The Old Magic of Christmas
Page 13
According to legend, the first “Lussi,” as she was known in earlier times, was a local girl who appeared in the pre-dawn hours of a winter’s morning to deliver food to the starving villagers of western Sweden. These days, she shows up with a coffeepot and a basket of saffron buns, or Lussekatter. These “Lussi cats” may point to the Norse fertility goddess, Freya, whose chariot was pulled by cats. Unfortunately, there is no record of such “cat buns” before 1620, at which time they were baked for St. Nicholas Day in the sometimes-German, sometimes-Danish province of Holstein.
Recipe: Lussekatter
These buns come in a wide variety of traditional shapes, bearing such imaginative names as Goat Cart, Peacock, and Priest’s Hair. The general name by which they are known is Lussekatter, meaning “Lucy cats.” The most common shape is the “S” scroll presented here, which many Swedes identify as the Cat itself. Others call it the boar or simply the Twist. Two “C” scrolls placed back to back might also be the Cat or a set of Wagon Wheels. Because they’re labor intensive, Lussekatter can be made ahead of time, frozen, and warmed in the oven before the sun comes up on December 13. Serve them with coffee and candlelight.
Ingredients:
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, plus a little more for greasing
1 cup whole milk
1 goodly pinch saffron threads
5 cardamom pods or ½ teaspoon ground cardamom (both optional)
½ cup sugar, plus a little more for sprinkling
1 package active dry yeast
2 eggs, beaten, plus 1 egg white for glaze
4–4½ cups white flour
1⁄3 cup dried currants
Put the stick of butter in a small pot with the milk and heat on low just until the butter is melted. While you are waiting, crumble the saffron threads between your fingers or grind them in a small mortar and pestle, then add them to the butter/milk mixture and let stand. Split open your cardamom pods, if you are using them, and let the dark seeds drop into the mortar. Crush. (No need to wash the mortar and pestle in between the saffron and the cardamom.) Mix the crushed cardamom seeds, sugar, yeast, and 1 cup flour in a large bowl. Gradually stir in the warm saffron mixture. Add beaten eggs and the rest of the flour a little at a time.
On a floured surface, knead the dough for about 10 minutes. Shape into a ball and place in a large, butter-smeared bowl. Cover with a damp towel and leave in a warm place to rise for about 45 minutes. Punch the dough down and turn onto a lightly floured surface. Cover with the towel and let rest about 5 minutes.
In the meantime, soak the currants in a bowl with hot water. After 5 minutes, drain currants and set aside.
Pinch off a piece of dough to make a ball slightly larger than a golf ball. Roll it into a rope between your hands and shape into an “S” scroll or, if you prefer, make a slightly more realistic cat’s head by flattening a small ball for the cat’s face, then pinching two smaller balls into ears. Place buns on a greased or foil-lined cookie sheet.
Cover your first sheet of buns with the damp towel and let rise about 10 minutes while you prepare the second sheet.
Lussekatter
Just before you put your buns in the oven, brush them with a beaten egg white and firmly press dried currants into dough for accents. Sprinkle buns with sugar and bake at 375°F for 10–15 minutes.
Night Walks with Heavy Steps
Like Denmark, Norway adopted the modern Lucia procession during World War II, thereby eclipsing the distant memory of a much older, darker spirit. This Lussi or Lussibrud (i.e., “Lucy Bride”) was the witchlike leader of the Lussiferd, her own special detachment of the Wild Hunt. On December 13, this troop of goblins swept down on the Norwegian farmhouses to help themselves to bread and beer. If there were any naughty children inside, Lussi herself might slip down the chimney to teach them a lesson.
