Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Spring Menu, 2011

Here's the exciting follow-up to yesterday's heretical journal entry: our annual Bride's Day-Candlemas-Imbolc menu. Before anyone else has another knee-jerk reaction let me just say - no, I'm not trying to subtly* influence and manipulate people into eating what I think is right ("...AND HERE'S THE MOTHERFUCKING FOOD YOU SHOULD BE FUCKING EATING, RETARDS"). What I AM trying to do, though, is give an example of how I'm attempting to eat seasonally when observing a season-based festival or sabbat.

* It's a scientific fact that I'm completely incapable of being subtle.

Four things are always taken into account when creating a menu that's eaten on a holy day that celebrates a turn of the agricultural year: what my ancestors were eating at that time of year, what Italics' ancestors were eating at that time of year, what the land we live on provides at that time of year and any non-traditional food or dish that has a personal - or significant - value to us as a household at that time of year.

(There's potentially five things you can take into account, but because I don't subscribe to any sort of religion I don't have a culture to fall back on. If you don't feel connected to your ancestors or the land you're living on, you always have the option of looking into what the people of your religion ate at that time of the year.)

I'm Ukrainian, with a splash of nomadic plains Indian (Hunkpapa, Lakhota). Italics is, more or less, Scottish (there's Irish and French in there somewhere, but in small amounts). We both live in his homeland, Scotland, so we observe Imbolc - Spring - at the very start of February due to being in the northern hemisphere. Because Bride's Day-Candlemas-Imbolc is so very fucking British Isles I give the Ukie shit a rest for once (but only because Easter is totally Slavtastic) and focus on what the land actually provides during this time of the year, and what it's provided for countless effing generations.

Wheat, barely and oats are the three "grains" I associate with Scotland, and traditional Scottish cookery. But because Italics suffers from coeliac/celiac disease we don't eat wheat or gluten, so we focus on oats instead. (Oats, by the way, are a-okay for celiacs as long as they're prepared and packaged in a wheat/gluten-free environment.) I still bake bread for Bride, but I also bake a loaf that both Italics and I can break in communion together.

At this time of year in Scotland the only fresh vegetables are winter vegetables, and those are primarily greens and chthonic, root-based plants. I know that might sound limiting, but it's not. Think bulbs, vegetables that are at their best once frostbitten, anything that stores happily throughout the cold months and the very new, very tender hardy shoots that are already appearing outside: apples, beets, cabbage, cauliflower, celeriac, chicory, fennel, garlic, horseradish, kale, onions, parsnips, pears, potatoes, rocket, shallots, sprouts, squash, swede (known as rutabaga in the USofA), turnips and wild plants'n'herbs.

The heavily pregnant ewes begin dribbling milk around this time, so a huge focus on Imbolc's meal - at least to me - is the return of milk and dairy products to the diet. (That gets celebrated in dessert, when I make a homemade batch of crème brûlée using organic, full-fat cream.) Because we're carnivores flesh comes in the form of preserved meat (I personally brine a brisket for Bride), but if corned beef wasn't set in stone - which it is - we would probably eat game (pheasant, grouse, duck, partridge, rabbit, venison) because that was what was available during this time of the year.

(PS: I'm only not mentioning fish/seafood as suitable options because I fucking LOATHE fish, and because - like I said above - we always eat homemade corned beef when celebrating Bride's Day. <- Once something gets recognized as an annual tradition it's hard to be cavalier about mixing shit up, ESPECIALLY when you're autistic. I mean, fuck, you've seen Rainman, right? Brined brisket for Bride on Bride's Day is totally Judge Wapner, People's Court at 4 fucking PM in this motherfucking house.)

Taking everything I said into account, this is the meal we eat to celebrate the return of Spring using what's actually available and in season during that time:

* Corned Beef; Did Scottish crofters eat corned beef for Imbolc? Probably not. We eat it because I like the idea of eating "preserved" meat at a time when, traditionally, the pantry and cold room began looking scarily lean. (And, also, because I really fucking love corned beef and unlike the motherfucking United States you can't walk into any grocery store here and pick up a bag of pre-brined shit.)

