As I appeared bleary-eyed for breakfast a day ago, my wife – who normally gets out of bed before me – announced, “Tom Stoppard is dead”. How old, I asked? 88 she replied. A good age. In my advancing years, I read obituaries more and more frequently (such interesting lives people have lived!), and I have noted that many of those who are graced with an obituary in the newspaper I read shuffle off this mortal coil in their 80s. So, as I say, a good age.
For any of my readers who are not familiar with him, Tom Stoppard was a playwright, primarily for the stage, but also for radio, for TV, and for film (as a screenwriter in this case). Perhaps they will have seen the film Shakespeare in Love, whose screenplay Tom Stoppard co-wrote (and for which he shared a screenwriting Oscar).
Famous playwrights have been popping off, and I’ve never written about them. So if I write a post about Tom Stoppard’s death, it’s because he holds a special place in my heart. Many, many years ago, when I was 17 to be precise, I played a lead role in the play that made Stoppard’s name, “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead”. I have preciously kept the edition of the play we used as a script. It is now battered and worn from following us around on our countless moves over the intervening decades.
The play is a riff on Shakespeare’s “Hamlet”. Stoppard has taken two very secondary characters from that play, who are friends of Hamlet’s from way back, and has turned them into the protagonists, but of what exactly is never really clear, to them or to the audience. They have been summoned to the court of Denmark by the king, but they don’t know why. Essentially, the whole play is happening in the wings of the play “Hamlet”, with R & G passing the time discussing various topics and waiting for someone to explain to them what is going on; this aspect of the play has strong echoes of Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot”.
From time to time, apparently to give them the explanations they crave for, scenes from “Hamlet” roll onto the stage and our two hapless friends find themselves taking part in those scenes.
They are such minor characters that the king and queen, as we see in this photo are constantly getting them mixed up. Then the “Hamlet” scenes roll off the stage and R & G find themselves alone again and even more befuddled than before. Eventually, after a hilariously farcical scene on a ship with pirates, and without really understanding why, they die. The dialogue is absolutely scintillating, a hallmark of Stoppard’s. In fact, a common criticism of his plays is that there is too much head and too little heart. Perhaps, but his dialogue is among the best I have ever heard or read.
I played Rosencrantz, although I have to say that over the decades my memory faded and, like the king and queen of Denmark, I got confused about who I had played; I had to re-read the script again to be sure. I have no photos of myself, alas, in this performance. I’m sure photos were taken, but they will have remained in one of the albums which littered, and no doubt still litter, the school theatre’s green room. Instead, I’ll throw in some photos of some of the well-known actors who have played R & G, to show what good company I’m in. Here we have Daniel Radcliffe and Joshua McGuire playing the two roles.
Scarborough plays Rosencrantz, I’m pleased to see – my wife and I watched him recently playing a police inspector solving hideous murders.
Looking back, I realise that playing Rosencrantz was the apex of my acting career. I performed it in my last year at school, and my subsequent acting career at university was a relatively swift decline into secondary Rosencrantz-and-Guildenstern-like roles. The fact is, there were much better actors than me at university. I had briefly entertained the idea of becoming a professional actor, but I quickly realised that unless I wanted to spend much of my life out of work I had better find something else to do.
Funnily enough, I have never seen another of Stoppard’s plays in the intervening decades, although I have read a good number – that scintillating dialogue. I have to say, I turned off play-going after I stopped acting; I was spending too much time thinking about how I would have directed the plays I was watching. But maybe I could at least watch on YouTube the one film Stoppard himself directed – which happens to be of “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead”. That would surely be a fitting way for me to remember this great playwright.
A week or so ago, my wife and I were doing a gentle hike on Lake Como. We’ve both been a bit under the weather, so a hike with none of the brutal climbs required of many of the hikes around Lake Como were just what we needed. We had also done a few other, rougher hikes along the lake in the previous days and had discovered to our dismay that heavy rains back in late September had made a number of them impassable. So as I say, a nice gentle hike along a well-kept path was just what we needed. For any of my readers who might want to know which hike we did, it was the “Via Verde”, which runs between the villages of Moltrasio and Laglio (and is not to be confused with the rival “Green Way”, which runs further north along the same shoreline of the lake). Here is a photo of the typical view one enjoys along this path at this time of the year.
Towards the end, we were walking into the village of Carate Urio when we came across a table set up along the path and on which were placed two crates holding a dozen or so of these strange-looking vegetables – or were they fruits?
My wife trained her iPhone camera on one of these vegetables (or fruits?) and promptly identified it. In Italian, it is called “zucca spinosa”, or spiny pumpkin. They were certainly spiny, but the relationship to pumpkins wasn’t immediately obvious. And being a pumpkin, it’s sort of both a fruit and vegetable: botanically a fruit but culinarily a vegetable given the way it is eaten (as we shall see in a minute). For the purposes of this post, I will henceforth refer to it as a vegetable.
Different parts of the world have different names for this vegetable. It’s called chayote in the US. Here we have a lady from Louisiana showing off two of them (although, reflecting that State’s French heritage, they are often called mirlitons there, as they are in nearby Haiti).
The Americans have actually just borrowed the Spanish name for the vegetable; we’ll come back to the Spanish name in a minute.
It’s called chocho or chuchu or some variant thereof in places as varied as Mauritius, India, Sri Lanka, Brazil, and Jamaica. This is thought to be the Pidgin English version of chayote. Here we have a farmer in Assam with his crop of chocho.
The vegetable is called choko in Cantonese (am I wrong in thinking that this ultimately derives from chocho?), which later became the name used in Australia and New Zealand thanks to the Cantonese who emigrated there in the 19th Century. Here we have an Australian proudly showing off the chokos growing in his garden (note that his variety is without spines).
Meanwhile, in the islands of the eastern Caribbean, the vegetable is called christophine or christophene. Here we have early risers in a market in the island of Martinique searching for their choice christophenes.
There are more names used for this spiny pumpkin, but the ones I’ve cited give us an indication of where it originally came from. It is one of those foodstuffs which make up the great Columbian exchange: that massive movement of foodstuffs, people and diseases which occurred after Christopher Columbus stumbled across the Americas. I’ve mentioned this exchange several times already in these posts, when writing about the prickly pear, the Jerusalem artichoke, vanilla, and turkeys. And now I can add to the list the spiny pumpkin, or christophene (which reflects the connection to Christopher Columbus), or chayote, which is a Spanish transliteration of the Nahuatl name chayohtli. In fact, modern studies indicate that the chayote was first cultivated in Mesoamerica, between southern Mexico (in the states of Oaxaca, Puebla, and Veracruz) and Honduras, with the most genetic diversity being present in both Mexico and Guatemala. Here, we have a field of chayote in Mexico.
Just to finish my elongated riff on names, another name for the vegetable which is used in Guatemala and El Salvador is güisquil or huisquil, which is derived from another Nahuatl name for it, huitzli. Here we have a Guatemalan singing the praises of the güisquil.
But to come back to my wife and me, standing in front of that table on the Via Verde. The vegetables’ anonymous grower was offering them for free to passers-by. I was hesitant, but my wife was bolder. She reminded me that we were having some old friends over for dinner the next day, why not try the spiny pumpkins out on them? But we don’t know how to prepare them, I objected. My wife waved off that objection, immediately doing a search on the internet. Hey presto, she found what sounded like a pretty easy recipe, explained in a video by a lady from Calabria in southern Italy, who mentioned in passing that the spiny pumpkin was particularly popular in her region – readers should note this link of the spiny pumpkin to Calabria, as we shall come back to it in a minute. My doubts brushed aside, we picked up five of these little spiny pumpkins and loaded them up in our rucksacks.
