"V vyfleyemi novya, (Bethlehem gives tidings,)
Diva Syna porody la (A Son is born to a maiden)
Porodyla v blahodati, (Overshadowed with God's graces,)
Neporochna, Diva Maty, (The pure Virgin, Mother of God,)
Mariya. (Mary.)"
To-effin'-do list(s)? Check. Ukrainian cookery books? Check. One mug of calming tea? Check. Ukrainian music fusing the modern and traditional? Check. First of the best table linens set for Sviata Vechera? Check. 2011's rising Kolach beneath a secondhand Rushnychok? Check.
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"Na rukakh trymaye (In her arms, she holds Him)
I Yemu spivaye (And she sings to Him)
Vsemohuchym Stvorytelem (The Supreme Creation)
Yoho nazyvaye. (She names Him.)" - Dyvnaya Novyna
Regardless of the light that illuminates your path, may you find peace, happiness and understanding at the end of your longest night.
Pictured above: The kolach is lit for Sviata Vechera ("Holy Supper") acting like an invitational beacon for our ancestors, relatives and deceased friends to join us in holiday festivities. See also 2008 Kolach.
]]>If your ass ain't listed it's because I either 1.) didn't get your email (please resend to graveyarddirt@gmail.com, or feel free to contact me directly through a social networking site) or 2.) am waiting for your name and/or blog address.
PS: I magic chore-whored my way through this job in an exquisitely stoned state; if I effed up any of your shit please don't be afraid to throw a rock at me (although I'd prefer if you'd just email me to let me know, heh).
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When your ass is clearing out Halloween pumpkins to get ready for Midwinter's Sviata Vechera? You are so totally holiday-fucked.
]]>PS: To qualify for the giveaway you don't have to have your Holy Supper on the 22nd (winter solstice). All I - and your ancestors! - care about is participation. A deadline will eventually be decided upon, but it won't be until January (I'm thinking maybe Epiphany).
]]>Mushroom giveaway? Still the fuck on. Holy Supper challenge (and giveaway)? Still the fuck on. Right now I need to chase up some museum tickets, pack for our one night getaway, bake a mucho belated Christmas cake, prepare gluten-free food to travel with and sort Peck-Man out for the next 48 hours. When we return from the "Athens of the North" I'll be sure to explain how I went from cervix-banging hotel sex to nearly getting my ass hospitalized in just a few Fuck(ed) Shop weeks.
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Consecration; two parts Old Testament, one part Ms. Dirty.
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Back in July I challenged Graveyard Dirt readers to toss any fungus-related phobia out the fucking door and follow me into the hedges, fields and woods to hunt down one of the safest wild mushrooms to eat: the mothereffin' bolete.
]]> I know that some of you - emboldened by Bolete Lesson #1, Bolete Lesson #2 and two Harvests worth of stories - were lured to the wild (edible) side by my dirty little Pied Piper's song, but I never got to properly acknowledge your foragin' grit. Now that Harvest's come and gone I finally have a chance to reward the brave folk who were charmed by the irresistible ditty by inviting them to enter Graveyard Dirt's first ever giveaway.Who can enter: Anyone, provided you made real fucking effort to find something. Even if you found jack-effin'-shit you still qualify; I'm lookin' for folk who took a sincere stab at this mushroom hunting game.
What you might win: Yeah, you guessed it: dried motherfucking mushrooms. But we ain't talking 'bout any ole dried mushrooms, we're talking 'bout Ms. Dirty's bolete-tastic Wild Woodland Mix* which is ready to be used in any of your culinary adventures.
How to enter: Email your stories, photos and/or links to blog entries to graveyarddirt@gmail.com with "mushroom giveaway" in the subject line. I won't accept non-email entries, so please don't send 'em. And while I'm rocking the "don't" thang: please don't try deceiving me. Me and my inner Zuul are in agreement that it'd be supremely uncool.
Deadline for entering: December 11th, exactly two weeks from today. You get an entire fucking fortnight to work on this mean mushroom mofo.
