated their masters with (a pretense of) disrespect … The customary greeting for the occasion is a "Io, Saturnalia!" — Io (pronounced "e-o") being a Latin interjection related to "ho," or less quaintly today, “yo” (as in "Ho/Yo, praise to Saturn").”

Why praise Saturn? Because he was the god of agriculture. He also was the father of Zeus, and failed to eat him (as he did most of his other children, fearing that he would be usurped) because Mother Earth (Gaia) put a stone in the swaddling clothes which Saturn duly swallowed. Zeus lived to tell the tale, and to enact a lot of his own misdeeds.

I continue to rip off/quote wiki: Seneca the Younger wrote about Rome during the Saturnalia around 50 a.d./c.e. (Sen. epist. 18,1-2): “It is now the month of December, when the greatest part of the city is in a bustle. Loose reins are given to public dissipation; everywhere you may hear the sound of great preparations, as if there were some real difference between the days devoted to Saturn and those for transacting business... Were you here, I would willingly confer with you as to the plan of our conduct; whether we should eve in our usual way, or, to avoid singularity, both take a better supper and throw off the toga.”

Richard Cohen, in an op-ed piece in yesterday’s International Herald Tribune remarks: “Thus, although the New Testament gives no indication of Christ’s actual birthday (early writers preferring a spring date), in 354 Pope Liberius declared it to have befallen on Dec. 25. The advantages of Christmas Day being celebrated then were obvious. As the Christian commentator Syrus wrote: “It was a custom of the pagans to celebrate on the same Dec. 25th the birthday of the sun, at which they kindled lights in token of festivity …”

Throw off the toga! Our plan of conduct? To eat and drink to excess. Except.

It might be the shortest day of the year, it might be a feast fit for the gods, except that it’s a pretty grim day on the Roman Catholic calendar. Ten saints are feted on the 21st of December: St. Peter Canisius, Bl. Adrian, St. Anastasius XII, St. Andrew Dung Lac, St. Themistoeles, St. Severinus, St. Glycerius, St. Honoratus of Toulouse, St.John and Festus, and St. John Vincent. Peter Canisius (1521-1597) spooked for the Vatican, toting heaving tomes of Catholic doctrine into Luther-filled zones; Bl. Adrian, who lived sometime in the 13th century, was executed with 27 others in Dalmatia by Muslims; Anastasius XII, patriarch of Antioch, might’ve been killed by Syrian Jews about 609 a.d./c.e.; Andrew Dung Lac, canonized in 1988, was martyred in Vietnam in 1839 and recently-ish canonized in 1988; St. Themistoeles, in Nicodemia, was martyred in 253 a.d./c.e., St. Severinus, bishop of Trier, around 300, with “No details of his labors are available” (one tends to think of Hercules at such moments), St. Honorius of Toulouse, 3rd century religious guy, seemingly escaped being martyred, St. John and Festus – this sounded promising – martyrs of Tuscany, “Their Acta are no longer extant”; St. John Vincent, a 7th century bishop and hermit (one wonders how he pulled that off – bishop and hermit? Kind of like a baby grand piano).

Had been hoping that, of those 10 saints honored on this day, at least one of them would be associated with something celebratory, something festive. But NO. At least half of them were possibly martyred. The most promising of the group was “St. John and Festus” – as “festus” suggests “festa” and “festival” and all sorts of good things. But again : NO. Virtually nothing’s known about this duo; even the go-to- www.santiebeati.it showed zip for these two so-called Tuscan martyrs.

Obviously, a most joy-less bunch in this period of joy.

"For see, winter is past, the rains are over and gone. Flowers are appearing on the earth. The season of glad songs has come, the cooing of the turtledove is heard in our land."

Merry Christmas/Buon Natale/Here comes the sun …

ADDENDA

For the rest of the article, go to http://www.montrealgazette.com/life/Solstice+eclipse+overlap+first+years/3983582/story.html#ixzz18Y6Wwy5P

Richard Cohen, “There goes the sun,” International Herald Tribune, December 20, 2010.