“Night walks with heavy steps,” opens one of several Scandinavized versions of the old Neapolitan folk song “Santa Lucia.” In addition to marking the winter solstice Old Style, December 13 was also one of the medieval Ember Days, fasting days interspersed throughout the seasons to remind humankind to repent. Cookies, buns, and fish were all right, but meat was forbidden. On Ember Days, the rich were supposed to give food to the poor, just as the legendary Lucia doled out loaves from her basket. Whether the night of the full moon, solar event, cross-quarter day, or one of that handful of leftover days at the end of the year, whenever a date was designated as extraordinary, the door was left open to supernatural interference. As one of the Ember Days and the longest night of the year, Lussinatt was double trouble.
In Latvia, the werewolves came out on St. Lucy’s Eve, while in Austria, as in old Norway, it was a night of witches. In the mountains, things were relatively calm, but where the land flattened out toward the Hungarian plain, it was necessary to carry a frying pan full of glowing coals and blackthorn (Prunus spinosa) twigs through the house to smoke out those witches and goblins that might otherwise plunder the winter stores. In southern Austria, large round pancakes were baked in the hot ashes of the fireplace—the sun goddess’s wagon wheels, perhaps?—and a braided yeast bread known as a Luziastriezel was baked as an antidote for the bite of a rabid dog.35 To the north and east in Burgenland, it did not matter how many pancakes you made or how thick the smoke rolling through the parlor; you could still expect a visit from the dreaded Lutzelfrau.
The Lutzelfrau
Known also as Fersenlutzel, or “Heel Lucy,” because she threatened to cut out your Achilles tendon, and Budelfrau and Pudelmutter, an old mother who let presents rain down from her voluminous skirts, this witch was both disciplinarian and gift-giver in one. If you were lucky, you would never see her; she would throw her gifts in at the door, which had been mysteriously left ajar. But more often she would step inside in all her horrific glory.
Here she comes, an old peasant woman with kerchief and glowering, ash-smeared countenance. She appears completely foreign, for surely no one so ugly has ever lived in the village. She certainly looks nothing like the teenaged sister or housemaid who slipped out a little while ago and hasn’t come back yet. First, this pushy old hag inspects the floors, the furniture, the cupboards, and the dishes inside them to make sure everything has been properly washed, dusted, waxed, and polished. Then she turns her attention to the children. Have they also been scrubbed? Have they been sweeping, studying, praying, obeying their parents, and getting to bed on time? Convinced that all is in order, she finally decides against abducting any of the children.
Before she goes, she gives her skirts a shake, letting fall an abundance of sweets, fruits, and nuts interspersed with turnips and potatoes. The root vegetables are seized by the older children, who know there are sure to be coins hidden inside. As the children scramble for the prizes rolling all over the floor, the Lutzelfrau disappears. A little while later, the older sister returns—and didn’t she just pass the strangest character on the way home?
Lucka
Yet another sort of Lucy haunted the formerly German-speaking areas of Bohemia. Like her Austrian counterparts, the Lucka of Neuhaus was neither young nor pretty, and underneath her skirts she was not even female. Though the Lucka, too, has taken a form of the saint’s name, she is more closely related to the old goddess-cum-folk-figure, Perchta, specifically, Schnabelpercht, or “Beak Perchta.”
The beak remained a prominent feature of the nineteenth-century Bohemian Lucka, and what a beak it was, concealing all but the piercing eyes of the impersonator, who, as a rule, was a teenaged boy. The wooden framework of the beak was covered by a white handkerchief with two eyeholes cut in it. This was knotted at the back of the neck, after which a large white kerchief was stretched over the head and tied either under the chin or on top of the head. A woman’s dress and cloak completed the costume. By holding the point of the beak’s framework in his mouth, the actor could make the pieces clack noisily as he inspected
the house, stirring up any lingering dust on the furniture with his Federwisch, or “feather-wipe.” This was not the ineffectual feather duster with which French maids flap about the house but the last joint of a goose’s wing with feathers intact, yet another relic of the bird goddess.
In fact, Lucka may have had another, more mysterious reason for making sure the floors were swept clean: she did not want anyone to see what sort of footprints she left. But if there was snow on the ground, as there was sure to be during Advent in Bohemia, her splayed foot might still leave behind the pentangular Drudenfuss, or “Drude’s foot,” a sure sign that a Drude, or bird-woman, had passed that way. On December 13, the Drudenfuss was also a Christian talisman, for the five points of the star correspond to the five letters in the saint’s Latin name, “Lucia.”
