December 30: Basilopita
On New Year's Day St. Basili shows up with his love for the poor, toys for the children, and delicious sweet breads. He drops the breads--with coins baked inside--at doorsteps. He puts the toys in children's shoes and socks. We never see him, but in the traditional New Year's song, we invite St. Basili--and anyone who comes to our door--to
Sit down to eat,
sit down to drink,
Sit down to tell us your troubles.
Sit down to sing,
and to be a part of our fellowship.
I miss my family of origin more at New Year's than any other time of year if I'm not with them. I loved cutting the Basilopita, waiting to see who would get the coin and the good luck for the new year that came with it. I loved singing Christmas carols--and, of course, the Kalanta or New Year's carol--around a table, all of us raucous or weepy or a combination of both, depending on the year. I love especially how some of my cousin's voices have developed over the years--when I hear them sing now as adults, I can remember their child-voices, and can still hear remnants of those voices in their singing today. And, their children's voices are in the mix now, not quite the same but similar enough to remind me that we've come full circle.
I always make a million loaves (or, at least five to ten) of Basilopita before New Year's. We cut one at midnight and another the next morning and we give a bunch away. I carefully mark the new year in the shape of almonds on the crust. (The 8 this year promises to be especially challenging).
There is literally nothing that tastes better--OK, except maybe gemisi. Hardly anything, anyway.
New Year's begins with a radical welcome, with old songs that have a different meaning depending on the year, with sweetness and abundance.
For me, preparing for the New Year is also about carefully kneading the Basilopita and asking Agios Basilis for the word for my new year--which I am beginning to think might be trust, though it's not a done deal yet.
In 2016, the word was open. In 2017, wait. Trust seems like a good word to follow these, to continue on the trajectory of challenging myself. Wait made me uncomfortable. Trust arguably makes me even more uncomfortable.
But the truth is all of my life I've been taught to trust in traditions that have new meaning each year but keep us connected, keep our stories whole, the threads not neatly tied but frayed in a way that is still beautiful, and never, ever disconnected altogether. I've found ways to honor those traditions even when far from home. I've discovered new traditions that feel old now--and discarded some that no longer work.
Each ingredient kneaded into the bread, slowly and carefully, is like a story folded again and again until its shape no longer defines it, until its edges become a part of something larger, more nourishing and whole. At New Year's we take each memory into our hands. We hold, we mold, we let go, we make space, we remember that nothing is all there is, and everything is, well, everything.
Sit down to eat,
sit down to drink,
Sit down to tell us your troubles.
Sit down to sing,
and to be a part of our fellowship.
I miss my family of origin more at New Year's than any other time of year if I'm not with them. I loved cutting the Basilopita, waiting to see who would get the coin and the good luck for the new year that came with it. I loved singing Christmas carols--and, of course, the Kalanta or New Year's carol--around a table, all of us raucous or weepy or a combination of both, depending on the year. I love especially how some of my cousin's voices have developed over the years--when I hear them sing now as adults, I can remember their child-voices, and can still hear remnants of those voices in their singing today. And, their children's voices are in the mix now, not quite the same but similar enough to remind me that we've come full circle.
I always make a million loaves (or, at least five to ten) of Basilopita before New Year's. We cut one at midnight and another the next morning and we give a bunch away. I carefully mark the new year in the shape of almonds on the crust. (The 8 this year promises to be especially challenging).
There is literally nothing that tastes better--OK, except maybe gemisi. Hardly anything, anyway.
New Year's begins with a radical welcome, with old songs that have a different meaning depending on the year, with sweetness and abundance.
For me, preparing for the New Year is also about carefully kneading the Basilopita and asking Agios Basilis for the word for my new year--which I am beginning to think might be trust, though it's not a done deal yet.
In 2016, the word was open. In 2017, wait. Trust seems like a good word to follow these, to continue on the trajectory of challenging myself. Wait made me uncomfortable. Trust arguably makes me even more uncomfortable.
But the truth is all of my life I've been taught to trust in traditions that have new meaning each year but keep us connected, keep our stories whole, the threads not neatly tied but frayed in a way that is still beautiful, and never, ever disconnected altogether. I've found ways to honor those traditions even when far from home. I've discovered new traditions that feel old now--and discarded some that no longer work.
Each ingredient kneaded into the bread, slowly and carefully, is like a story folded again and again until its shape no longer defines it, until its edges become a part of something larger, more nourishing and whole. At New Year's we take each memory into our hands. We hold, we mold, we let go, we make space, we remember that nothing is all there is, and everything is, well, everything.
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