The fine effin' print: The number of dried mushroom packets given away will be determined by the number of entrants. Winners will be blindly chosen by Peck-Man, and their prize will be sent on the effin' house (so be sure you can share your mailing address with me). One entry per person, and the best goddamn luck to anyone who enters.
Feelin' a little sore for not being able to take part in this giveaway? I can totally help with that, but it requires you to watch this mothereffin' space. In a few days I'll be unveiling a new reader participation project, so you should have more than enough time to climb aboard the next giveaway wagon.
* My Wild Woodland Mix includes dried larch boletes, Slippery Jacks, porcini (aka cep and penny bun), brown birch boletes, orange birch boletes, bay boletes and probably a few other bolete varieties I'm forgetting.
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"All hail, O holy Queen, Mother exceeding merciful;
Life's spring, sweet comfort, our Hope-bearer, all hail."
(That's right! You take what you fucking get, Eastern Orthodox Church!)(<- That includes venerating our ancestors through wheat, engaging in idolatry relationships with our icons and, most importantly, choking down our Easter cock bread.)
Unsurprisingly, the Midwinter observance got jostled around when Catholicism took over and the supper eventually settled on December 24 (the eve of Christ's birth). Ukraine isn't alone in making Christmas Eve a big effin' deal (way bigger than Christmas Day, which is a much more low-key affair), though. The majority of Europe blow their wad on the 24th, and each country and ethnicity seems to have very specific traditions, rituals and foods that are made, executed and enjoyed on the special day. (See: Christmas worldwide at Wikipedia.)
When Italics and I became masters of our own holiday observances we bumped Sviata Vechera to the winter solstice (known as Yule and Midwinter) to reclaim the original feast. We still celebrate the 24th and 25th, but in recent years our Holy Supper partying has totally eclipsed the more mainstream Christmas holidays to the point that we normally don't open our presents until New Year's Day. (It's an amphetamine and lingerie fueled Yuletide-themed Black Mass! <- Talk about getting the new year started on the right motherfucking foot!)
Last year's Sviata Vechera was our first attempt to be as traditional as fuck, and it was one of the most incredible Yuletide seasons we ever experienced. It was so effin' great that I swore on our kolach that I'd emotionally blackmail friends, readers and on-line acquaintances to join in on the loudest motherfucking dumb supper they'll ever hold. I want to read/hear/see unapologetic, balls-fucking-out hedonism filling up the longest night of your year, and I want it to be truly effin' special. So this year, my impish pampusky, I'm formally extending an invitation out to you to join us in your first loud-mouthed, rockin'-till-dawn dumb supper.
The first important thing you should know is that Midwinter falls on December 22nd this year - just in case you want to align your shit up with the solstice. Many of us, though, won't be able to perform our dumb supper on that day. And that's totally cool; what really effin' counts are your actions (although to qualify for the giveaway the deadline's Orthodox Epiphany: January 19th). Before you do anything else find and fix a date, and be sure to scribble "HOLY MOTHERFUCKING SUPPER" on the appropriate day in your calendar(s).
The second important thing you should know is that just because you're dipping your toes in Holy Supper territory doesn't mean you have to do it all Sviata Vechera-style. In other words, unless you're Ukrainian - or of some Slavic heritage - your ancestors probably won't recognize the shit I'm doing. But that's what Holy Supper's all about; merry-fucking-making with your friends, family, loved ones and ancestors. Your celebration should be tailored to suit your past, present and future.
Now it's time to get your research the fuck on. Most of us can trace our lineage back an ethnicity or two; for instance, I'm Ukrainian and Native American. On top of that, I live in northeast Scotland, and my religious persuasion - if you can even call it that - is hugely influenced by the Byzantine opulence of my youth (I was raised in the Eastern Orthodox Church, although I pledged my body to the Devil before the Church could confirm me). Therefore, my Holy Supper celebration incorporates themes from my ancient ancestors (pagan Sviata Vechera), my more modern ancestors (Orthodox Sviata Vechera) and the winter-themed practices of the indigenous people of Scotland (Italics's ancient and modern ancestors, not to mention the folk who previously worked this land).
