The Befana sweeps through

Epiphany, which it says in the fine print is intended to commemorate the visit of the Three Kings to the Baby Jesus, offering him gold, frankincense, and myrrh, has metamorphosed over the centuries into a day dedicated primarily to a happy little hag known as the Befana.  Her name, which I suppose could just as well have been Hepzibah or Basemath, is a homely mutation of the word Epiphany.  You probably already figured that out.

She's almost always smiling.  That's a good sign.
She's almost always smiling. That's a good sign.

Her connection to the day is gifts.  No, of course children haven’t gotten enough of them yet.  Are you mad?  It’s been a whole 12 days since the last truckload of presents was dropped on them.

The Befana is a remarkable creature, and to love her you must get past your feelings about hook-nosed, snaggle-toothed harpies with broomsticks.  She’s actually closer to honey and poplar syrup and agave nectar, all sweetness and no light.  She flies at night.

Stockings don’t belong to Santa Claus, here they’re hung out tonight for the Befana to swoop through and fill with candy and doodads.  In my day, a doodad might have been a Slinky. Today, it’s probably an iPhone.

Here is a dish of candy coal, which makes as much sense as candy corn.
Here is a dish of candy coal, which makes as much sense as candy corn.

She is also liable to leave coal instead of candy, coal being the traditional judgment on Bad Children. But naturally  by now a loophole has been found — created, actually — by inventing a candy that looks like coal.  I’ve tried it, and it tastes exactly like what you’d think a block of black sugar would taste like.  Not that black has a taste, but your imagination instinctively supplies one.

The Befana is always changing, always the same. Averaging out the thousands of versions crowding the candy stores and pastry shops, I’d say she was a combination of Dame Edna Everage and Jimmy Durante. I found one that looked like a distant cousin of Porky Pig, but I’m sure that was unintentional.

IMG_3983 befThere are many and deep significances to this observance which I won’t repeat now; my post last year covered most of them.  I only note here that I am looking forward, as always, to detecting the smell tonight of woodsmoke blowing over from nearby farmland — Sant’ Erasmo, or, slightly further away, the settlements by the sea near Jesolo, Ca’ Savio, Treporti, smoke swirling out of the flaming bonfires which are lit in her honor.

I want to note — for the record, whoever may be keeping it, or reading it — that the occasional practice of burning the effigy of the Befana atop the pyre is historically wrong.  Bonfires, yes, but with the purpose of disposing of a lot of dead plant material you have to get rid of before next spring’s planting.  The “Vecia” (old lady) is more traditionally burned up at the middle of Lent, and some places still plan it that way.

Meaning no disrespect whatsoever to this venerable crone, I have to say that Venice once was swamped with cronish ladies, of various ages, whose mission in life was to patrol the family, and neighboring families, with relentless scrutiny.  Now that neighborhood life has changed so much over the past three generations — television, sufficient heating, children moving away, and death have taken their toll on the dense agglomerations of terrifying, invasive, implacable old ladies who could smile like angels as they slashed your reputation to ribbons behind your back.  I know this because Lino has told me Stories about them, and does a bloodcurdling impression of a typical conversation between a few of these matrons.

Even more, I can confirm that the Venetian language is gratifyingly rich in terms which describe the myriad nuances of ancient females.  I don’t imagine I can do them justice on my own, even though they’re words you could hear every day and eventually begin to use instinctively in certain situations: Marantega, carampane, grima, sbetega, peocio refa‘, and many more, all have deliciously complicated meanings.  The fact that there are so many words for the variations on these life-battered and -battering women (not to mention casual expressions to describe them, such as “Ugly as the plague,” “As ugly as hunger,” and so on), show the depth of feeling they inspired in everyone who knew them or even came near them, especially their families.