Italians often play Tombola on Christmas day. It’s a whole lot like Bingo, only funner [sic]. Sometimes $ is exchanged, as it will be at our house this year. So I guess you could say we’re running – if only for a day – a gambling den.

List of ten saints for December 21st from www.catholic.org.

Song of Songs 2:11-12

Photograph of the Mistress of Deportment (Georgia), Tillie, and Santa Paws … a long, long time ago.

Not about the broth

Every year, weeks before the day, we discuss what to eat for Christmas lunch. This is the subject of intense scrutiny and, often, of heated debate (well, not really heated, but it makes it all sound somewhat more exciting, no?). We decided to do the fish thing on Christmas Eve, which is what Italians tend to do (more on that in an imminent post).

We decided to mix it up on Christmas day: a little bit Italian, a little bit English (five are half English, and it’s this half of the group that truly thrills to the Christmas pudding and brandy butter concluding the meal). The rest of us – a German, a Russian, and several Americans – do not see what all the fuss is about.

(Hopefully, Florentine Sister (herself half Danish) will attend, but serious canine issues need to be worked out – like, this place isn’t big enough for six adult dogs & three wee puppers.)

The starter (which will happen after the pre-starter, recipe below) will be tortellini in brodo to be followed by roast beef (rosbif, for those of us who live in Italy) with Yorkshire pudding. Marina, Muscovite chum, brings a herring dish which, she assures us, is one of the heaviest holiday dishes Russia has to offer.

Decided to make the broth over the weekend and freeze it. Typically a capon serves as the backbone of this stock, but nary a one was to be found in our local supermarket (presumably other Italian casalinghe – housewives – had the same idea).

Eight pounds of assorted chicken backs/chicken wings/beef bones/turkey legs/ one whole chicken were placed in a large stockpot; the concoction was meant to come to a very slow boil whereupon various condiments (the typical stuff you throw into a stock when making one) were to be added. We put the pot on the wood-burning stove which, after a couple of hours, we decided was really too slow a boil. Even Artusi, who wrote that to make a good broth it’s necessary to place the meat in cold water and to bring it to a boil slowly slowly and never let it spill from boiling “mettere la carne ad acqua diaccia e far bollire la pentola adagino adagino e che non trabocchi mai” would surely have nodded his be-toque’d hat in agreement. So back on the gas stove it went.

Many, many hours later we put the broth outside – lidded, of course – to cool down. It’s since been kind of successfully drained (will have to apply the egg white process pre-serving it in order to remove various residue), put in Italian Tupperware, and frozen. We’ll make the tortellini this weekend, and freeze them as well (thereby freeing up our hands for more important things on the day like holding cups of egg nog and hanging out with our friends).

A messy operation, this whole broth business. Every time I do it I wonder why I do. The Senior Pups got the dregs from the beef bones, and the pretty-much-tasteless fowl products went into tonight’s chili.

A few months ago, Averardo, the Scallion’s urbane gourmet cousin, remarked that he found it a tragedy that tomatoes and olio nuovo (new olive oil, that of the first pressing) didn’t happen seasonally at the same time: tomatoes peak from July to mid-September, and olio nuovo’s pretty much a November thing. Imagine eating a tomato freshly picked from your very own vine (or someone else’s) and drowning it in olio nuovo with a pinch of sea salt! Or imagine eating insalata caprese (mozzarella di bufala, basil, and tomatoes) with olio nuovo.

Recently, I read something shocking in “Tables for Two” in the New Yorker. Reviewing a new restaurant called il Matto in Manhattan, Andrea K. Scott writes, “The tired combination of mozzarella, tomato, and basil is refreshed as a velvety buffalo-cheese soup, served with a dollop of tomato ice and herb-dusted crostini.”