The next day, preparations started early. As recommended by the Calabrian lady, I peeled the pumpkins with a potato peeler – the spines were a little annoying but no more than that. Then I opened them up to take out the stone, after which I cut the halves into thin slices. Then I could start on the other two ingredients, tomatoes and onions. I divided up six large tomatoes, and sliced up one small onion (the recipe called for more but I’m not a fan of onions). At which point, I handed over to my wife, who threw all the ingredients into a big bowl, added the herbs, salt, and oil, and mixed everything up thoroughly. At the right moment, she ladled the mix out into a pan and put it into the oven for 40 minutes at 180 degrees Centigrade. I throw in a photo of what the result looked like – this is actually from the Calabrian lady’s video; we forgot to take a photo since we were so busy with preparations of the dinner.
Because what we had prepared was a side dish. The main course, the pièce de resistance, was cotechino with lentils and mashed potatoes. Like that, if the side dish turned out to be a disaster, we still had the main dish to fall back on. Luckily, it all turned out well. When I carried in the side dish, I explained the whole back-story. None of our guests – three Italians and one American – had ever heard of zucche spinose (in the case of the Italians) or chayote (in the case of the American). We all tried the dish with a little trepidation, but luckily it tasted really good. To me, the spiny pumpkins tasted like a cross between zucchini and cucumber. They went well with the tomatoes.
We didn’t finish the dish, so my wife froze the remains. When we get back from Florence where we are at the moment (to see an exhibition on Fra’ Angelico), we’ll try it out on our son too.
I fear we’ll never make the dish again, unless our anonymous grower on Lake Como is kind enough to make next year’s crop available to passers-by, because you cannot grow spiny pumpkins in the north of Italy (except, as we have seen, in Lake Como’s microclimate). As a result, northern Italians have no culinary experience with it – which is why our three Italian guests, all from Milan, had never heard of it. Of course, we could travel down to Calabria. Because, I discovered, Calabria is a “hot spot” for the growth and consumption in Italy of the spiny pumpkin. This is a consequence of one of the many individual rivulets that made up the giant global flow of plants out of the Americas after the continent’s accidental discovery by Columbus. When, in 1502, the Spaniards took over the Kingdom of Naples, of which Calabria was part, they carried the spiny pumpkin from their new dominions in Mesoamerica to their new dominions in southern Italy. And the plant took particular root in Calabria.
But we can’t go to Calabria just to eat spiny pumpkin! I’ll have to come up with an exciting trip full of new things that we’ve never done before if I’m ever going to persuade my wife. I have one or two things in mind. There’s the Riace Bronzes in Reggio Calabria, which we’ve never seen. There’s some old Christian mosaics in a monastery up in the Calabrian mountains, mentioned by John Julius Norwich in one of his books, which we’ve never seen. I’ve got the whole winter to come up with some more things to see and do …
My wife and I were down in Sicily recently. Our daughter and her partner came over with the grandson and they decided to spend a week down in the very far south of the island, near one of Sicily’s three promontories, Capo Passero (if I mention this detail, it’s because it plays a role later). The house they rented gave directly onto the beach and our grandson spent many happy hours digging holes, making sandcastles, and braving the – relatively small – waves that broke onto the beach.
In between these sessions on the beach, we managed to get in brief visits to Noto and Syracuse, both UNESCO World Heritage Sites. Here’s a photo of the cathedral in Noto.
I discovered that it is the official flag of the region of Sicily (which is why I normally saw it flying along with the Italian national flag and the EU flag).
I’m a bit of a flag man – many years ago, quite soon after I started this blog, I wrote a post about what I considered to be the most elegant national flags. So of course I focused in on this flag. What really intrigued me about it was that symbol in the middle: a face from which emanate three legs bent at the knee.
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I quickly established that this symbol is called a triskeles, Greek for three-legged. It was a popular symbol on coins. The earliest numismatic representation of it (from around 465 BCE) is on coins from the Greek statelet of Pamphylia, in what is now southern Turkey.
The triskeles was used in varying formats on Greek coins for several centuries thereafter, but it was most closely associated with the coins of Agathocles, Tyrant of Syracuse from 317 BCE, and self-proclaimed king of Sicily from 304 BCE, until his death in 289 BCE. On this coin, it is the main decoration on the reverse side of the coin, because Agathocles adopted it as a personal symbol of his reign.
Agathocles brought an important modification to the design, placing a Gorgon’s head as the central hub from which the legs emanate. He also added wings to the feet.
On this Syracusan coin, instead, it is used as the mint mark.
The Greek name for the island was Trinacria, which means three headlands. The three headlands in question were those at the “corners” of the island: Capo Peloro, to the north of Messina, Capo Passero, all the way down south of Syracuse (and close to where we spent our little Sicilian holiday), and Capo Lilibeo, close to Marsala. The choice by Agathocles of the triskeles as his personal symbol was no doubt meant to underline his ambition – realised in the last years of his life – to be ruler of the whole of Sicily.
None of Agathocles’s heirs who were still alive when he died managed to succeed him as king of Sicily. In fact, he was formally reviled after his death, with all statues of him throughout Sicily being destroyed. Nevertheless, his triskeles continued to be used as a symbol for the island. After the Romans had turned the island into a province of its Empire, they added three ears of wheat to the Sicilian triskeles, apparently to underline the province’s role as a granary for Rome (and took the wings off the feet).
With the collapse of the Western Roman Empire, the use of the triskeles seems to have disappeared in Sicily. But it came roaring back in 1282, when, in what has become known as the War of Sicilian Vespers, the Sicilians rebelled against their French Angevin overlords and invited the King of Aragon to take their place. The Sicilians created a flag to carry into battle.
It was made up of the red and yellow colours of Aragon (but also the colours of the communes of Palermo and Corleone, where the revolt started) with a triskeles at its centre (where the Roman ears of wheat had disappeared and the wings brought back, but this time attached to the head).
After twenty years, peace was concluded and the House of Aragon ruled Sicily for the next 400 years or so.
In 1848, some 600 years after that first burst of rebelliousness, and when the whole of Europe was being shaken by revolutionary outbursts, the Sicilians had another bout of rebellion and ousted their Bourbon overlords. The movement of course needed a flag, so the triskeles was rolled out again, but this time it was affixed to the red, white and green tricolour, itself created in 1789 by Italian revolutionaries copying their counterparts in France.
Alas, the revolt, and the flag, lasted only a year, until the Bourbons took back control of the island. But then, a mere ten years or so later, in 1860, when Garibaldi and his thousand volunteers disembarked in Sicily on his way to conquering the island and the boot of Italy, the Sicilian rebels dusted off this flag to fight behind. That rebellion was successful this time. Or maybe it wasn’t, because Sicily shucked off its Bourbon overlords but only to become part of the new Italian State, where national unity was strongly promoted and regional diversity quashed. So of course the triskeles disappeared from the tricolour flag.
Then, at the tail end of the Second World War and after 80 years as part of the new Italian State, separatism reared its head in Sicily. In the chaos created by the Allies’ invasion of Sicily and the collapse of the national government, the Movement for the Independence of Sicily was formed. Of course, it created its own flag which naturally enough sported a triskeles, a bright red one in this case. I’ve no idea why the separatists chose this colour for its triskeles, or the colour of the flag’s background – perhaps simply the red and yellow now traditionally seen as Sicily’s colours?
It was a strange movement, which pulled in people from the left and the right of the political spectrum but also had links with the mafia and the island’s traditional bandits. Indeed, the darker, criminal elements of the movement spawned an armed force, the Volunteer Army for the Independence of Sicily. It, too, created its own, triskeles-bearing, flag.
This “army” attacked Carabinieri barracks and made general mayhem but was eventually crushed. In the meantime, the national government bought off the separatists by promising Sicily a special autonomous status (as it did to other regions on the rim of the country: Sardinia, Val d’Aosta, and Trentino-Alto Adige).
In the decades after the War, Italy’s regions, which had been politically moribund since the country’s unification, slowly clawed back their political importance. Finally, in 1970, the country’s first regional elections took place, while in 2001 a constitutional amendment gave the regions greater say in policy-making.
With the regions’ increasing political importance came the desire to create their own flags, banners, armorial bearings, and so on. Sicily was no different. Its regional parliament approved a first flag in 1995.