IMG_3980 befEspedita Grandesso, in her wonderful  book, “Prima de parlar, tasi,” has applied her exegetical scalpel to many of these terms.  Here is a brief sample (translated by me):

Marantega: [Ma-RAHN-te-ga].  The Befana is sometimes referred to as the “marantega barola” (barola meaning really old), but that is sort of a slur, in my opinion. A marantega, according to Grandesso, is primarily an ancient and misanthropic woman, dedicated to the cult of the dead in the sense that she keeps daily tabs on who has preceded her to paradise, spreading the news everywhere. This type of woman possesses a mournful sense of existence and is the town crier of every disgrace which occurs in her range of activity.  In days gone by, one could find her in the performance of these duties in church, at the hour of saying the rosary, or vespers, in the act of delivering the last horrid news in the ear of yet another unfortunate biddy, chosen from among the meekest and most impressionable.

Carampana:  [cah-rahm-PAHN-ah]. By now this term signifies a woman of decrepit agedness, who maintains presumptions of attractiveness and, for that reason, plasters her wrinkles with rouge and continues to dress in the style of the time when she was lovely. In general, she is a pathetic creature who, unfortunately, gives a helping hand to derision.  In the past, however, this term literally meant “prostitute,” and can still describe a trollop who is old and out of service, and who, with her excessive makeup and her attitude maintains an equivocal air that is almost the stamp of her long-practiced profession.  In fact, it was originally the name of the neighborhood near the Rialto which was the red-light district.

IMG_3982 befSbetega: [SBEH-teh-ga].  Literally a shrew and loudmouth.

Grima: [GREE-ma].  Much worse than a sbetega.  In this case it means a malignant woman who is, at the same time, aggressive and hard to neutralize.  Mothers-in-law often belong to this category, but daughters-in-law also do pretty well for themselves.

Peocio Refa‘: [peh-OH-cho reh-FA].  Literally a made-over cootie.  This is a person (who could also be a man) who has made money and enjoys a good financial position, remaining at the same time crude and mean-spirited, whose greatest pleasure consists of humiliating her neighbor, especially if that person is culturally superior to her.  The northeast Veneto [and, may I add, much of the Lido] offers excellent examples of this species.

These would be Befana Lite.
These would be Befana Lite.

Otovario dei Morti: [Aw-to-VAH-ree-oh day MOR-tee].  I myself haven’t heard this term used in daily life around here, but the character it describes is eternal. Grandesso says that the “ottavario” was the word indicating the repetition of a religious feast, one that was particularly solemn or deeply felt, eight days after its first celebration. Therefore the Ottavario dei Morti was tied to All Souls’ Day, or the commemoration of the deceased. This term is given to a person who is sad, either in appearance or temperament, who only talks about depressing or funereal events, whether public or private, reaching the apex of pleasure when they are particularly disastrous.  In the days of patriarchal families, this role was generally performed by widowed or spinster aunts, well along in years.  These charitable women, having long since left behind the joys of the world, busy themselves in extirpating them as well in the hearts of relatives, friends, and acquaintances.

None of these expressions could ever be used for the Befana, though.  She adores children and I myself don’t believe she cares what adults might think or say about her. You can tell she isn’t from around here.

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Venice salutes its Madonna

Of course you already know that “La Madonna della Salute” does not mean “Our Lady of the Salute.” She is Our Lady of Health, and every year on November 21 everyone in Venice who can walk, and even some who can’t, make the pilgrimage to her church to offer a candle and say however many prayers are filling their hearts.

Just like the feast of the Redentore, a votive bridge is installed -- here spanning the Grand Canal. It is intended to carry the faithful piously over the water, but it's also an excellent vantage point for snapshots.
Just as at the feast of the Redentore, a votive bridge is installed -- here spanning the Grand Canal. It is intended to carry the faithful piously over the water, but it's also an excellent vantage point for snapshots.

Yesterday was not a propitious day, meteorologically speaking.  For two or three days the  Gazzettino had been feverishly predicting acqua alta of 120 cm [four feet] that morning.  (It didn’t happen.) There was plenty of water, however, in the form of a frigid rain.  It wasn’t heavy, but it was determined, the kind of rain that isn’t thinking about anything else.  And it got dark early.