TIRED COMBINATION??? Let me quote the good Dr. Johnson who said, “No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.” (Unless you're lactose intolerant), substitute insalata caprese for London, and bring on the morphine drip for Ms./Mr. Scott! She (I assume she’s a she, unless he’s Italian, at which point ‘Andrea’ names a he) has evidently never had a proper insalata caprese; otherwise, she/he would never pen such a blasphemous thought. “Velvety buffalo-cheese soup?” Oh, my. Tomatoes in November? Oh, my, my. How would they taste of anything (unless, of course, the chef has studied with Ferran Adria and has infused that tomato ice with essence of tomato via blow-torch chemistry lab technique)? I digress …

For true fans of a properly executed insalata caprese – and we know who we are – there’s nothing like the first one of the season, usually sometime in early July. The cheese is at room temperature (and has been all morning, if it’s not too hot), it mingles with the tomatoes and olive oil … and, in fact, mopping it up with bread or, indeed, drinking the liquid is always the perfect way to finish off the plate. (Perhaps we could call that soup and perhaps it would find a place on the menu at il Matto?)

Now just imagine that with olio nuovo.

The following recipe is a wintry insalata caprese. No basil’s in this because it’s not growing outside right now, but arugula is. It will probably precede the tortellini in brodo.

Insalata caprese d’inverno/Winter Salad from the Isle of Capri

Two large handfuls arugula, spun dry and coarsely chopped
½ lb. freshest mozzarella di bufala, at room temperature, chopped into chunky cubes
¾ c. sundried tomatoes, in oil, drained and chopped
2 T. brine-packed capers
1 T. dried oregano, preferably Greek, perchance Calabrian.
A liberal amount of olio nuovo
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

About a half hour before serving, put the mozzarella di bufala in a bowl, toss liberally with olio nuovo, sea salt, and freshly ground black pepper. Then throw in all the other ingredients, toss, taste for seasoning, and bring the salad – and the bottle of olio nuovo – to table.

This comfortably serves two, with nothing left over for any dog at all.

VARIATION: substitute the sundried tomatoes with green olives, pitted and chopped. It would be even tastier if you could find green olives with garlic, a wee bit of hot peppers, and oregano.

(If you can’t find the best quality mozzarella di bufala, don’t try this at home.)

ADDENDA

Pellegrino Artusi, La Scienza in cucina e l’Arte di mangiar bene, Firenze, 2003. He suggests adding grilled onion to the mix, but cautions: producing wind, this is not for all stomachs “questa essendo ventosa non fa per tutti gli stomachi.” He also thinks broth tastes better if made in a terracotta pot (as opposed to iron or copper).

Review of il Matto in the November 15, 2010 New Yorker. Let the record also show I’m sad I’ll never get a table at El Bulli (www.elbulli.com), and that if I were in Copenhagen, I’d make a dash for Noma (www.noma.dk), if lucky enough to get a table.

For more on S.J.’s witticisms, go to www.samueljohnson.com.

Meatballs

Lactating bitches (what fun to write this not as a hurled insult!) typically start to disengage themselves from their pups when the pups are one month, or a little older. So then people need to get involved in the act by helping wean the pups. Signs that the L.B. is getting to that point are her diminished interest in her pups, longer absences from the Whelping Pool, standing up (rather than lying prone) when feeding them, or sitting in a sort of three-quarter pose (if you can imagine that). The pups make a beeline for her, but her boredom fairly quickly sets in; she stands up, shakes them off, and exits the pool.

If you look at the image at the top, left, I’m sure that many of you know that sculpture well. For those of you who don’t, it’s the She-Wolf suckling the twins Romulus and Remus. Besides the fact that this is a canonical bronze sculpture, a symbol of ancient Rome (see below, however), you can also tell that the She-Wolf Has Had It. And if you look closely, those ain’t no infants she’s suckling – they are beyond toddling stage, given the stance of the twin on the right (years ago at a dinner party in Ithaca, New York, one of the guests -- and this could only happen in a town like Ithaca -- told us that she stopped feeding her child when the latter was four because “I wanted my body back.” Rosie wants her body back; had she chosen the path of that nutbag in Ithaca, she would stop feeding her pups when they were 28).

Various schools of thought abound re: this weaning process, so a few days ago we started pureeing Rosie’s food with high-digestibility milk. Dipped our fingers into it, pups – who are very, very curious (they’re truly coming into their Pupdom), tentatively licked fingers, and then were led to the bowl. Which they gingerly lapped at, though Yip was far more interested in chewing the bowl rather than licking it; Yap, in her excitement, practically nose-dived into the concoction, which made licking it up from the whelping pool all that much easier. Their enthusiasm, however, was not palpable. So we went back to the drawing board, googled “weaning pups” and found someone’s great suggestion to blitz the concoction, and add hot water to the mix. Makes more sense when you think about it, and pups were far more interested.