Craft: Lucka Mask
Here is a paper version of the old Bohemian disguise that was made of wood splints and linen. If you think you might not have a chance to wear your Lucka mask—who has the time these days?—you can use smaller circles and make a few maskettes to hang around the house from December 12 until Christmas Eve.
Tools and materials:
2 large sheets watercolor or heavy drawing paper
Dinner plate for tracing
Cake plate or round serving platter, also for tracing
Pencil
Scissors
Ruler
Glue
X-Acto or other craft knife
Hole puncher
White yarn or ribbon
Silver glitter, Q-Tip (both optional)
Trace the dinner plate and the cake plate on the two sheets of paper to make one small and one large circle. Cut both circles out. Fold each circle into quarters and unfold. The dotted lines in figure 9.1 and figure 9.2 show the creases.
Lucka mask, figure 9.1
On the small circle, make four inch-long cuts from the edge inward, as shown by the solid lines in figure 9.1. On the larger circle, cut out one quarter (figure 9.2). You will only need the other three quarters if you are going to make more than one mask. Turn the cut-out quarter into a cone and glue the seam (figure 9.3).
Lucka mask, figure 9.2
Lucka mask, figure 9.3
Using a large coin as a template, trace two eyeholes on the small circle as shown in figure 9.4. Cut out the eyeholes with your knife.
Lucka mask, figure 9.4
Use the base of your cone to trace a circle in the center of the mask. With your knife, divide the circle into “pie slices” as shown in figure 9.5, but do not cut out the circle itself. Fold the “pie slices” up and back as shown in figure 9.6.
Lucka mask, figure 9.5
Lucka mask, figure 9.6
Slide the cone out through the hole in the center of the mask. Glue the “pie slices” to the base of the cone to hold it in place.
It’s time to use those four cuts you made at the edge of the mask. Starting at the forehead, slide the edges of the cut one over the other and glue in place. Do the chin next, then the cheeks. Punch a hole at the side of each cheek and tie a length of yarn or ribbon in each hole.
figure 9.7 shows the finished mask with silver glitter applied on the nose and around the eyeholes. There is no mouth because the Lucka traditionally does not speak.
Lucka mask, figure 9.7
Rising from the Ashes
Meanwhile, in Bohemian Rosenberg, the Lucu, three youths dressed in white, entered the house with broom, bucket, and mop. Without a word, they proceeded to whisk and wash away until the housewife presented each of them with a small gift. Like the equally mysterious Slavic “Sweeper” who entered homes silently during Advent to brush the stove three times with her bundle of birch twigs, the Lucu’s services were more of a blessing than a thorough cleaning.
Further to the east, there was a Slovakian Lucka who glided silently with face veiled through all the nights between her feast day and Christmas Eve. The Slovakian Lucka reminds us of both the Barborky and the scarecrow brides, who, not unlike those virginal Christian martyrs, were stabbed, burned, and/or cast into rivers.
Back in Sicily, Lucia Night is celebrated with bonfires, though the saint’s image is never thrown into the flames. Lucia has proven herself to be one of the most resilient saints, having survived the Reformation in both the Lutheran and Anglican churches. There’s really no need to feel sorry for her, especially when you take into account her striking resemblance to Aurora, Roman goddess of the dawn. If not Aurora, then the first Lucia was probably some native Sicilian equivalent thereof. In Sicily, she also served as a gift-giver, coming down the chimney in her witch’s weeds, not her saintly garments. This Lucia threw ashes in the eyes of any child she caught spying on her. The saint, we are told, gouged her own eyes out to make herself less attractive to potential suitors, but the throwing of the ashes strikes one as a reminder never to look directly at the sun or at secretive gift-givers.