Its design explicitly harked back to the flag created by the rebels in 1282 (although the colours of the background were switched around), but instead of the triskeles the region’s coat of arms was placed in the flag’s centre. This did include the triskeles but quartered it with the arms of the Normans, the Swabians, and the Aragonese, who had all been overlords of Sicily at some point.
Finally, in 2000 good sense prevailed and the regional parliament approved today’s flag with only the triskeles in the centre.
So there we are. An ancient symbol created back in the mists of time has managed to survive down through the centuries as a symbol of Sicily’s desire to shake off its overlords and now has been given a new lease of life as a symbol of – hopefully – a vibrant region in a more federalist national state.
The genesis of this post was a hike my wife and I did back in May, around the Danube not too far from Linz. As I relate in the post I wrote about that hike, one stop we made was at the small church in the village of Pupping. And there I found, among other things, this wooden statue of Saint Christopher.
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The statue caught my attention because of Saint Christopher’s expression; as I wrote in the post, the Saint looks less than pleased with the Child Jesus sitting on his shoulder. In fact, I would go so far as to say that he looks downright grumpy. A nice take, I thought, on the traditional story about St. Christopher, and normally the only story that most people have ever heard about the Saint. So I made a mental note to come back one day to this Saint’s story. On a drizzly afternoon in Milan, that day has come.
So what is the story that most people have heard about St. Christopher? I think a quick recap might be useful. I should start by noting a little-known fact, that at the beginning of the story our Saint was actually called Reprobus. He was a big, brawny man – a giant in many tellings of his life – and he was in this period of his life spending his time carrying people across a deep ford at a river somewhere in Asia Minor. In case any readers might think this surely was not a job people did in the old days – they would use a boat or a raft, right? – I throw in here a print of people doing precisely this in Japan in the 1860s.
In any event, one night Reprobus heard a young voice calling out. It turned out to be a child asking to be carried to the other side. So even though it was late Reprobus put the child on his shoulder, seized his trusty staff, and started crossing. To his consternation, as he waded across, the child got heavier and heavier. So heavy did the child get that this huge, strong man found himself struggling mightily to make it across. When he finally made it to the other side, he said to the child: “You put me in the greatest danger. I don’t think the whole world could have been as heavy on my shoulders as you were.” To which the child replied: “Don’t be surprised, Christopher [which in Greek means Carrier of Christ], you had on your shoulders not only the whole world but Him who made it. I am Christ your king, whom you are serving by this work.” Thus did Reprobus become Christopher. And no wonder Reprobus-about-to-become Christopher is looking so grumpy in that statue in the church in Pupping!
It is a charming story which got painted many times by numerous artists in Western Europe. I throw in here an assortment:
By the Master of the Pearl of Brabant
In fact, it’s just about the only story of Christopher’s life that ever got painted in Western Europe, crowding out all the other stories associated with him.
I must confess, the precise theological messages of the story elude me, even though I have perused several posts trying to help me out. In fact, I read elsewhere that the story was actually made up by various churchmen to “normalise” what was a widespread practice by the “little people” of painting enormous portraits of St. Christopher with Christ, first inside their churches and then later on their outer walls. When I read that, I had a jolt of recognition. A couple of weeks before that hike around the Danube, my wife and I had hiked for a couple of days in the south of Austria in the hills around Villach. In some of the small villages we walked through I had noticed these giant St. Christophers painted on the outside of three of the village churches which we passed. I was so struck by them that I took several photos.
This is a general view of the church where I saw the first one
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Here is a close-up of the fresco
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This was in the next village we passed through
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This was at the church where we sat down to have our sandwiches for lunch.
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At the time, I had found these frescoes charming. I was now reading that they actually had a precise meaning. They were showing St. Christopher in his role as the “guardian from a bad death”, and especially a sudden and unexpected death. We have to plunge into the Christian mindset of the Middle Ages to understand why this was so vital. Any person who died “unshriven”, that is to say without having confessed and been absolved of their sins, was condemned to spend eternity in Hell without any possibility of salvation. And the torments of Hell were always well represented in church frescoes in case people forgot. Here is one such example, painted by Giotto in the Scrovegni chapel in Padova.
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Under the circumstances, it made perfect sense for everyone to do whatever they could to avoid an unshriven death. Somehow, the belief sprang up that if you saw the image of St. Christopher you wouldn’t die that day. Thus the huge size of the St. Christophers as well as their location on the outside walls of village churches; like that, all villagers, even those living far from the church, avoided the risk of not seeing the image during the day. As one can imagine, the popularity of these images soared during the Black Death, when the risk of dying unshriven increased enormously. Continuing bouts of the plague over the centuries maintained their popularity.
I rather like this role of St. Christopher as a Gentle Giant keeping an eye on your lifespan. However, by the 15th Century, when huge St. Christophers had proliferated everywhere, theological and ecclesiastical authorities had become less enthusiastic, considering this trust of the “little people” in St. Christopher to be mere superstition. They were far more comfortable with the Saint’s role as the protector of travelers and all things travel-related (it was of course his role of carrying travelers across the river that led to travelers invoking his protection). And the coming of the automobile, where the dangers it posed to life and limb became immediately obvious, saw a huge increase in the Saint’s popularity. Even now, miniature statues of the Saint are frequently displayed in cars; sign of the times, you can buy one on Amazon. Yours for a mere $8.99!
Meanwhile, in Orthodox Christianity, things took a different path for Christopher. The whole story of him carrying the Boy Christ across a river was ignored (at least until relatively recently). Instead, the focus was on his good, Christian life after his baptism and his martyrdom. So the icons of him have a young man, normally dressed as a soldier. Here is an example from Saint Paraskevi Church in Adam.
So far, so bog-standard. But then, there is a startling alternative in his iconography, one where he is depicted as having a dog’s head (at least, I find this startling; showing saints with dog-heads seems rather disrespectful to me).
I find these icons so strange that I am moved to throw in the photo of another one, where St. Christopher is cheek by jowl with a perfectly normal St. Stephen.
This strand of iconography came about from a rather too literal reading of the legends about Christopher’s origins. It was said that he had been captured by Roman troops in combat against tribes dwelling to the west of Egypt in Cyrenaica. Already back in the 5th Century BCE the Greek historian Herodotus had written that in these parts, on the edges of the civilised world, lived dog-headed men as well as headless men whose eyes were in their chests. This belief in Europe that the edges of Europeans’ known world were populated by strange hybrid human species continued well into the early modern times, as this woodcut from the 1544 book Cosmographia shows.
As a consequence, some icon painters believed that Christopher (or Reprobus as we have seen he was then known) was dog-headed, and they painted him as such.
Not surprisingly, there was pushback on this depiction of Christopher from the Higher-Ups. In a 10th Century hagiography about the Saint, its author, Saint Nikodemos the Hagiorite, wrote: “Dog-headed means here that the Saint was ugly and disfigured in his face, and not that he completely had the form of a dog, as many uneducated painters depict him. His face was human, like all other humans, but it was ugly and monstrous and wild.” For its part, in the 18th century the Russian Orthodox Church forbade the depiction of the Saint with a dog head because of the association of such a representation with stories of werewolves or monstrous races.
Poor Christopher! Giant, dog-headed, and now cancelled. Because, back in 1969 the Catholic Church struck him from the General Roman Calendar, deeming that there wasn’t enough evidence to show that he had ever existed. I still remember the general consternation this caused at the time. What about all those miniature statues in cars (and medallions around necks)? How could they protect you if Christopher had never existed? I guess the fact that people continue to buy them shows that the “little people” will still believe in these images’ magical ability to protect, whatever the Higher-Ups say or do.
It was our last hike in Austria this year. We hiked across the hills between Sankt Veit an der Gölsen (another Sankt Veit) and Wiesenfeld, in the pre-Alps behind St. Pölten. During the final walk into Wiesendorf, I spotted this flowering bush on the roadside.