Your story will obviously be different, so you'll need to spend a little time Googling the winter traditions, feasts, practices and rituals of your ancestors, the indigenous people of your land and/or your religion. If you're of European descent you'll have some rich fucking pickins' - you get to choose from ancient and modern Yuletide practices and menus! The idea is to find a few things that speak out to you, things that can easily be adapted using your own personal flavor, but an interpretation that's still somewhat recognizable to the people who you're entertaining.
It's important to keep in mind that Holy Supper's about inviting your ancestral line into your home for a special event, so you don't want to come off as a dickface by serving food that's completely fucking foreign to them. Even if you don't cook I emphatically urge the fuck outta you to take the time to recreate one traditional dish your ancestors, your congregation/coven or the indigenous people of your land would recognize as food (even better if it's food traditionally associated with Midwinter feastin'). Make your predecessors proud and pass on the peanut butter smoothies for once, okay?
And while I'm on your case about being treating your spectral folk decent-like it's important to note that most cultures reserve the very best for their visiting dead. Since it's your ass inviting them around for a good ole party make sure you treat them like guests: set a place for them at your table (in addition to that we Ukrainians normally leave our Holy Supper spread out all night long to give our relatives a chance to eat at their leisure), use your very best linens, dishes and decorations, and always - ALWAYS! - serve your dead first. (<- Fixin' your plate first is the equivalent of taking the first slice of birthday cake when it isn't your motherfucking birthday; bad effin' manners, dude.)
Now that I've broken down the Holy Supper concept into bite-sized pieces, AND managed to briefly lose your attention while sternly lecturing you about right-proper necro-conduct it's time to cinch this shit together in five simple steps to assure everyone who's thinking about joining me that this isn't an epic undertaking:
1. Write down your supper date (deadline: Jan. 19th)
2. Get your research on
3. Circle a few celebratory traditions
4. Make one traditional dish
5. Create an ancestor setting
...and that's it! No, seriously! Joining in on - and making some - Midwinter magic is that effin' easy, all you really gotta do is research your shit for ideas and then use those mofos as a springboard to make your Holy Supper as spectacular as you want. Better yet, you've got twenty-effin'-nine days to make that magic a reality, which is more than enough time to do one extra special thing this holiday season. (<- Who knows? You just might invent a practice this year that becomes an ancestral tradition.)
Holy Supper Participants (how to get added**):
* Alex @ http://spectralradiance.tumblr.com/
* Aubs Satsekhem Tea @ http://satsekhem.wordpress.com/
* Cody @ http://cosmicowlchild.tumblr.com/
* Deb @ http://dropoutdilettante.blogspot.com/
* Erin Nightwalker @ http://nightwalkinghedgehog.wordpress.com/
* Fox Dreams @ http://foxdreams.wordpress.com/
* Haloquin @ http://haloquin.tumblr.com/
* Harley @ http://voluspo.tumblr.com/
* Hermit Witch @ http://hermitwitch.blogspot.com
* Hieronyma Jerome @ http://www.hieronyma.org/
* Jow @ http://jow-amagesblog.blogspot.com/
* Maris Pái @ http://witchofthenorth.tumblr.com/
* Mrs. Oddly @ http://somethingoddly.blogspot.com/
* Ms. Graveyard Dirt @ http://www.graveyarddirt.com/
* Morag @ http://expellingthevenom.tumblr.com/
* Nefaeria @ http://nefaeriaofetsy.blogspot.com/
* November Witch @ http://novemberwitch.tumblr.com/
* Nyktipolos @ http://nyktipolos.wordpress.com/
* Old Kitchen Witch @ http://www.stepawayfromthecauldron.blogspot.com/
* Oya's Daughter @ http://oyasdaughter.wordpress.com/
* Primal Heart @ http://theprimalheart.wordpress.com/
* Rabbit Viola @ http://thebefuddledwitch.blogspot.com/
* Random Proxy @ http://randomproxy.deviantart.com/
* Sara @ http://www.lobeliarama.com
* Scylla @ http://rootandrock.blogspot.com/
* Shelby Lou @ http://shelbylou.tumblr.com/
* Southern Witch @ http://jane-the-southern-witch.blogspot.com/
* Sunny @ http://sunnyamongothers.wordpress.com/
* Talas Pái @ http://talaspai.huginnpress.com/blog/
* Temple Witch @ http://smokefromthetemple.wordpress.com/
* Thora @ http://tadrakos.wordpress.com/
** Planning on taking part in the Holy Supper Challenge? Fan-fucking-tastic! Please email me at graveyarddirt@gmail.com with your blog address, and what name you'd like me to use when listing you as a participant.