Perhaps they look innocent enough to you here.  That's because you can't smell them.
Perhaps they look innocent enough to you. That's because you can't smell them.

There had also been an anxious sub-theme, which began circulating several days early, on the impending castradina famine.  Castradina the basis of  the traditional dish for this festival, a soup made of cabbage and a haunch of mutton which has been dried, smoked, aged, slathered in dark malodorous spices, and possibly even beaten with sticks and dead-blow hammers. It’s an impressive little piece of meat.

But this year, the Muslim festival of Eid al-Adha, or Festival of Sacrifice, fell in the same period.  Which meant that the general supply of castradina — which has never been huge, seeing as the tradition had fallen into general disuse — had suddenly shrunk to almost nothing.  I have now learned that Muslims favor this foodstuff for their religious observance, and that they offered a better price to the few remaining wholesalers who carry it.

This is amusing, in a way (it takes so little to amuse me), because for years many people didn’t care about castradina.  We’ve had Venetians over to dinner who had never eaten it. We’d see these hunks of black flesh hanging in the butcher shops and would wonder what they did with the ones they didn’t sell.

But in the past year or two, castradina has come back into fashion.  So Venice, according to the Gazzettino, was pullulating with desperate people seeking castradina by any means, in any place, at any price.  I can’t think of a credible substitute.  You couldn’t fake it even with tofu.

Getting ready for the big day doesn't mean just cooking castradina.  It means getting the area ready for every contingency.
Getting ready for the big day doesn't mean just cooking castradina. It means getting the area ready for every contingency.

Back to the weather.  It was cold, dark, and wet.  Just what I think of as perfect weather for this feast, though the women in the mink coats were thwarted by the rain.  As you know, they come out in force on this day even in the driving sun.  The need to show off their fur is just too strong. If you’re wearing beaver or seal, fine.  But minks do not like rain any more than their humans do. I kind of missed seeing these self-contented matrons in their luscious garb.  They do love it so.  Lino calls this the feast of Our Lady of the Fur Coats.

And the delivery of several hundredweight of neatly boxed candles.
And the delivery of several hundredweight of neatly boxed candles.
There are at least five stands and they all sell exactly the same thing.  I don't get it.
There are at least five stands and they all sell exactly the same thing. I don't get it.

This year, to my surprise, we got into the church without having to battle a rugby scrum, and we walked right up to the candle-lighting station and handed over our candles. This was an odd but very pleasant sensation.  Last year there was such a crush of people that I honestly thought we’d be trapped there holding our candles till Christmas Eve.

Then, as usual, we joined the file of people who elected to walk past the high altar and venerate the little Madonna on the other side, crossing themselves and tossing some cash, and walking out through the sacristy.  We found two seats in the heavy wooden choir stalls and sat down to watch people go by. Even though there weren’t massive crowds, the flow was steady.  So far, so normal.

You can’t force pious thoughts.  If you try, they just slide off your brain.  So I sat there not thinking at all, somewhat lulled by the rosary recitation floating over from the other side. And then a thought came to me — more a realization than a thought. I realized that we were being faithful.

All those thousands of frantic, distraught Venetians had been watching people die of the plague all around them till all they had left to offer in exchange for their lives was to promise the Virgin that if she would intercede and save what was left of the city, they would build her a church and come to offer her candles and gratitude every November 21 forever. And after 380 years, people (us) who are so far away from the original promisers that their vow could be thought of as symbolic, or even meaningless, are still maintaining that vow.

Crumpled-up little old people, children of every shape and temper, families of various nationalities, teenage boys, an assortment of tourists — anybody who was there formed another link in the chain tying us to those helpless, despairing people who made a promise that they believed we would keep.

And we did.  And we will.

IMG_3097 crop 800

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La Madonna della Salute

As a thank-you gift, the church of La Madonna della Salute ranks as one of the greatest anywhere.
As a thank-you gift, the church of Santa Maria della Salute ranks as one of the greatest anywhere.