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I’d seen the plant before, but this time I decided to identify it. I did my usual trick of using my iPhone’s plant identifier programme, but it was a complete failure. It first suggested “hawthorne”, which even I knew was wrong, and then, on two other try’s, it simply suggested “plant”, which was really not very helpful. So I turned to the internet. And there I got my answer: I was looking at a Euonymus europaeus, the European or common spindle tree (or bush to some people – it seems to fall between being a small tree and a big bush).
The plant has a rather lovely fruit, which is why I’d spotted the plant in the first place. I throw in a close-up of the fruit.
It is a lovely pink, and then, as the photo shows, when it ripens it splits open to reveal a bright orange seed (actually, what you see is an orange aril, a “fleshy” material in which the seed is buried; the edible aril attracts birds and other animals, which helps in seed dispersal).
To my eye, this combination of pink and orange is a bit jarring, but hey! that’s the colour combination the plant “chose” (is there some scientific reason behind the colours you find on plants? A question for another day).
The fruit’s pink colour, and the fact that it is four-lobed, has led to one of the plant’s French names: bonnet d’évêque, bishop’s cap. I don’t know if bishops wear them anymore, but the hat they wore in the past was four-sided and pink.
All very nice, but as I said in my previous post, while our ancestors might have admired the colours of nature, they were highly utilitarian in their approach to plants: how can I use them? Well, the fruits of the spindle tree are toxic – indeed, every part of the plant is toxic – so there was no nutrition to be had from this particular plant. But our ancestors did manage to eke various uses out of it. Two stand out for me.
As the plant’s English name indicates, the plant’s wood was used to make spindles. Women (for the most part) used spindles to spin wool or flax fibres into yarn or thread. In this picture, the spindle is in the woman’s right hand (and the distaff in her left).
Spindles are a very ancient technology. The oldest evidence of their use goes back 12,000 years. But at least in the developed countries, they were eliminated by the Industrial Revolution, when automation destroyed the cottage industry of spinning. Their use lingered on here and there; this photo, for instance, from 1901, shows a peasant woman in Greece still spinning by hand.
And I still remember watching a housewife in Eritrea, where I was born, sitting at the door of her house spinning with a distaff and spindle. This would have been in the late 1950s.
One of the plant’s French names – fusain – indicates the second of the plant’s intriguing uses. Fusain is a charcoal made from the wood of the spindle tree, which is used in drawing. It’s much appreciated by artists for its exceptional strength and density. This is a good excuse for me to throw in a few charcoal drawings by famous artists, although I will start with an artist I personally have never heard of, François Bovin, simply because the subject of his drawing connects us back to what I was just writing about, spinning.
A week ago, my wife and I were passing by a florist during our afternoon walk down into the city centre when my eye was caught by one of the products the shop was selling.
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It wasn’t just the pretty display that caught my attention. It just so happened that I had taken a photo of the very same plant growing along the side of the path during one of our earlier walks during the summer, in Vienna’s Tiergarten (a very nice area of woods and meadows on the edge of the city which used to be an imperial hunting ground).
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Already when I had taken this photo, I had said to myself that I should look into this plant. The clever feature on my phone’s camera told me that I was looking at a groundcherry, so at least I knew what the plant was. But, as Samuel Johnson is reported to have said, the road to hell is paved with good intentions – I hadn’t gotten around to doing anything. But that second sighting in front of the florist got me going again. And now, finally, after a few days of rain, I have cobbled together my story.
I suppose I should start with the plant’s most conspicuous feature, its bright orange to red papery calyx.
Not surprisingly, it is also this calyx which gives the plant one of its more common names in English, Chinese lantern, in German, Lampionblume or lantern flower, and in French, lanterne or lantern.
If left on the plant, much of the calyx will decompose, leaving behind only the veins of the calyx in the form of a delicately beautiful, skeletal net and revealing an orange-red berry within.
The berry’s resemblance to a small cherry has given rise to the plant’s other common name in English, the groundcherry. Having a berry trapped, as it were, inside the calyx has also given rise to other common names, like the French amour en cage, love in a cage, but the one I like best is one of its Persian names: the puppet behind the curtain.
As I have noted several times in these posts, while our ancestors no doubt saw the beauty in the world around them, they were nothing if not profoundly utilitarian: how can this thing (plant, fruit, rock, wood, animal, whatever it is) be useful to me? So of course they explored whether or not the berry of the Chinese lantern was edible; there is evidence that our Neolithic ancestors were eating the berries. The internet is not very clear on how tasty these berries are. As far as I can make out, though, they are not very tasty, having low levels of sugar and being somewhat sour. But with the addition of a lot of sugar they can be made into scrumptious jams and marmalades. Apparently, the Italians also pickle the berries, although I’ve never, ever seen this in Italy.
Our Medieval ancestors, and very probably even earlier ancestors, were just as interested, if not more interested, in the plant’s use as a medicine, particularly the berry. And this interest explains the plant’s rather strange scientific name, Alkekengi officinarum. It’s the plant’s generic name, Alkekengi, that’s so odd. It’s not Latin, what is it? The answer to that lies in Persia. In Persian traditional medicine, the Unani system of medicine, the dried berry was used as a diuretic, antiseptic, liver corrective, and sedative. The Persian name for the plant is kākunaj (which, by the way, I think means “balloon” or “bladder”, another common description of the plant). I throw in here a photo of a 15th Century miniature of a Persian garden.
When the Arabs overran the Persian empire, they picked up the Persians’ traditional medicine and carried it westward. This included the kākunaj berry, whose name they arabised to al-kākanj. In turn, Arabic traditional medicine was carried into Europe, where the name of the berry, and the plant, was europeanised to “alkekengi”. Another small example of the way ideas were transmitted along trade routes, something which I have written about many, many times in these posts.
The plant’s medicinal role has now died away, although there are still a lot of articles written on its pharmacological properties. So we are left with its beautiful calyx, that orange-red lantern, to enjoy. Which leads me to one lovely traditional use of the plant, in Japan. During the summer Obon Festival, the Japanese remember their deceased ancestors, believing that their spirits return to visit them. They use lanterns to guide the spirits from their graves on the first day of the festival, and back to their graves on the last day of the festival. Normally, they use paper lanterns, but in many places they also drape strings of groundcherry calyxes – called ghost lanterns in Japanese – on the shrines in temple grounds that house memorial tablets for the deceased. This photo shows a market selling strings of grouncherry calyxes.
My wife and I have just finished a long weekend in the little town of Waidhofen an der Ybbs. We were actually using it as a base from which to carry out a number of very pleasant hikes over the surrounding hills. These are impossibly beautiful: broad swathes of light and dark green draped over the hills, dotted here and there with farmsteads.
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The weather was glorious, which certainly helped.
As I looked through the various brochures which we picked up to figure out what hikes to do, I came across the following brief write-up about the church in a village some 10 km away, the village of St. Leonhard am Walde:
“Fiakerkirche St. Leonhard/Wald: The traditional place of pilgrimage for Viennese hackney carriage drivers since 1826. St. Leonhard is the patron saint of cattle, sheep – and horses. In 1908, the Viennese hackney carriage drivers donated the Marian altar. A few decades ago, the Viennese cab drivers also joined the pilgrimage.”
Now that really intrigued me! Hackney carriages, fiaker in German, are a picturesque sight down in the centre of Vienna, although nowadays, of course, they are only for tourists.
But, being an early form of taxi, there was a time when hackney carriages were ubiquitous throughout the city, as indeed they were in all European cities. Here is a colourised copperplate engraving from the 1830s of a smart set of Viennese and their carriages.
I suspect, though, the carriages and their drivers didn’t look quite so smart when they were merely acting as taxis, ferrying people around town. This looks more like the typical hackney carriage driver; the photo is taken from an engraving in a book of 1844.
Hackney carriage drivers have always struck me as a hard-boiled lot, not taken to making pilgrimages. I have a hard time seeing them doing this (this is a modern pilgrimage, but I don’t suppose pilgrimages have changed much, apart from the clothes the pilgrims wear).
But it could be that I am being influenced by various books I’ve read and films I’ve seen where hackney carriage drivers seemed to be a sinister and semi-criminal lot. This is an example from one of the Sherlock Holmes stories.