I've had, like, zero effin' time to secondhand shop, so this very well may be the last proper Secondhand Sundays entry for 2011 (excluding the resale shop edition; it's a whopper that'll require some time to piece together). But that's good-fucking-news because I can finally divert some of my energy into taking proper pictures of the items I'll be selling in the near future. In the meantime, if there's anything that catches your fancy right effin' now, please don't be afraid to shoot me over an email (graveyarddirt@gmail.com) to inquire about the piece(s). (<- In this game it's the ballsy folk who get what the effin' want!)
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A mushroom-themed spread to tickle the fancy of any fungus-lovin' witch! All three prints are vintage book plates that I'll be keeping in my personal collection (how fucking terrific are those graffiti-tastic fly agarics?), and Italics - chuffed with the unexpected size of the stonerish mushroom box - has already laid claim to the wooden container.
I'm head over heels for this effin' nature-themed pitcher, but I don't have a fucking clue what I'd do with it*! Handmade by nuns - oh, honey, yes! - it's an overwhelmingly detailed ceramic piece, featuring acorn, oak leaf and mushroom embellishments while sporting a wood-textured surface that, if you're autistic like me, begs to be groped touched with the utmost respect. If the natural world is your thang, and you're looking for a special libation vessel look no effin' further!
Another fungal treasure for your consideration is a pair of mushroom-shaped salt and pepper pots. These cute little mofos are your classic Bolete edulis (aka penny bun, porcino or cep) with their dark, hardy tops and robust alien pod stalks. If you've been following Graveyard Dirt since Harvest these guys should look pretty effin' familiar since we spent the entire season picking, cooking, photographing and writing about them.
* For the record: I already own three or four other "magic" pitchers, and really can't afford adding another one to my collection.
As you've probably guessed, my secondhand buyin' ass has a huge motherfucking thing for ceramic. I'm sure part of it comes from my mother having been a potter, but a good chunk of my love for clay comes from how naturally inviting it seems. Metal's awesome - I love copper like you wouldn't believe! - but it can be cold, clinical and distant. Ceramic, for whatever reason (perhaps its handmade nature?), wants to be touched, and there's a comforting sense of familiarity - and a sense of occasion - when I use my earthenware pieces.
Pictured in this sun-dappled image is a handmade ceramic goblet with a mushroom emblem, and a lidded toadstool potpourri container that broke in transit. The broken pot we've decided to keep (we're going to fill it with something significant and bury it in my favorite fly agaric hotspot as an offering to the mycelia whose "fruits" I gather every Harvest), but I'm undecided about the goblet. My first inclination was to save it for ritual use (for the consumption of psychoactive mushrooms), but I find myself wavering - I mean, how many fucking ceramic goblets can one witch own? (<- Don't answer that.)
This next Secondhand Sundays lot might be of interest to the discerning practitioner: cheeky devils, spinning witches and unorthodox ritual jewelry!
The framed print featured in this spread is Arthur Rackham's Serpentine (Fairies Along the Water) (one of his illustrations to Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens). I semi-recently got word that my oldest friend in the world's already expecting (she managed to conceive on her honeymoon!), so this little treasure will probably get wrapped up and sent off as a baby gift.