Beef is also sacred to the Bride, and I like the fact that there's a ritual element infused in the act of brining: creating the herbal mix that'll help preserve the meat as it sits, physically rubbing the mix into the flesh and spending the rest of the week turning the hunk'o'cattle daily. In a bizarre way it sort've feels like you're praying/giving thanks on a daily fucking basis, which brings a satisfying closure when it comes time to boil and eat the corned beef you spent up to seven days preparing.

* Corned Beef Vegetables; Part of the corned beef experience is boiling your winter vegetables in the leftover stock. Normally I add locally grown cabbage, potatoes, carrots and turnips, but, really, you can add whatever the fuck you like as long as the vegetables aren't delicate or fragile. (Carrots and potaotes and turnips are all "hard" clunky vegetables that need some time to soften, and those sorts of vegetables are usually the best for retaining their shape and texture when cooked.)

* Dill Potatoes; Whoops, I take back what I said about the lack of Ukieism during Imbolc. For me, no corned beef meal is complete without a pan of dill potatoes. My version's a little more complicated than my mother's because I tend to add fresh bay, a touch of white wine, butter and bacon lardons. Although this year there may be a distinct lack of bacon since we've made a concious decision to drastically reduce the amount of pork we eat. (We love and respect pigs so goddamn much that we can barely bring ourselves to eat even the super free-range pork that comes from farmers who actually care about the welfare and mental state of their animals.)

* Skirlie; Oats fried in fat until toasted. You can use roughly ground meal straight from the bag, but both Italics and I perfer the type you make out of oatcakes. (Like a cracker but, you guessed it, made out of oats.) I normally use animal fat (goose, lamb or beef) to crispen the broken down cakes (the meal absorbs the grease), and then stir in a knob of proper butter through the mix since the dairy lends a slight creaminess to the fat.

* Swede; Swede - known as "rutabaga" in the States, I think - is a winter root vegetable. It's a lot like turnip, but unlike their white counterparts (swedes are typically a golden orange) they're pleasantly sweet, tasting a bit like carrot-y mashed potatoes once boiled. I consider them part of the holy trinity of old timey, peasant Scottish cooking because any large, traditional meal is often served with some sort of oat dish, potatoes and swede.

* Oatmeal Soda Bread; No old skool attempt at a traditional Scottish meal is complete without some sort of bannock. Last year's oatmeal-based gluten-free bread was just a touch too sweet to eat with dinner (it was perfect for an Imbolc breakfast, though), so this year I'm going to have to plant my ass down and sniff out a new, more savory recipe before the big day.

* Bride's Braid Bread; Bread baking for a ritual meal is an entry within itself, so I'll save the topic for another day and just emphatically state that the act is probably one of the most important aspects of preparing a spiritually significant meal (at least to me). Every year I bake two braided loaves of bread for Bride celebrating the grains that kept our ancestors alive during the long, cold winters: wheat, corn and oats. (The basic dough is divided into thirds, and then to each third something different is added - wholewheat, cornmeal and oatmeal. That way each is represented in the loaf when you braid the separate doughs together.)

* Frangelico Crème Brûlée; Milk, and all things creamy, thick and white (ahem) dominate my Imbolc landscape, so it's only fitting to finish our celebratory meal with a dessert that venerates the secreted life force. After a filling dinner of homemade corned beef, potatoes, root vegetables, fried oatcakes (skirlie) and bread we always finish off our Bride's Day ritual meal with an alcoholic-infused happy ending: crème brûlée. (Do I know how to celebrate lactation, or what?) I use Frangelico (a hazelnut liqueur) because Italics loves the stuff, but to make the dessert more Celtic-Irish-Scottish you can always use Baileys Irish Cream, Drambuie or your favorite whisky instead.

I fucking DREAD having to write "AND IN CONCLUSION..." closings to cinch shit together in a neatly presented package (in fact, I've been avoiding it all fucking day long), so you'll have to excuse any last paragraph awkwardness. The inability to smoothly finalize a series of thoughts and examples aside, I sincerely hope that I've managed to at least shine some fucking light on the idea of eating seasonally when observing a season-based festival or sabbat.