Maybe the majority were God-fearing, devout, family men.
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Of course, given the way my mind works, I started wondering why hackney carriage drivers would have chosen a church dedicated to St. Leonard as the church to which they would make their annual pilgrimage. The little blurb I quoted above suggests an answer: he was the patron saint of horses, and of course horses were key to hackney carriages, being their motor as it were. But how, my mind was asking, did Saint Leonard become the patron saint of horses?
Since I knew nothing about Saint Leonard, I had to do some reading. I should note in passing that there have been various Saint Leonards over the centuries; the one we are interested in is St. Leonard of Noblac. Assuming he ever actually existed, his story is quickly told.
Leonard was a Frankish nobleman, coming from a family that was closely allied to Clovis, the first Frankish king of what was later to become France. Clovis was young Leonard’s godfather when he was baptised, along with Clovis himself and all his court, by St. Remi, bishop of Reims, on Christmas Eve of 496. As Leonard grew up, he became much exercised by prisoners, to the point where he asked Clovis to have the right to visit prisoners and free those he considered worthy of it. Clovis granted the request. We have the scene played out here in a French work from the 14th Century.
Many prisoners were thereafter liberated by Leonard.
Much impressed, I presume, by his holiness, Clovis offered him a bishopric, but Leonard turned the honour down, preferring to join a monastery near Orléans, whose abbot was another saint, St. Mesmin. After the latter went the way of all flesh, Leonard decided to strike out on his own. He moved to a forest in a place called Noblac (Noblat today) near Limoges, where he set up a hermitage. His preaching, good works, etc. led to a multitude of people flocking to his hermitage, including many prisoners whose chains miraculously flew off their hands and legs after they had prayed to St. Leonard for his intercession. Here, we have a print from 1600 giving us a rather fanciful vision of this scene.
I do believe that the monk working the land behind Leonard in the print is one of these prisoners now living an honest life.
At some point in all of this, the-then Frankish king Clotaire I (Clovis having died in the meantime) and his heavily pregnant wife came to visit Leonard in his forest hermitage – we have to remember that Clovis’s family and Leonard’s family were close. The royal couple decided – like the good aristos that they were – to use the occasion to go for a hunt in the forest. To get us into the spirit of things, I throw in here a miniature from the 15th-Century Book of Hours of Marguerite d’Orleans showing Lords and Ladies off to the hunt.
During the hunt, however, the queen suddenly went into labour. It was turning into a difficult and dangerous birth. Leonard rushed to her side and his prayers saved queen and baby. In gratitude – especially since it was a baby boy – the king wanted to shower Leonard with loads of money. But Leonard only asked for as much forest area around his hermitage as he could ride around on his donkey in one night. The king granted this wish. On the land that Leonard was subsequently given he built a church and monastery. He became its first abbot and died there peacefully, mourned by all. The Romanesque version of that church still stands, in a place called Saint-Léonard-de-Noblat.
Given his involvement with prisoners, it is not surprising to learn that St. Leonard is the patron saint of prisoners. Given that story with the pregnant queen, it’s also not surprising that he is considered a helper of women in childbirth. But patron saint of cattle, sheep and horses? How did that come about?
For that, we have to know that from the earliest times St. Leonard was often depicted as an abbot with a crosier and holding a chain or fetters or manacles, symbolising the liberation of prisoners achieved by him. In fact, in one of those serendipitous moments I love so much, I came across just such a representation of him in a church in Waidhofen, down the road from where my wife and I were staying.
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Over time, rural folk mistakenly thought that the chains which St. Leonard was holding were cattle chains – these are commonly used to tether cattle or to control them during walks, or even to help birthing calves.
By extension he became the patron saint of all farm animals, which of course also included horses.
Given this swerve of patronage towards livestock, I suppose it’s not surprising that Saint Leonard became a popular saint throughout the Alpine regions of Europe. After all, as I’ve mentioned in a previous post, cattle was pretty central to the rural economies of all Alpine communities. This devotion to the saint means that his feast day – November 6th – is celebrated with enthusiasm in many places in the Alpine regions, especially the German-speaking ones. Here, for example, are photos of the celebrations in Bad Tölz in Bavaria (which got a mention in an earlier post because of its rather naughty statue of St. Florian).
It also gave rise to the intriguing phenomenon of chain churches in the Alpine regions. These are churches dedicated to St. Leonard which have chains running around them, either put up temporarily on his feast day or mounted permanently. The Fiakerkirche is not a chain church, alas. Here is a nice example from Tholbath in Bavaria (the church also has a quite respectable onion dome, the subject of an earlier post).
But if we’re going to visit a church dedicated to St. Leonard, it won’t be one of the chain churches. It will be the one I’ve already mentioned in Saint-Léonard-de-Noblat. What a fine-looking Romanesque church! I have to say, I am partial to Romanesque churches. I’ve already inserted a photo of the church’s exterior. Here is a photo of its interior.
What a wonderfully bare church! No annoying accretions to cover the spare, simple lines of the architecture.
But the photo shows an additional reason why I will try to persuade my wife to travel all the way to France to see this church: the rucksacks and the walking sticks. This church is situated on one of the four Ways of St. James of Compostela through France. I’ve mentioned one of these, the Via Tolosana, in an earlier post. The church of Saint-Léonard-de-Noblat is on another, the Via Lemovicensis, the Way of Limoges. There must surely be some good hiking to be done in the area.
My wife and I went to Schladming in Styria recently, for a few days of hiking. We did some lovely hikes on the mountains behind Schladming as well as along some of the valleys wedged in between those mountains. It was on one of the latter hikes that I began to notice some eye-catching structures standing on the roofs of the farmhouses we were passing. Here are two that I managed to photograph.
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They really are handsome, I told my wife, but what are they? Once we were back in Vienna, I did some research and discovered that they are called Glockenstuhl, literally bell stool although it is normally translated as bell frame or bell tower. This next photo shows more clearly the bell that should sit beneath the little roof and which gives the frame its name.
I don’t think either of the Glockenstuhl I photographed have this bell, although the second photo shows a ring of little bells around the rim of the roof – a fanciful modern addition, I believe. One can also see the weather vane on the very top, in this case a cock (in my two photos, the Glockenstuhl sports a cow in the first case and a cock in the second).
Of course, these Glockenstuhl primarily had a functional purpose. The bell was used by the farmer’s wife to call the farmer and his hands back to the farmhouse when lunch or dinner were ready. And the bell was also rung in case of an alarm. A nice touch: the bell of each farmhouse had a different tone so that the farmer and his workers would be sure that it was their farm and not another that was ringing its bell.
But of course, this primarily utilitarian object gave local people an excuse to make something that was, yes, useful but also beautiful.
The Glockenstuhl’s original use has made me think of paintings by the Austrian painter Albin Egger-Lienz. I first got to know him through his paintings of the First World War. These are remarkable paintings, and I would strongly recommend my readers to see them if they ever come to Austria (I doubt if museums in any other country has any). But he also depicted many scenes of rural life in his native Tyrol. In this case, I’m thinking in particular of his paintings of farm workers out in the fields, who would have heard the bell from their farmhouse’s Glockenstuhl and known it was time to come back to the farmhouse to eat. Here are two of his paintings. In the first, the farm hands are scything the hay, in the second a farm hand is sowing seed.
Here, too, I would strongly recommend that readers see Egger-Lienz’s paintings and drawings of peasant life.
Still today, there are a few artisans making Glockenstuhl, but they are now just beautiful pieces of handicraft. There’s no need for the bell, the farmer’s wife no doubt calls the farmer on his mobile phone when lunch is ready, if she’s not herself out in the fields (and the farm hands disappeared long ago into the factories in the cities). You can have one made for you for a mere € 2,000 or so. But please, don’t use it, as some people apparently do, as a bird stand in your garden! Put it on your roof where passers-by like me and my wife can admire them as we walk by.