If I were to tell you  (which I am) that another important holiday has just been upon us, you would be correct in asking me — before the history, the rituals, the weather — what we’re  eating.    As I write the house is full of an extraordinary aroma, which  is only to be found during one or two days each year.   If I were to try to describe it, you’d never want to eat it.

The feast-day (specifically November 21) is in honor of La Madonna della Salute, or Our Lady of Health.   The nutriment  is called castradina  (kah-stra-DEE-nah) and it’s not for the faint of palate.   Unlike frittelle at Carnival and bigoli in salsa at  Redentore, this is not a dish that one finds made at home very much anymore — an American woman in the butcher shop who overheard me ordering the main ingredient told me that she wouldn’t have the “courage” to try making it. (Courage?   It’s not like you   have to  club it to death.   Besides, with something this strange, how would anybody know if it had gone wrong?)

Cabbage belongs with cured meat -- it's just one of those mystic marriages.
Cabbage belongs with cured meat -- it's just one of those mystic marriages.

Most important, it’s a dish that would be impossible to make at any other time of year because the principal component appears at the  meatmongers only in mid-November and disappears even before the bridge is taken down at midnight and it will not  be obtainable anywhere for another year  “not  even for ready money,” as the butler  put it to Lady Bracknell.   So even if you hate it, there is something appealing about its rarity, like one of those small creatures that are born, live, and die in the course of a single day.   I happen to love it, but you know me.

Castradina is  leg of mutton which has been dried, salted, smoked, and smeared with every spice which is black and odoriferous, and left to fester for only God  knows how long.   Hanging in the butcher shops they look like small prosciuttos which have just dragged themselves out of some basement apartment in Haight-Ashbury.

Under the Venetian Republic this product came from the flocks grazing the rocky heights of Dalmatia; today, much of it  comes from the area of Sauris, in northeastern Italy next-door to Slovenia.     Traditionally this meat — which obviously was treated in this intense way to  withstand everything from ocean voyages to long-range bombardment — needs long, slow cooking.   More than skill (or even courage), it requires time.     And cabbage.   I forgot to mention the verze sofogae, the suffocated cabbage.

I will give the recipe below, but I feel the need to move on to describe the feast-day itself.   I find it very comforting because as there is Thanksgiving in November (with meat) in America, here there is thanksgiving in November (also with meat).   So I don’t feel I’m missing any important element of the late autumn in all its dank, grey glory.

To understand why a church of the magnitude of Baldassare Longhena’s baroque basilica was built, we need to grasp, even slightly, the magnitude of the disaster it commemorates.

In 1630, Venice was hit with one of  the worst plagues in her plague-ridden history.   A mere 50 years earlier (1575-76) the city had managed to survive the scourge  which inspired the church of the Redentore and  its yearly festival of gratitude.     Now, before the city had really recovered, the plague was back and it was even worse than before.

In that year plague had already been roaming around northern Italy,  brought by  German and and French soldiers fighting the Thirty Years’ War.    They infected some of the Venetian troops, who took it to  Mantova, where soon the disease had eliminated almost the entire city.

A hearse -- at the moment without any casket -- passes Lazzaretto Vecchio, one of several plague quarantine islands.
A hearse -- at the moment without any casket -- passes Lazzaretto Vecchio, one of several plague quarantine islands.

Venice was understandably cautious about contagion and was a pioneer in the business of quarantine, sequestering arriving ships, their crews  and even their  cargo for 40 days.   The islands of Lazzaretto Vecchio and Lazzaretto Nuovo were dedicated to dealing with these cases, as well as some islands which have disappeared.    For those unable to resist the romanticism of the idea of Venice sinking, I offer for pure, unadulterated melancholy the vision of an island (actually two: San Marco in Boccalama and San Lorenzo in Ammiana) which sank beneath the lagoon waves still containing the skeletons of the hundreds of poor bastards who were sent there to die.   If Thomas Mann had known — or cared — about this, his famous novel with the irresistible title would not have had anything to do with a doomed infatuation at an expensive hotel but something much harsher in every way.