I know it might SEEM trivial, but our actions on those days - including what we consume and give thanks for - is supposed to reflect a very specific time in the year, and if you aren't focusing (or even incorporating) what was traditionally on-hand during those celebrations, then you really aren't connecting with what the festivities were/are all about. "Living with the earth" and "living with the seasons" isn't just a fucking bumper sticker you slap on your paganmobile, it's a way of living, and if you're toting that fucking badge you better be doing shit to back up those words otherwise your actions are nothing but a fucking meaningless theatrical production.

"Living with the Earth"

Internet, we need to talk. I saw something last night that appalled-confused-disgusted-infuriated me and there's no fucking way I can move on with my life - or any other journal entry topic - until I've finally addressed the bug up my ass.

I know it's somewhat hypocritical of me to cast any sort of judgment on pagans doing their pagan thing (mostly because I don't actually consider myself pagan despite my practices), but when you're a pagan recommending motherfucking Cocoa-Peanut Butter-Banana Smoothies as a suitable Imbolc course for your ritual feast to other pagans it's my goddamn duty to step in and call a time-fucking-out.

Sorry, but I totally fail to see how Cocoa Puffs, peanut butter and chocolate milk relate to Imbolc. (Maybe I'm not as gastronomically sophisticated as I thought?) I spent a whole night thinking and dissecting and ruminating over the non-existent connection between the ingredients and the holy day (non-fat yogurt and chocolate milk aren't proper dairy, so don't even think about arguing those points with me), and the only real conclusion I came to is that the pagan community would really fucking benefit from more people spending entire fucking nights thinking, dissecting and ruminating over connections between ingredients and holy days.

What gets me the most is the undeniable lack of thought that goes into observing seasonally specific festivals/sabbats. If you're celebrating a holy day, you're celebrating a fucking concept, and that shit should be influencing your activities. Even if you're doing nothing else but having a nice fucking meal on the day, the food should at least reflect and embody the core of the observance.

I get rabid as fuck about this shit because I loathe watching pagans parade around their motherfucking GUYS, I'M TOTALLY ~LIVING WITH THE EARTH~ superiority while simultaneously ignoring the campaign they're enthusiastically promoting. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but if you're eating a fucking Cocoa Puff smoothie for Imbolc you aren't living with the motherfucking earth. I mean, Christ, you aren't even making a fucking attempt to eat seasonally for one fucking day.

Look, I know people know what Imbolc is all about, so I'm not going to bore you to fucking death with wombs and lactating teats. But what people don't seem to know is how to incorporate the idea of the festival/sabbat into the food being prepared to mark and observe winter's almost end and the very beginning of the agricultural year. (I'll give you a hint: peanut butter and sugary children's breakfast cereals aren't it.)

For a second just ignore what your grocery store has stocked and really fucking think about what was available around Imbolc in the past. I mean, serious past. One hundred, five hundred and a thousand years ago. What did the land you're living on provide the indigenous people? What did the land your ancestors lived on provide them?

It's the very start of February in the northern hemisphere, winter's been at your throat since late October and your peasant ass isn't comfortably walled up in a aristocratic tower eating roasts studded with buckets of imported spice - what the fuck are YOU eating on Bride's Day-Candlemas-Imbolc? What you grew, what you harvested, preserved and dried. You're eating what's available, and by February rations are starting to look sort've meek since there isn't anything fresh yet to add to the fucking pot.

I'm not saying that to be a good pagan you need to make soup out of frozen earth, rocks and weeds, but for fuck's sake - at least ATTEMPT to make some sort of connection to the food you're eating, and try using seasonal fucking ingredients as the backbone of your dishes. Part of living with the earth is making the most of what your land provides at that time, if you aren't actually living in that moment then why the fuck bother observing the celebrations that do?