That was a low point in my annual medical check-up: my calcium values. Going into the discussion of my lab tests with our doctor, my concern had been my ferritin levels. As I’ve written in an earlier post, these have been too high for a number of years, and this year was no exception. But now I also had a problem with my calcium levels! They’ve generally been low ever since I had my thyroid removed some 15 years ago. This year, though, the levels dropped below the minimum acceptable level. But, I protested, I’ve been taking calcium supplements every day for years. Ah, the doctor replied, but if you rely too much on supplements your body doesn’t work so actively to extract calcium from your food. You have to try to meet your calcium needs through the food you eat and only take supplements if you really cannot reach the necessary values through your food. To help me, she gave me a sheet listing various foodstuffs and their calcium content.
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I started looking at it. Aha, I cried, I can greatly increase my calcium content by eating a lot of cheese! As I’ve noted in an earlier post, I have a great fondness for hard cheeses from the Alps. Ah no, the doctor said, I wouldn’t rely solely on cheese, that could well have negative impacts on your cholesterol level – and here she pointed at my cholesterol results, which did indeed come in a tad high this year. You’re damned if you do, you’re damned if you don’t, I thought to myself …
Once home, I glumly took out the sheet and started scanning it again. First thing to figure out: how much calcium do I need to ingest every day? A quick surf of the net shows some discrepancy here. The Europeans suggest 950 mg/day, while the Americans suggest 1,200 mg/day for oldies like me. Given the weakening of my calcium glands after the removal of my thyroid, I decided to use the higher American value as my target. But I immediately began to panic. How am I going to meet this high daily target?
Even a cursory look at the list clearly indicates that if I can’t gorge on cheese I will need to eat other milk products. The product with the highest levels of calcium is cow’s milk (“Kuhmilch”). So I could just drink five glasses of milk a day and Bob’s my uncle (but only low-fat milk; cholesterol levels! … damned if you do, damned if you don’t).
The milk industry has certainly been pushing milk drinking for decades.
But I really, really don’t like drinking milk! I stopped knocking back glasses of milk when I was a child. So I’ve decided that unless I have my back to the wall, I will just use milk as a support, adding it to the teas and coffees which I consume during the day; I will have very milky teas and coffees from now on.
What else? Well, I see that kefir has high levels of calcium, maybe I can eat loads of that. But what on earth is kefir? I’d never heard of the stuff before looking at the list. As usual, Wikipedia has come to the rescue. It tells me that kefir is a sour, slightly carbonated, slightly alcoholic beverage, with a consistency and taste similar to a thin, drinkable yogurt. Of course, I got caught up in the Wikipedia article and continued reading. I learned that kefir is prepared by inoculating milk (cow, goat or sheep milk) with so-called kefir grains, which ferment the lactic acid. These “grains” are quite intriguing. They are actually a mix of various type of bacteria and yeasts and look like this.
The Russians then adopted it (presumably after their conquest of Central Asia), and from there it spread to Central Europe – which no doubt is why I found it in our local supermarket in Vienna.
Could I drink this instead of milk? Not sure I could, at least not in its natural state – its sourness is not for me. However, I see that the local supermarket sells not only kefir in the natural state but also sweetened.
That sounded good. But then I had a horrible doubt: what are these kefir drinks sweetened with? I have to control my sucrose and fructose intake! Or so my doctor told me a few years ago, to avoid becoming diabetic … damned if you do, damned if you don’t … I have made a mental note to check this.
Going back to the list, I see that something called “molke” in German has pretty high calcium levels. What is molke, though? Google Translate to the rescue! Molke, it turns out, is whey.
Whey … the only connection I have ever had with whey is through the nursery rhyme:
Little Miss Muffet
Sat on her tuffet,
Eating her curds and whey;
There came a big spider
Which sat down beside her
And frightened Miss Muffet away.
Otherwise, I have never, ever seen hide nor hair of whey in my entire life. But contrary to kefir at least I know what it is, because I once wrote a post about cheese making for my daughter. Whey is basically the liquid that’s left over when you curdle milk, the curds going on to become cheese.
That’s all fine and dandy, but does my supermarket stock whey? It turns out that it does, either in natural form or sweetened.
I have put it on my list of things to try (why I haven’t tried it yet will become apparent in a minute). In the case of the sweetened version, and for reasons I have just mentioned, I also have to check what it is sweetened with.
This was all very well, but how about some milk-derived product I can eat rather than drink? (apart from cheese, of course!) Well, looking at the list I have concluded that yogurt is the obvious choice, even if its calcium levels are somewhat lower than those in kefir and whey.
Yogurt is certainly a much-loved part of the cuisine of the countries running from the Balkans all the way east to the Indian subcontinent. Surely there could be some yogurt dishes for me in all those riches?
A quick whip around the internet has brought to light some intriguing possibilities. For instance, many of these countries have a “salad” where yogurt is a main ingredient, along with two other ingredients, cucumber and garlic. The Turkish version, called Cacik, simply adds mint to this trinity of ingredients. In the Lebanese and Syrian version, called Khyar bi Laban, mint is also added, but so is lemon juice. As for the Greeks, their version, which is called Tzatziki, uses the same four ingredients of Cacik (and derives its name from it) but then mirrors Khyar bi Laban by adding an acid to the mix, vinegar in this case rather than lemon juice. It goes one step further by adding dill and parsley, before drizzling the whole with olive oil. Even the Bulgarians have got into the act with a dish they call Snezhanka (which translates as snow-white salad – not surprising, given its dominant colour). It has the trinity of yogurt, cucumber and garlic. It has no mint, though, but it does – like the Greeks – include dill and (sometimes) parsley and a drizzle of olive oil.
Since these four salads all look rather similar, I decided to make a collage of photos of the four dishes, with Cacik in the top left followed, clockwise, by Khyar bi Laban, Tzatziki, and Snezhanka.
Were I to go for this dish – and I would have to see if my wife would follow me; it would be a bit sad to eat it alone – I would skip the garlic, for reasons I have given in an earlier post. I would also leave out the dill; I’m no fan of this herb. But I would, like some Bulgarians do, add roasted walnuts.
Many of these countries also have yogurt-based soups, which can be eaten either hot or cold depending on the season. Given that it is currently summer, I’ll start with some examples of cold soups. One of the simplest comes from Türkiye, where the Turks turn Cacik into a cold soup by using watery yogurt instead of a strained yogurt. Iranians have a similar soup, Abdoogh khiar, where yogurt and ice cubes are mixed together with cucumbers, raisins, salt, pepper and onions, the whole topped with some croutons made of Persian traditional bread. Bulgaria and other Balkan countries also have a similar cold soup, Tarator, where a watery yogurt is mixed with cucumber, garlic, walnut, dill, and olive or other vegetable oil. It can, like Abdoogh khiar, even be served with ice to really chill it. The peoples living in the border area between Azerbaijan and Iran eat a cold soup called Dovga, which, unlike the previous examples, does not include cucumber or garlic. Instead, the yogurt is mixed with a variety of herbs. These change seasonally and regionally, but usually will include coriander, dill, and mint; spinach can also be added. Cooks sometimes go one step further and add rice or chickpeas, or even meatballs, to the mix.
As in the case of the salads, and for the same reason, I show here a collage of these soups, with Cacik at the top left followed, clockwise, by Abdoogh khiar, Tarator, and Dovga.
Not surprisingly, all these soups can also be eaten warm in winter. Which allows me to introduce other yogurt-based soups normally eaten warm. Since we are in the Iranian-Azerbaijani border area, let me mention another soup from that region, Aash-e doogh. To the yogurt are added different kind of herbs (such as coriander, leek, tarragon, mint, and parsley), vegetables (such as spinach, purslane, chickpeas, peas, onion and garlic), but also lamb meatballs, eggs, rice, salt and several types of spices.
There are many other types of yogurt-based soup, but I think we all get the gist: take yogurt, add the herbs you like, add some vegetables if you want, or pulses, and maybe if you’re feeling adventurous some eggs or meat. Again, before starting to make yogurt-based soups, I will have to see if my wife will follow me on this culinary adventure.