Regardless of whether or not she ever actually existed, the Sicilian Santa Lucia aspired to become the bride of Christ. Still a virgin, she now banishes the winter darkness with a brave display of candlelight. The Lucka and Lussibrud, on the other hand, consumed the night, taking it with her when she left the village so that the hours of daylight might increase. In Bohemia, she was said to “drink the night.” This older Lucy was the bride of Death, the midwinter darkness her dowry. As such, she provided an invaluable service to the far-flung communities of farmers and herdsmen to which she had been born. No Christian saint could quite replace her.
With the Old Solstice behind us and Christmas on its way, have we now seen the last of the glowing, bridelike Midwinter Witch? No, we have not, for, as the cast-down White Witch in Prince Caspian says herself, “[W]ho ever heard of a witch that really died? You can always get them back.”
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34. See “Boys blocked from bearing ‘girls-only’ Lucia crown” at http://www.thelocal.se/16308/20081212/ (The Local: Sweden’s News in English, December 12, 2008).
35. There are a handful of ancient goddesses and goddesslike figures who often appeared with dogs, among them Diana, St. Walburga, and the Lowland Nehalennia. The dogs might reflect these goddesses’ early identities as huntresses or as queens of the dead, for the dog was a popular escort to the underworld. Going her own way was the fertility goddess Freya with her string of cats.
CHAPTER TEN
There Are Witches in the Air
It was once the custom of Austrian farm wives to go out to the orchard at midnight on St. Andrew’s Eve (November 29) to break branches from the apricot trees. They forced the branches into flower in vases at home, then carried them to church on Christmas Eve. The white blossoms must have looked quite striking against the wives’ dark wool Sunday dresses, but it was not these ladies’ intention to create a pretty tableau; the flowering apricot branch allowed the bearer to pick out any witches in the congregation. What set the Austrian witch apart? Well, if you had an apricot branch, you would notice she carried a wooden pail on her head. I don’t know about witches, but the practice must have been an effective means of identifying the parish busybodies.
St. Andrew’s Day is an important fingerpost along the road to Christmas. There are two systems in place for calculating the beginning of Advent, the ecclesiastical Christmas season. One is to count back from the fourth Sunday before Christmas Day. The other is to locate the Sunday closest to St. Andrew’s Day. In most Catholic and formerly Catholic regions, St. Andrew’s Day is the cue to start planning a happy holiday, but it is the darker occasion of St. Andrew’s Eve, and the ensuing Christmas season, which concerns us here.
Vampires
While the Austrian witches were scouring their milk pails and Polish girls were busy pouring lead into cold water to find out when and to whom they would be married, the Romanians had bigger problems. In Romania, St. Andrew’s Eve was not a n
ight to go out, let alone to go wandering in the orchard. It was not enough to lock the doors; before dark, all apertures had to be thoroughly rubbed with a peeled garlic clove, for on this night the vampires clawed their way out of their graves and walked again. Carrying their coffins portage-style, they paraded into the village to circle their former homes before taking themselves to the crossroads to engage in a pitched battle, no doubt with the vampires of the neighboring village.
A cross placed, chalked, or painted over a door or cattle stall imparts protection to the occupant, but a crossroads has always been the haunt of witches and other “malevolent” spirits, perhaps because suicides were buried and outlaws left to rot there. The Apostle Andrew, whose night this is, was martyred on an X-shaped cross. His feast day marks a crossroads within the year, for it was acknowledged in much of Europe as the true beginning of winter.
Joining these more usual vampires at the crossroads were the village’s congenital vampires. This could be a seventh son or an individual whose mother had neglected to pull out the one or two teeth with which he had been born. The soul of this kind of vampire left his sleeping body as a blue flame flying out through the mouth. Between home and the crossroads, it assumed the shape of that vampire’s personal animal, so even the nosy neighbor who was brave enough to peer out the window would have no idea to whom the fiery blue dog flying by might belong. Cockcrow sent both species of vampire scuttling back to their graves and their beds on the morning of St. Andrew’s Day.