Something Real

Cleaning has to be one of my favorite magic acts. (<- I effing hate using the term "magical", it's so...I dunno, Llewellyn. "Magical" is glitter and jasmine and fairies (and not the drowning, flesh-eating kind) and bogus nobility titles followed by compound nouns and adjectives. "Magic" is what Lush USED to be before it became overwhelmed with pink, lavender and candy. "Magic" isn't the apron, it's the stains ON the motherfucking apron. Slapping the letters "a" and "l" onto the end of "magic" draws a certain crowd, but repels another.)

Wait, where was I before I took the early tangent bus to tangent town? Oh, right, cleaning. And magic acts (which sounds more like Vegas than witchcraft, but compared to what "magical" brings to the table I'll fucking take the superficial sleaze, thank you). And how to further alienate yourself from your peers when you're already pretty goddamn alienated (more on that later).

So. Cleaning, one of my favorite magic acts; one of my favorite magic acts that seems suspiciously mundane and totally NOT magic to the casual observer. (Unlike some of my other favorite magic acts like carefully placing a curl of pubic hair on top of Italics' serving of dessert as conspicuously as possible ("HEY, WHAT'S THIS? DAMN YOU WOMAN, AND YOUR WITCHCRAFT!"), or pissing on the concrete steps leading up into the house (to mark my territory with my scent, OBVIOUSLY).)

Yesterday Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, left for an extended vacation of six - 6! - mothereffing weeks. The house? Mine (for six weeks, anyway). Even more so in about two weeks when my mother-in-law also leaves to join my father-in-law at their place in Florida for the entire month of July. Summer, internet, is officially here at Chez Graveyard Dirt and the livin' will be easy.

Take a wild fucking guess what I did immediately after his departure. (I mean, OTHER than "get really fucking high" because that's a given.) You know it, I know it, friends know it and anyone who's even a semi-frequent visitor here knows the answer: I motherfucking cleaned. Hard. Well. Anally. (<- Sounds more like porn than domestication, doesn't it?) Like my neurotic (deceased) mother was going to check with white fucking gloves.

First? The kitchen: the one communal room where I dominate and govern from, the one communal room where I pray-dance-worship-live in on a day-to-day basis. The heart of the house, the hearth of the house and my modern, every day throne room. If this fucking house is seemingly trashed beyond repair I effing guarantee you there will be ONE room in pristine order - the kitchen, MY kitchen.

I removed everything off counters and surfaces, washed the tiles, washed all the counter spaces, washed the cabinets, washed the front faces of the microwave and oven, washed the extractor and its hood, washed the top of the fridge, washed the window, washed the window frame, washed the sink, washed the faucet, washed the windowsill that makes up my subtle kitchen altar, washed everything that was removed off the counters and surfaces and returned them, unloaded the dishwasher, loaded the dishwasher, unloaded the dishwasher, loaded the washing machine, unloaded the washing machine, loaded the washing machine, washed the kitchen table, washed the kitchen chairs and washed the table's linens.

Second? The lounge: less important on a day-to-day basis (especially since my in-laws are often camped there), but still HELLA important. Sort've like how there's that ONE ROOM in the house where your mother won't let you eat, drink or play in because it's the super fancy NICE room reserved for guests and special occasions. But, like, in this case, it's in a ~spiritual~ way.

If the kitchen is my daily throne room/temple then the communal lounge - at least when my in-laws aren't around - is my ballroom throne room/temple reserved for V. special events (i.e., our "black masses", hot'n'heavy ritual celebrations (which, admittedly, probably falls under my tongue-in-cheek version of "black masses") and communing with the higher ups in a more serious, over-the-top setting).

I cook the Hieros Gamos feast in the kitchen (usually for several days leading up to the marriage), but we actually perform the ceremony in the lounge. For every week I get to perform my little secret things in the kitchen I get about a day to perform my BIG secret things in the lounge. Which room is more important? Neither, really, because they both serve very specific purposes that the other one can't.