Would you believe me if I told you I've spent over a fucking year trying to get my hands on a copy of that spinning witch horse brass? (100% honest truth!) Spinning so isn't my art, so this lovely little vintage piece is for sale. The stag horse brass - also vintage! - is coming straight outta my personal collection (I'm thinning the herd, so to speak), and would look right at home strung up on your holiday wreath, or secured on your Yule Log for a bit'o'ornamental flash.
Here in an Asperger's-motivated column is a miniature ceramic goblet featuring the infamous Lincoln Imp, another vintage book illustration, an antique (Edwardian era) brass mourning tie pin and a tiny little antique cow tooth charm set in silver. The goblet and pin are for sale (the pin's needle is a bit wonky and needs slight readjustment), but I'm keeping the image and charm.
Is sewing, stitching or embroidery your thing? Do you work with, or is your matron known for Her needle-wieldin' ways? Then this effin' goblet is for you (and when I say "you", I actually mean "Her"!) This ceramic chalice is one mother of a vessel that could double for a subtle cauldron (yeah, it IS that fucking big)! Perfect little cross-stitch patterns circle the entire goblet giving you one helluva textured grip on this offering/ritual cup.
Also pictured in this image is a crackin' little flower brooch (don't take my word for it, but I think it's meant to be a rendition of the Tudor Rose), and a vintage enamel Aries keychain. The cardinal fire gem is mine, but the enchanting flower pin is for sale.
A lovely for you: an antique pin featuring a pair of fox teeth capped in white metal. (Gorgeous or what*?) One of the teeth is just slightly loose in its setting (the band of metal in the middle), but it isn't in danger of falling out. With the exception of the jiggling tooth the brooch is in otherwise awesome handmade condition.
* I considered keeping this sweet little mofo, but I really want to learn how to cap and cast teeth'n'bones from my rescued roadkill and the first step towards that is being able to let go of pieces that I'd otherwise create from scratch.
A lovely for me: a one-horned Sabbatic Goat waiting to get hauled down to the local blacksmith (situated in an old church; no fucking joke!) to get his shed appendage welded the fuck on. It might not be entirely apparent in this sun-washed photo, but this motherfucker's face ain't nothin' BUT character!
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Man, this writing shit is some hard motherfucking work. I've been circling my dinky little laptop for days, eyeing the case warily while half-pretending that house chores are infinitely more important than resuming my cardinal fire-fueled campaign to take over the effin' internet. (<- I start with a ram and end with a pair of fish; fear me and my Alpha & Omega astrological bookends!) And there's nothing I can do - or have done - that's managed to distract me from one unavoidable real world truth: my ass is seriously out of practice.
]]> It's not just the lack of practice reeking saturnalian havoc in my journal life (could havoc be anything OTHER than saturnalian in this house?); nothing's familiar. I mean, at all. My carefully crafted decade-old Rainman routine bit the fucking dust the second Peck-Man became a permanent member of this household to the extent that, for the first time in 10 motherfucking years, I'm working on an unfamiliar computer (dinky little laptop) in an unfamiliar room (the kitchen).
For someone who's got revolution running in her veins I'm autistically incompatible with change. Any disruption to routine kick starts a butterfly effect that tsunamis its way through every fucking aspect of life. There's room for spontaneity in autism's habitual nature, but it's structured and fragmented into neat little Tetris compartments carefully arranged around great expanses of familiarity. (In other words, I'm totally capable of running a wild card round, but only because I found a way to view the element of randomness as a fixed feature in a fixed routine.)
This groove, this rhythm, this life I'm leading right effin' now is so fucking foreign and alien to me that I'm a half-heartbeat away from an Oscar-winning FOUR MINUTES TO WAPNER! freak out.
I guess what I'm trying to say as I blow through all of these older Fet Ghede pictures without addressing what's being depicted is that if I sound sorta off, or only make a quarter of sense (instead of my usual half, although I'm willing to make 100% sense if your ass is paying for that secret pleasure) it's because I'm caught in a tide pool of motherfucking rabbits...and because I'm probably high.