There’s a whole other variety of soups from this part of the world to which yogurt is added, but in a rather special guise: the yogurt is first turned into a form appropriate for long-term storage by fermenting and drying it, and maybe mixing it with other ingredients like crushed bulgur wheat. This is popular in the cuisines of Iran, the Caucasus, and Central Asia, and known variously as kashk, kishk, qurut, qurt, kurut, kurt, qqet, jameed, shilanch, chortan, aaruul or khuruud. Here is an example of the genre.
A ball of this stuff can be crumbled into soups (among other dishes) to give them some whoomph. Fascinating as it sounds, I think I’ll probably give this particular culinary exploration a miss. I’m certainly not going to start drying and fermenting yogurt, and anyway taken this way I wonder how much calcium I would be ingesting – the whole point of this exercise. I’ll just limit myself to checking if a soup prepared this way is on the menu of the next Turkish or Iranian restaurant we go to in Vienna, just to see what it tastes like (I’m not sure I’ve ever seen an Azerbaijani restaurant in Vienna).
And then there are all the dishes from the Indian subcontinent made with yogurt! They all sound incredibly delicious but require many ingredients that I would be hard-pressed to source in Vienna (or in Milan, for that matter). I’ll just mention one dish – a drink actually – from that part of the world, and that is lassi. My wife and I discovered the sweetened version of lassi several decades ago, during an outing to an Indian restaurant, and ever since we always look for it on the menu of Indian restaurants we go to. The yogurt has to be thin enough to drink, and it is sweetened with sugar and flavoured with mango or other fruit juice. Delicious!
I think I could just about manage to prepare this – although I would need to use sweetener rather than sugar.
This is all in a possible future. In the here and now, I’m eating yogurt the way I’ve always eaten it, sweetened. My wife and I have just come back from Los Angeles, where we were visiting our daughter, partner, and grandson. We arrived there shortly after that fateful visit to the doctor (which is why I still haven’t tried some of the possibilities I’ve mentioned earlier). She is very interested in nutrition and came up with a yogurt-based calcium bomb: a big dollop of low-fat yogurt (good for the cholesterol levels!), seasoned with blueberries (good for the ferritin levels!), sprinkled with a generous dose of chia seeds, and sweetened with artificial sweetener. It doesn’t look all that great but it’s really quite tasty.
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The key to this mixture is the chia seeds. My daughter discovered that these seeds are absolutely packed with calcium, at levels five times higher, gram per gram, than yogurt! In fact, nuts and seeds – particularly seeds – are generally good sources of calcium, as readers can see if they go back to the sheet the doctor gave me (under the section entitled “Nüsse, Samen”).
Well, that’s a turn up for the books! I’m quite partial to nuts and am pleased to now have a good excuse to munch on them (although they also contain quite a lot of fat – cholesterol levels! … damned if you do, damned if you don’t). Seeds are even better, calcium-wise, than nuts, although I don’t see myself putting a fistful of seeds into my mouth; they’ll have to be added to something else. Looking at that list of nuts and seeds, I see that “Mohn” has very high levels of calcium, even higher than chia. What is this mohn? Time to wheel out Google Translate again! And it turns out that mohn are poppy seeds! Well now, that is interesting! I know that poppy seeds are a popular ingredient in Austrian cuisine and the cuisine of Central Europe more generally. I’ve eaten them sprinkled on pastries or cakes.
Now that I’m back in Vienna, I need to see if I can buy poppy seeds in large quantities. If I can, I’ll have them take the place of the chia seeds in my daughter’s yogurt concoction – think global, act local!
I can’t just eat yogurt, though, to maximize my calcium intake. What else could I eat? Well, I can forget about meats and fish as significant sources of calcium; there’s so little calcium in them that they’re not even on the list. My daughter said I could eat the bones of fish when they’re small, but once, when I was a boy, I got a fish bone stuck in my throat, such an unpleasant experience that I keep as far away as possible from fish bones. Fruits aren’t brilliant either. As for vegetables, a few stand out as having a good amount of calcium: fennels, broccoli, green cabbage, and chard (“mangold” in German).
I’m pleased to see that fennels pack a good calcium punch; I’m very fond of this vegetable, as I’ve related in a previous post. I’m also extremely fond of chard, about which I’ve written enthusiastically in the past. It makes me think that other greens like beetroot greens, kale, and spinach might also be full of calcium; to be checked (but what about the iron they also contain? Ferritin levels! … damned if you do, damned if you don’t). Broccoli is also a favourite of mine, as long as it is steam-cooked. I’m doubtful about green cabbage, though; I find it too bitter to eat raw and it smells too much when cooked. Maybe red cabbage, which I will gladly eat raw in salad, also packs a good calcium punch? I will need to check; Savoy cabbage, for instance, which is on the list (“wirsing kohl” in German), has much lower calcium levels than green cabbage.
Well, it’s now time to create meals around all this that give me enough protein, that don’t exaggerate on the carbs and fats, that give me the calcium I need, that give me lots of polyphenols to help control my ferritin levels but at the same time don’t exaggerate on the iron, … It’s like solving a multi-dimensional algebraic equation. Let’s see what we can do.
It’s summer time! And summer time, for my wife and me in Vienna at least, means it’s time to go hiking around the city and beyond. And that means studying guides, electronic and hard-copy, to find new hikes for us to do. So it was that a month ago now I bought a guide to the Jakobsweg, the pilgrim routes (or at least modern versions of these; so many of the original routes have been overlain by the asphalt of large roads) that wend across Austria and eventually lead the walker (after crossing Italy or Germany and then France and Spain) to the cathedral of St. James in Compostela.
Here we have a Medieval miniature of St. James as a pilgrim on his way to Compostela – note the scallop shell on his satchel, the symbol of this pilgrimage.
Although in my mind’s eye I see the road snaking out before me over hill and dale all the way to Compostela (Google Maps tells me that the town is 2,760 km away from my living room), I’ve been looking more modestly at the stages which are not too, too far from Vienna. Specifically, I’ve been looking at the stages beyond the great monastery of Melk.
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(The reason for that is simply that we’ve already walked the stages between Vienna and Melk.)
As I followed the stages in my new guide and figured out where we might stay for the night along the way, my eye was caught by the name of a village we would walk through: Sankt Pantaleon. I throw in a photo of the village which I found online. It looks like a nice, typical Austrian village.
Readers of these posts will know that I have a fondness for obscure saints whose names still pepper our landscape – although I have to say that the name Pantaleon is thin on the ground. Google Maps – once again – informs me that there are only a couple of villages in Austria which go by that name, as well as a handful of churches and streets. The same is true for France, Italy, and Spain. He has a somewhat greater presence in Greece and other Orthodox lands under the name Pantaléémon. In Switzerland, Germany, Belgium, and Portugal he has hardly any presence, and in the Netherlands and the UK none at all. My wife and I will not be coming across him very often on our hikes, it seems.
What do we know of this saint? Well, not much at all, as is usually the case with these saints from the earliest centuries of Christianity. If he existed at all, he hailed from Asia Minor as most of these early saints seem to have done. His various hagiographies tell us that he was born in the late 200s AD and brought up a Christian by his mother (his father was a pagan). But he fell away from the faith when he studied medicine. He was brought back to the straight-and-narrow by an even shadowier saint, who – if I’ve understood the sub-text correctly – basically said “Jesus did better than you, by healing through faith alone”. And in fact, Pantaleon converted his pagan father after healing a blind man by invoking the name of Jesus over him.
In any event, he continued being a doctor; and he must have been a very good one, because he became the personal physician to successive Emperors. But he must also have continued dispensing care – for free – to those who needed it, which has earned him in Orthodox Christianity the delightful title of Holy Unmercenary Healer. This is an epithet that has been given to various saints who offered their medical services for free, contrary to the (still) prevailing practice by doctors of charging (often a lot) for their services. The National Health Service in the UK, which still manages (just) to offer its services free at the point of delivery, should take Pantaleon as its patron saint.