The situation in Venice was under control until an ambassador arrived from  Carlo Gonzaga-Nevers, duke of Mantova.   As everybody knew Mantova was already hugely infected with plague,  the ambassador and his family were promptly quarantined on the island of San Clemente (now the site of the San Clemente Palace Hotel).   All would have been well except that somebody thought it would be a good idea to send a carpenter over to see about some renovations that needed to be made to the ambassador’s quarters.   Nothing wrong with that, but they let him go home.   He brought the  plague to San Vio, his neighborhood, and thence to the  entire city.

By the time the epidemic was finally over 18 months later, 46,490 deaths had been recorded (some estimates go as high as 80,000)  in a population of 140,000.      The   catastrophe was made even worse by the disproportionate number of pregnant women who died, and the fact that an epidemic of smallpox was also raging.   So many people were dying each day that it was impossible to remove them all quickly; dead bodies simply lay about the streets, spreading contagion and panic.

This magnificent composition by Belgian sculptor Giusto Le Court (1627-1679) tells the story: (Left) the city of Venice, as a beautiful noblewoman, begs the Virgin Mary for deliverance.  (Center) The Virgin accepts her plea.  (Right) The plague, as a hideous hag, is driven out.
This magnificent composition by Flemish sculptor Giusto Le Court (1627-1679) tells the story: (Left) the city of Venice, as a beautiful noblewoman, begs the Virgin Mary for deliverance. (Center) The Virgin accepts her plea. (Right) The plague, as a hideous hag, is driven out.

Desperate, the Doge and Senate, the Patriarch of San Marco  and the people of Venice gathered   in San Marco to pray for deliverance; they performed a solemn procession throughout the entire city for 15 successive Saturdays, carrying the miraculous icon of the Madonna Nicopeia which the Byzantine Emperor used to carry into battle at the head of his army.    And the Senate made a vow to build a church to the Virgin, swearing that the people would go there every year to give thanks till forever, if she would intercede to save the city.  

In November, 1631 the plague was declared officially ended, and they kept their promise, though  it took 50 years to fulfill.   In    November, 1687, Longhena’s masterpiece was complete.

So every November 21 since 1631,  Venetians have honored the Senate’s vow to give thanks and have gone to offer their thanks to the Madonna della Salute, Our Lady of Health, and to ask for her protection or intercession.    A friend of mine makes a point of telling his doctor that the two euros he spends on a votive candle that day is the best money he spends on his health all year.   I think he’s joking but I’m not sure.

IMG_4771 Salute bridge compA temporary bridge is installed  over the Grand Canal between S. Maria del Giglio and  San Gregorio — roughly the path of the normal gondola traghetto.    In the beginning  it was set up on boats, big cargo-hauling peatas, which Lino  remembers.   Eventually, though, the demands of traffic outranked piety and now the bridge is  a suitably high section of the one used in July for the feast of the Redentore.

Temporary stalls are set up around the area in front of the church’s steps where vendors sell candles from delicate to dangerous.   You buy your candle, take it into the church, and wait amid the throng until you’ve inched close enough to the candle-offering stations to give your candle to the harried, wax-spattered boys who are lighting new candles and blowing out old ones at a pretty steady clip.   Not many candles stay lit for very long, but try not to let that matter to you.   It’s the thought that counts.

A fairly modest stall compared to some of the others, but still doing a steady business in votive candles.
A fairly modest stall compared to some of the others, but still doing a steady business in votive candles.

Masses are being said at intervals in the various side chapels, and also at the high altar.   We manage to shuffle past the altar to the choir behind, and sit in some of the heavy carved wooden stalls for a while  to watch the people leaving through the sacristy.   As Lino says, if you stay there long enough you’ll see everybody go by.   This is one day nobody wants to miss.