(It's a little known fact that if I wasn't high all the goddamn time natural disasters of cataclysmic proportions would occur leading to the extinction of the world as we fucking know it.)(<- See? Beneath my cloven hooves and forked tongue there's an honest-to-fucking-God humanitarian; look upon the bleeding heart of your ovarian Christ, world, for She smokes AND inhales because of Her love for you.)
While it's been all kinds of swell wading through rabbit-populated shorelines, it's time to decisively navigate towards terra-fucking-firma to get my work on before next year's serpent-tinged onslaught. (Hello and welcome, year of the motherfucking dragon! <- It could either be a really good fucking year for St. George in this house, or it could be absolutely disastrous. 2012, you're a giant fucking question mark only slightly overshadowed by the fat-assed reptilian monster hovering above you.)
Getting my work on, though, is easier said then done when I'm hella fucking rusty and writing in an entirely new environment on an unfamiliar computer. (FOURMINUTESTOWAPNER!) I mean, how the fuck do I go back to baring some of the most intimate parts of myself when I've been hiding behind photos for most of the year?
Out of necessity I allowed Graveyard Dirt to slip into a formulaic existence (i.e., image, two or three mostly on-topic sentences, image, two or three mostly on-topic sentences...) because it was the easiest fucking way to provide consistent content throughout Harvest. Six months later that journal-saving device has become an automatic routine, and my Taurus midheaven is more than reluctant to let that productive formula go.
As much as I hate the thought, fear the thought and down-fucking-right loathe the thought, I'm going to have to sacrifice that detrimental familiarity on the high altar of Asperger's otherwise my ass ain't progressing no-effin'-where. Cause let me tell you, I've spent a third of my fucking life chasing after spectral perfection to no avail, and it's taken me this effin' long to realize that you're not moving the fuck forward if the scenery around you never fucking changes. (<- Look at me making those motherlovin' rabbits proud!)
But now's not the time to be radical. In fact, now's the time to be uber-radical but not being radical at all. (<- Hey now, this is some seriously gutsy shit coming from an autistic Aries animal.) Up until now all of my changes have been volatile fucking processes, obliterating everything - and, occasionally, everyone - in their path. What if, just for once, I took a deliberate step back from my natural inclinations to find a new method of creation from change? What if this time I didn't push over the mothereffin' Tower in one monstrous go to create something new? What if I continuously changed one small aspect of it until it eventually became something new through measured means?
So maybe the answer to serious journal writing isn't balls-fucking-out blocks of text in the vain hope that I'll somehow net myself some older entry sparkle. Maybe the real fucking answer is building on something successfully preexisting that accommodates change (much like our old Christian friends!). It's not about dropping pictures (yeah, I considered), Godzilla-ing metaphorical towers (although it's tempting), or Lady Godiva-ing some of the most intimate parts of myself prematurely - if I'm really effin' serious about returning focus to the diary aspect of Graveyard Dirt then I just gotta write more. (Novel, right?)
Fuck! Guess who just pissed away six Fet Ghede photos from 2009 on a blog-gazin' tangent. (<- Guilty as mothereffin' charged!) Now any attempts to steer this journal entry in the right fucking direction will seem like a bolted-the-fuck-on addendum...
I work the dead. No, sugar, you didn't read that wrong, and I didn't accidentally forget to jam a "with" between "the" and "dead"; I work the motherfucking dead. As far as I'm concerned, if you wanna be on this team you better be willing to pick up an effin' shovel and get your sweat on. (<- Ain't nothin' free in this life, or in the after.)
Almost every effin' facet of my feral witchcraft has roots in traditions and experiences that both our ancestors - Ukrainian (me), Native American (me) and Scottish (him) - would've been familiar with (i.e., hunting, gathering and growing), so the biggest contribution the dead make to this house is providing the reassuring knowledge that I'm not the first fucking one in the line to personally encounter the trials and tribulations, agonies and ecstasies of living with - and off - the land. (Admittedly not to the same extent they were forced to.)