With all of that being said, I removed everything off surfaces, dusted the track lights, dusted the ceilings, dusted the corners, dusted the hanging pictures, dusted the lampshades, dusted the curtains, dusted the exercise bike, polished the wooden door frame, polished the wooden side tables, polished the wooden legs on the couches, polished the TV unit, polished the floating table, polished the CD unit, polished the coffee table, washed the windows in the wooden door frame, washed the glass tops of the side tables, washed the windows, washed the TV and TV screen, washed the dvd player, washed the playstation, washed the remotes, washed the controllers, washed the CD player, washed the light switches, washed handles and hinges, washed the glass top of the coffee table, washed the radiator, washed the hanging pictures, washed (and changed) the table linens and washed everything that was removed from various surfaces before returning them.

I HAD planned to hit the bathroom - as a grand effing finale - but by the time I finished polishing my last wooden coffee table leg I was ready to throw in the fucking towel. (I only have my friend Carolina to thank - well, her and my above and beyond commitment to completing things as perfectly as possible thanks to my autistic Aries nature - for keeping me going. Just as I was about to start work on the lounge a package arrived from her - expected but completely unexpected because I totally forgot she had mentioned putting one together for me - with a burned CD of traditional Brazilian Kimbanda music "for worship and ritual". This ass? Shook left to right like a motherfucker while dusting the ceiling, no joke.)

I was sore and achy and exhausted and tired and even though my brain totally flatlined (NO DARK AND TROUBLED PAST TO MAKE //ME// FEAR DEATH; THE INEVITABLY OF DEATH IS MORE THAN ENOUGH (TO MAKE ME FEAR IT), THANK YOU) I was stupidly satisfied-happy in the way an overlord must feel surveying all that s/he owns (and exerts control over). In roughly 7-8 hours I had virtually erased my father-in-law's presence - and all of the nasty residual shit that's been hanging around in the atmosphere all stagnant-like - with focus, energy and a lot of hard, physical labor.

I celebrated the GOOD EFFING RIDDANCE (AT LEAST FOR SIX WEEKS) feeling by hitting all of the blogs/journals/diaries I read just before bed (A LIST OF THINGS I DO BEFORE BED: GET HIGH, CATCH UP WITH MY FAVORITE ON-LINE HAUNTS, GET HIGH, WATCH A NATURE PROGRAM TO DISTRACT MYSELF FROM THE INEVITABLY OF DEATH AND MY OVERWHELMING FEAR OF NOTHINGNESS, GET HIGH AND THEN MASTURBATE BEFORE FALLING ASLEEP) and stumbled across this from Charmed, I'm Sure:

THANKS, UNIVERSE. NO, REALLY, I WAS ACTUALLY FOR REAL THINKING "WOW, SELF, YOU KNOW WHAT'D BE AMAZINGLY FUCKING AWESOME AFTER SPENDING THE ENTIRE EFFING DAY MAGIC-CLEANING THE EFFING HOUSE? GETTING FIGURATIVELY PUNCHED IN THE MOTHERFUCKING GUT BEFORE BED, ALL NELSON MUNTZ-STYLE. DO YOU THINK YOU CAN HELP ME OUT?" AND, UNIVERSE, YOU DELIVERED...THANKS (BUT DON'T EXPECT A HALLMARK CARD).

Okay, okay, okay. In all fairness, I really, really like Ms. Drop Out Dilettante (it's really fucking hard finding someone who actually seems REALLY FOR REALLY REAL on-line; I'm not into theory wank, I'm into seeing theory wank being practiced and watching the evolution of said theory wank in day-to-day living) and (LOL) what are the chances that she's really, in secret code, talking about me (LOL AGAIN) when she probably doesn't even know I fucking exist. (Or she does, and as a precaution she's already boarded up her fucking windows and has a shotgun aimed at the door JUST IN CASE I come a-knockin'. If you're smart, you'd do the same.)

I'm totally aboard with the majority of her entry, Cooking Dinner Does Not Make You a Kitchen Witch (subtitled: Making Friends Where Ever I Go), but I have to (politely, and with many charming expletives) disagree with part of the statement above because this entire "cleaning" thing? It's fucking complicated, yo, and probably really objective depending on what circles you do - or don't - travel/commune/interact with.