Especially the ladies in their fur coats.   For many and various reasons, Venice in winter is one place where mink still reigns supreme.   One night on the vaporetto I counted eleven (I did not make that up).   Shearling and wool are fine, and down parkas abound.    But women of a certain age and ilk are going to be in fur.   If it can’t be mink, it’s going to be as damn close to it as they can manage.

November 21 appears  to be the unofficial opening day of the mink-coat season.   I think it’s because — as mentioned above — everybody is going to be at the basilica, hence it’s the ideal moment and place to present yourself in all your furry splendor.   I have seen women in mink coats on the big day when the sun was shining and the temperature in the mid-50s.   Sweat?   Sure.   Take it off?   Never!   I have a friend who  refers to this  as the feast of Our Lady of the Fur Coat.

Before we leave the subject of this brief but glorious holy day, I need to stress that all is not  candles and sacred vows.   Yes, children are brought by their relatives, and they go through the drill.   But it’s going to be quite a few years before the Salute connotes sanctity to them and not cotton candy.   Because behind and beside the church, along the rio tera’ dei Catechumeni, a series of stalls are set up which you can smell long before you see them.   It’s fat-and-sugar Elysium: deep-fried frisbees of dough (think flat funnel cakes) slathered with Nutella, candied peanuts, big fat doughnuts, long ropes of that weird pinkish soft stuff that looks like a thread of marshmallow DNA, and cotton candy sticking to everything.   Noise!   Lights!   Sugar shock!   And lots of balloons of cartoon characters, close to — and sometimes just past —  bursting with helium.   All day long the town is scattered with kids trudging home with floating Spongebob Squarepants or Nemo and Marlin or Dalmatian dogs tied to their wrists.

I have no idea what little Venetian kids in 1690 might have been given after they trudged out of church with their parents, but I would bet (I would hope) that it was something with absolutely no nutritional value  whatsoever.

CASTRADINA     Prepare two days in advance.

Part One:   “Suffocated cabbage”  or Verze sofogae (VER-zeh so-fo-GAH-eh)

Buy a medium-sized cabbage, preferably the kind that has crinkly purple leaves.   Why?   Because it looks better.   Otherwise, any cabbage.

Slice it into really thin strips, not too long.   Put it in an anti-stick pot along with a modest amount of extra-virgin olive oil, a few knobs of garlic, a sprig or two of rosemary, a little salt.   Mix to coat well.   Put it on low heat and cover.   Stir occasionally.   Eventually the cabbage will reduce itself to one-third of its previous volume, and have become soft and almost velvety.   Don’t try to help it along by adding water.   Be patient.

Remove the garlic.   Set aside till tomorrow (in the refrigerator, or even leave it on the stovetop if the kitchen isn’t too warm.)

Part Two:   The castradina itself.

Buy a piece of castradina — half a leg is plenty for three people.   A pound, more or less.

Put it in a large stockpot filled with cold water.   Bring to a boil.   Simmer for half an hour.   (Considering what’s been done to it, it’s not like you have to actually cook it.)

Put the pot on the windowsill, or somewhere else that is reliably cool and leave it to cool down completely.   It will probably be overnight.

The next morning:   Skim off the congealed grease which has formed a soft layer on top of the liquid.

Add the cabbage.   Bring to a boil and  simmer for an hour or so.

To serve:   You can either serve the soup first, then a piece of the meat, or you can put them all together in the bowl.   I haven’t heard of any myth, etiquette, or rule governing this.   Just make sure it’s steaming hot.   That’s part of its gestalt.

The reason why it has to be hot is because back in the centuries when castradina was a normal thing to eat, before it became a semi-exotic semi-relic, people ate it all winter long for the simple reason that it was one great way to warm up.   You might like cocoa, or even mulled wine, but for a typical Venetian winter day/night you used to need to bring out the heavy culinary guns.   Blastingly hot castradina was born for this.

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