Things came to a head when Diocletian started his persecution of Christians in 305 AD. Doctors, envious of Pantaleon’s success as a court physician – and of course pissed off that he was offering his services gratis – denounced him to the Emperor. Since the latter rather appreciated Pantaleon’s skills he tried to get our hero to abjure his faith, which of course Pantaleon did not do. So the Emperor handed him over to the torturers. They subjected him to the usual menu of hideous tortures which hagiographers delighted to write up in minute detail. I won’t bother readers with even a summary of them. I’ll just throw in a photo of a relatively recent painting depicting one of his tortures, being put in a bath of molten lead (which, according to the hagiographers, immediately went cold when he stepped into it, so I’m not sure how he was meant to get out of the now-solidified lead; but I guess I’m just being picky).
I’ll also mention one other torture to which he was subjected – because it is important for later in our story – namely the nailing of his hands to his head. Ouch! In the end, it’s only when he gave his tormentors permission to cut off his head that they managed to do so.
As usual, when the veneration of relics became popular in Christianity, various relics of Saint Pantaleon popped up: a head here, an arm there, a finger bone somewhere else. More unusually, a vial of his blood ended up in the town of Ravello, near Amalfi. Like the more famous case of Saint Gennaro’s blood in Naples, which is just around the corner from Ravello, the blood in the vial liquifies once a year. Here we have a photo of that vial when it is apparently liquifying in 2022.
So popular was Saint Pantaleon that he was made one of the Fourteen Holy Helpers, who, from the late Middle Ages on, were invoked to help with people’s everyday problems, especially health problems. I’ve written about a number of the Holy Helpers in earlier posts, so it’s nice to be able to add to the list with this post. I guess it made a lot of sense to include Pantaleon in the group; he was a doctor after all. And in fact, he was the patron saint of doctors and midwives. He was invoked specifically in cases of cancer and tuberculosis; why those two diseases rather than any other is not clear to me. What makes perfect sense to me, however, is that he was also invoked in cases of headaches and any other pains in the head, or even mental illnesses. This photo of a panel which I stumbled across in the church of Eferding during our recent hike along the Danube – I kept the photo back for this post – shows very clearly why. The saint to the right is Pantaleon, and we can see the nail which has been hammered through his hands into his head. To a mere mortal like me it looks incredibly painful, although the sculptor has Pantaleon looking very stoic.
My photo
This story of the nail in the head has also meant that I’ve identified one more of the fourteen Holy Helpers in my painting on glass of them, which pleases me no end!
My photo
As I wrote earlier, a fair number of churches have been named after Saint Pantaleon. I will only mention one, the church of San Pantalon in Venice.
If I mention it, it’s because my wife and I checked it out during a brief trip we made recently to Venice, to visit the Biennale (architecture is the theme this year). The church’s exterior is not much to write home about. The church’s main claim to fame is its ceiling, which depicts the martyrdom and glory of Saint Pantaleon. It is indeed quite breathtaking.
It is not, as might seem at first sight, a fresco; it is a vast painting on canvas, which has then been stuck to the ceiling. Apparently, these were quite popular in Venice; quite why, I don’t know.
This mention of Venice allows me to segue smoothly from the sublime to the ridiculous. San Pantaleone (or Pantalon in Venetian dialect) was once a very popular saint in Venice. No-one has given me an explanation for this. Nevertheless I have one, born of my fervid imagination. To explain my theory, I have to jump to the countries in the southern cone of Latin America. It is a tradition there to eat gnocchi on the 29th of each month (and so the tradition is called los ñoquis del 29). It is a festive occasion, as this photo – one of many on the internet – attests.
It was also the custom – perhaps not so much now – to place some money under your plate to bring you luck and prosperity. It was the Italian immigrants to this part of the world, many of them from the Veneto region, who brought this charming tradition with them. It was based on a legend about San Pantalon (to give him his Venetian name) which made the rounds in the Veneto. Even though he lived in Asia Minor, it was said that he had once come to northern Italy on a pilgrimage. One day, the twenty-ninth day of the month, he asked some poor peasants near Venice for bread; they generously invited him to share their meagre meal. In gratitude, San Pantalon announced that they would enjoy a whole year of abundant fish catches and harvests, which was indeed the case. The custom of placing some money under one’s plate of gnocchi – a simple dish, one for poor people – on the 29th of each month is therefore intended to obtain the renewal of this prosperity once granted by the saint.
Lovely story. But what I see in this legend is that for the Venetians – whose whole livelihood, indeed whose whole State, depended completely and totally on trade – San Pantalon would have been the go-to saint: “dear San Pantalon, here’s a lovely candle for you and some money in the offerings box. I’ve also put my life’s savings in this ship going to Constantinople [=the money under the plate]. Please, please, please make it come back with mounds of fantastic stuff that I can make a fortune off.”
Whatever the reason for his popularity in Venice, in the minds of other Italians Venetians became inextricably linked with San Pantalon. And so, when Commedia dell’Arte was born in the 16th Century, one of the stock characters in the plays was Pantalone. Pantalone is basically a caricature of Venetian merchants and just to underline this fact the character is meant to speak in Venetian dialect, at least in the Italian versions of the plays. He is retired, so he’s played as a wizened old man. He’s miserly and loves his money. Despite his age, he’s a lech and a smooth talker, and makes numerous passes at women, although he is always rejected. Given the high social standing of merchants he also represents those at the top of the social order, and he feels that this allows him to meddle in the affairs of others. In sum, the character of Pantalone is entirely based on money and ego, but at every step he becomes the butt for every conceivable kind of trick. Rereading this, which is based on a composite of many descriptions I found of the character, I get the distinct impression that the rest of Italy didn’t much like the Venetians. Quite a comedown from our heroic martyr Pantaleone.
But it gets worse! To understand why, I show here a couple of depictions of what the Pantalone character typically looked like on stage. By one of those wonderful acts of serendipity, my wife and I saw the first of these depictions just yesterday at the Kunsthistorisches Museum in an exhibition they are currently holding entitled “Arcimboldo-Bassano-Breughel” (for any readers in Vienna, hurry up to see it, it finishes on 29 June!). This particular painting is by Leandro Bassano. It was one of a series that depicted the months of the year, in this case the month of February, which of course is carnival time in Italy, which was a popular time for putting on plays.
My photo
The set of characters on the far left of the painting (minus the boy and the dog) are all characters from commedia dell’arte plays. Pantalone is on the very far left. I throw in a blow-up of that part of the painting.
My photo
It’s a pity that Bassano put Pantalone half out of the painting, but you can make out his sartorial particularities – red doublet and hose, slippers, a black cloak, a black hat, and a sword. And of course a mask. You can see these much better in this painting by an unknown artist in the Carnavalet Museum in Paris.
This painting, on the other hand, by the French painter François Bunel the younger, from the late 16th Century, shows what a figure of mockery Pantalone was.
It’s actually quite pertinent that I chose depictions by French artists of old Pantalone, because commedia dell’arte took the rest of Europe by storm. Every country had their shows, with the names of the characters modified to fit local ears: in German our foolish old man stayed as Pantalone, but in French he became Pantalon and in English Pantaloon. So well-known was he that even Shakespeare, in his famous monologue in As You Like It about the seven ages of man, mentions him as the sixth age:
The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered Pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank …
In both Britain and France, that “youthful hose” was eventually given the character’s name: “pantaloon” on one side of the Channel, “pantalon” on the other. Even though this type of clothing (“covers the lower part of the body from the waist to the feet, consisting of two cylinder-shaped parts, one for each leg, that are joined at the top”, as one dictionary definition has it) has gone through considerable redesign over the centuries, the French have kept their name for it, and the North Americans have kept the English form of the name, although under the shortened form of “pants” (the British quite quickly opted for “trousers” instead as their name for this type of fashion statement). So in many parts of the world our heroic martyr has been debased to a vulgar piece of clothing. But it gets even worse! Because another piece of clothing, which covers our private parts, has become called “underpants”. Poor Pantaleon, from this:
the heart thrills 