My magic is weird, basic and simple. So simple, in fact, I can see it being described as "child-like" just before my actions/beliefs get dismissed and filed under "playing pretend". The best thing about "playing pretend", though? You don't need anything except your will because the game you're engaging in isn't being executed by props, it's being executed by you.

I once came across a conversation where one of the parties involved insisted that magic success is 60% dependant on having the right props, several years later I STILL snort-laugh-eye roll to myself whenever that conversational snippet mentally surfaces. Don't get me wrong, I love STUFF, I fucking LIVE FOR stuff. I'm forever buying STUFF and forever experiencing the emotional roller coaster of being able to afford STUFF and NOT being able to afford STUFF.

Stuff, however, makes living; it doesn't make magic.

I'm only saying all of this to cinch my point...well, in a longwinded, roundabout way (heh). It's not that I don't occasionally use STUFF, because I do. It's just STUFF doesn't get shit done, I do. When you strip everything external from a magic act - the incense, the flowers, the music, the oils - does it make the act any less magic? There's something PURE and REAL when it's only you, your energy, your will, your determination and your goal you're working towards.

The absolute best example of that way of thinking is my approach to cleaning and taking care of the house. I don't open (or close) protective circles, I don't create "shields", I don't engage in full-blown rituals which require you to call all of the fucking directions (and all of their corresponding plants and colors and fairies and gemstones and their second removed cousins). I clean - myself, my surroundings, what's important to me - and that's enough.

It's basic, primitive magic. By taking EXTRA SPECIAL CARE into washing and cleaning I'm deliberately removing, discarding and organizing my life and my environment to optimum standards (and in the case of cleaning I'm just not imagining doing it, I'm PHYSICALLY doing it which has IMMEDIATE results) using (seemingly) mundane actions.

I've burned candles and incense for the better part of my life, but I swear to all that's fucking holy that none of those acts have ever made me feel as powerfully magic as spending an entire day laboriously stripping down my surroundings and then, with sweat, tears, will, effort, determination and the occasional, accidental offering of blood reconstructing them in a buzzing atmosphere that's completely saturated with (and by) me.

And, dude, don't even get me started on the entire morning after, when I've slept like a motherfucking log only to wake up stiff as a fucking board thanks to the previous day of excessively exercising control, protection and authority on my terms. How do I know my magic's worked? Because I can't fucking move the next day. Those are successful results you just don't see, you fucking feel.

ANYWAY...so, yeah. Hi, Ms. Drop Out Dilettante! This is me attempting to make friends by arguing one of your viewpoints with you, but not even because I have this bizarre inability to communicate with people via comments. (I DUNNO, INTERNET, LEAVING COMMENTS FEELS LIKE "FOREVER", AND I HATE SEEING MY NAME ATTACHED TO ANYTHING "FOREVER" UNLESS I HAVE ABSOLUTE CONTROL OVER IT (I.E., THE ABILITY TO EDIT AND/OR DELETE). THAT, AND, I ALWAYS FEEL SORT'VE SWARMY LEAVING COMMENTS, LIKE I'M SOME SORT OF DEMONIC KIDDIE SNATCHER ATTEMPTING TO NEFARIOUSLY LURE UNSUSPECTING VICTIMS TO MY SITE FOR MORE TRAFFIC.)

At least I was inspired to get off my fucking ass and write something REAL, you know? And I know "something real" has been woefully absent here as of late with all of the sick and dying pets, unnecessary run-ins with my in-laws and 180ed Winter-to-Spring life. I've been so caught up with completing personal projects that I haven't had the time - or the right frame of mind - to sit down and really dig deep.

(Don't think I haven't noticed you noticing, because I have. I'm also V. disappointed with myself for letting things slide and I'm seriously working on it. I'm a deep person, dammit, the stars just need to be in perfect alignment for me to exude signs of deep personage.)

Way, Way Before My Time

Remember when witchcraft wasn't a jasmine scented nightmare embellished with glitter, fairy wings and "craft names" that can be broken down into three separate nouns without a letter leftover? (<- Don't even get me started on the bogus nobility titles epidemic.)

Me neither; it was way, way before my time.