Maybe because it looked better.

It resembled a brownish ragù, and you could imagine the spaghetti underneath it. Italians don’t do spaghetti and meatballs. They do meatballs, usually small-ish ones (polpettine) or larger ones (polpettone). They are served as a second course, and never with spaghetti, which is always a first course. There’s a big divide on this: when the Sopranos ran on Italian television, an irate Italian -- no doubt appalled by the appearance of spaghetti with gravy -- wrote to the International Herald Tribune ranting about the assault on Italian cuisine; I wrote a letter (which was published) explaining to him the differences between Italian cuisine and Italian-American cuisine. Jim Harrison, that muscular, man’s man, who writes brilliantly about food (among other things), opines in his essay called “Meatballs”: "Certain Gucci-Pucci-Armani Italians have told me that they have never eaten spaghetti and meatballs … These Cerruti aristocrats tell me that the dish is an American perversion of Italian cuisine, to which I always reply, “I don’t give a shit.”

Italians would probably be equally appalled by having little meatballs to accompany an aperitivo.

Since the holidays are upon us, and plenty of aperitivi times will present themselves with family and friends, we will be offering Swedish meatballs to accompany the prosecco and egg nog. The beauty of this dish (my mother’s recipe, which she obtained from our next-door-neighbor) is that you don’t fry them but bake them. Another beauty of this dish is that you can make them, freeze them, and put them back in the oven just minutes before you want to serve them.

Why are they called Swedish meatballs, I wondered. http://answers.yahoo.com provides a compelling explanation: “According to Mathistorisk Uppslagsbok by Jan-Ojvind Swahn, the Swedish word for meatball (k”ttbulle) first appeared in (Swedish) print was in Cajsa Warg's 1754 cookbook. Swahn points out that the meatball could not have been a common food, at least not for common people, until the meatgrinder made the preparation simple. Swedish meatballs, smaller in size that those of Italy or Germany, are traditionally served with a cream gravy and lingonberry preserves.” (Longing thoughts for the food section of IKEA dash through my mind ...)

You could alleviate the tedium of making these tiny things by swilling a little holiday cheer. Pop open the prosecco!

Swedish Meatballs

½ c. dry bread crumbs
½ c. water
½ c. light cream
1 T. butter, melted
3 T. finely chopped onion
¾ lb. ground beef
¾ lb.ground pork
1 t. salt
¾ c. sugar
¾ t. freshly ground black pepper

Preheat oven to 350°.

Mix and make as many tiny meatballs as your patience with allow (like the size of half a walnut only a little smaller).

Bake for 5-10 minutes and either eat immediately or let them cool and freeze them in a freezer back.

Makes a great many, and there will be enough for six pups to sample one as well (well, maybe only the three adult pups).

Addenda:

You can find the controversial She-Wolf with Romulus and Remus at the Musei Capitolini in Rome. If you’re interested in the problems of dating, go to Wikipedia for details (it was originally thought to be late 15th century – the twins, possibly by Pollaiuolo, and c. 500-480 b.c. (the wolf). Recent investigations suggest that the wolf was probably cast sometime in the 13th century.

The late, great Alan Davidson: “Meatballs have been the subject of an eccentric and enthralling book by Spoerri (1982), but neither he, nor any other author, has succeeded or could succeed in treating the subject comprehensively. See his entry in his Oxford Companion to Food (New York, 1999). You can find a recipe for the “Sunday Gravy” frequently served up on many a Sopranos episode at http://www.timesonlin.co.uk, January 19, 2003. Jim Harrison provides his spaghetti with meatballs recipe in “Meatballs,” in The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand (New York, 2001). My mouth watered when I read it. Marcella Hazan has a luscious baked rigatoni dish with tiny pork meatballs in Marcella's Italian Kitchen (New York, 1986) – but I think she made a concession to her American readership.