As retarded as it might sound, I actually feel closest to my predecessors when I'm crying about and/or freaking out over shit that I know they experienced and dealt with in their own lifetime(s).
November is winter's spring, and it's really fucking hard not to have a slight bounce of joy in your step when your ass works the dead because the last and final harvest of the agricultural year is celebrated as a sort of necro-homecoming. Over here in NE Scotland hard frost signals when it's time to haul the dubious Ms. Dirty & Co. carnival indoors for five to six mothereffin' months of hardcore merrymaking. (<- The ancestor gig? Has its perks.)
Halloween, in all of its John Carpenter glory (I was born in 1980 and was lucky to have experienced the vintage crepe paper'n'cardboard version of the holiday before it went all decals'n'plastic in the 90s), is the opening ceremony of our necro-homecoming that ignites winter's indoor revelry. Our observance of All Hallows' Eve is a tribute to everything childish and sinister wrapped up in a nostalgically creepy death-themed bow.
Gaping skulls and whitewashed bones then psychopompically lead the skeletal trail to Día de Muertos (Day of the Dead), when we thank, honour and remember those who've already taken the big fucking leap into the unknown. Fet Ghede - Papa's super-special feast day on November 2nd - has a different spin in this house since my relationship with The Old Man is a double shot of unorthodox. (Despite their tough guy appearances even spiritual sugar daddies need an annual Father's Day to feel appreciated.)
Pictured above: 2009's Full Moon of the Dead Día de Muertos/Fet Ghede kitchen altar. For more Ghede-centric adventures, altars and stories simply plug "Fet Ghede" into Graveyard Dirt's search engine, and be sure to hit up my Fet Ghede Flickr tag for pictures. Similarly, you'll find all of my Halloween shit the same way: through my Flickr altar set, my Flickr Halloween tag and by combing through older entries using the search engine.
There's no effin' way I can succinctly address wheat's significant role in our lives and religious practices in several paragraphs, so I'm just gonna gloss over the finer details of its importance and save my mental bullet points for a different journal entry. What I can probably cram in this tight space is that wheat represents two major aspects of my spiritual beliefs: the body of God (which is ground down into meal as a form of sustenance - you know, flour), and my ancestral heritage (Ukraine's known as "the breadbasket of Europe" thanks to its famously fertile steppes).
So baking bread, for me, isn't just a kitchen witch role-play of domestication, it's an ancient, ritualized art that involves growing, nurturing and inevitably "killing" one of God's tangible forms before physically manipulating it into something that's then consumed. We view the act of consumption as a sort of holy communion, which is why I hold all of God's forms - whether flesh (meat) or blood (hooch) - as sacred; they were all derived from one of His once-living manifestations.
The act of baking bread is one of sacrifice and compassion. One of my metaphysical obligations is to create and destroy; with one hand I hold His body upright (I plant and care for His seed), and with the other I ceremonially cut Him down (I reap, protect and distribute His seed). Wheat, as I've defined in my Choose Your Own Adventure spirituality, is my husband, my lover, my king and God, and His death - by the hand of His wife, His lover, His queen and God(dess) - ensures that others (including myself) live. So it only makes sense that the first offering I ply our collective ancestors with during the Days of the Dead is a loaf of homemade bread reverently made from the body of my beloved.
Pictured above: One of 2009's Pan de Muertos. While I don't have a drop of Hispanic blood in me, I do have fond memories of my Ukrainian grandparents feeding me quarters of fresh oranges in their retro-as-fuck prefab kitchen. Those experiences established a significant connection between me, the dead and orange-flavored bread, so it's no effin' surprise I eventually created a tradition of baking Pan de Muertos for All Souls' Day (aka as Fet Ghede, and day number two of Día de Muertos) to commemorate the lives of those we love who've passed the fuck on.
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