The Day the Vasilopita Died

My family doesn't have any strong ethnic ties. On my mother's side, there's absolutely no stories about who came over to this country at what time. They came from England. I'm not even sure in what century. Work-battered coal miners. Too busy and practical to worry about anything but the job right in front of them. No nostalgia for the past. Just a weathered view of today and about half of tomorrow.

My father's side is from Sweden, and I know maybe three stories regarding the move to Chicago about a hundred years ago. There's no stories of the old country or family favorite recipes, though. Just an excuse for all the blond hair and blue eyes. I have a picture of my great-grandfather and his fellow World War I soldiers hanging on the wall in my living room. I look at him sometimes and wonder what the rest of his stories would tell.

Since converting to Orthodoxy, I've attempted to fill my ethnic void as much as possible. I'm an equal opportunity tradition lover. Greek tradition??? That's for me! Russian tradition??? Sign me up! Serbian tradition??? Can't hardly wait!

Especially food related traditions. I love every single one of them. I've made baklava with gusto. I've relished my St. Nicholas cake. I've even pinched pierogies for the parish bake sale till my fingers went numb. Love it! Love it!

There's something about embracing the little "t" traditions that really bring home the fullness of the Faith to me. It cements me in this big giant family I joined. It makes me feel at home.

So, I absolutely had to try my hand at Vasilopita today. The St. Basil cake. It's sweet and made even sweeter with a coin hidden inside. St. Basil wanted to give money to the poor of his town, but he didn't want to embarrass them with a handout. So, he had the women of his parish bake sweet breads with gold coins hidden inside. He gave both the gift of money and the gift of dignity to those around him. In honor of this generous act, some Orthodox bake the St. Basil cake on January 1st. We cut a piece for St. Basil, the poor, and every member of our family. Whoever gets the coin hidden inside receives an extra special blessing for the year. Exactly what I want to add to our expanding list of traditions.

So, Jared and Hilary helped me with this extremely labor-intensive cake. Jared looked so manly beating the egg whites. Hilary snuck licks from the bowl, beaters, spoon---anything and everything she could get her hands on. Precious.

And the attention to detail when sprinkling the almonds on top. What a nice memory to build and a lasting tradition to add to our family!

And it was a nice memory...until I put the cake in the oven!!!! It was about 20 minutes into the baking time when I smelled the smell no cook wants to have greet their nose wafting through the kitchen. I scurried in and opened the oven door, my face bombarded with billows of smoke. Not just trickles of smoke, but giant, action film special effects kind of rolling clouds of smoke. The cake overflowed the pan, poured down to the bottom of the oven, and then the oven floor burst into flames. The fun continued as the smoke alarm blared, the dog and cat ran from the ear-piercing screeching, and I succeeded in making a giant mess even more complete, choking the flames with large quantities of flour. I even added in yelling at my kids as a nice way to top off the experience.

After the fire was successfully put out, I stood for about thirty seconds in front of the carnage. My mind whirled. This was not, I repeat NOT, how this was supposed to turn out. I bit my lip, scooped up my half-baked cake and hopped in the car. We live down the street from the church. I decided to try and finish baking the cake there. Now, I've baked many cakes in my time. I knew good and well that it wouldn't work. All I would end up with was a fallen, flat, barely edible excuse for a cake. At that point, I didn't care. I had invested most of my afternoon and a fair amount of money in ingredients, so I was determined to end up with a cake at the end of this day! By golly, this is t-r-a-d-i-t-i-o-n!!!! We were going to eat that cake. We were going to find that coin. We were going to get our blessing!!!

As I waited for the cake to finish baking in the oven at church, I wandered into the nave and prayed the prayers of the hours. It took a minute, but soon the prayers mingled with much sighing and head shaking, as I let the first lesson of the new year sink in good and deep. Sure, the traditions are nice, but they're not essential. What's much more important is the patience and flexibility that I clearly lack. Those won't come in the shape of a cake. Those are going to take a lot more work.

I came back home with my cake and my blessing from St. Basil. He taught me a lot today. I didn't necessarily get to keep my dignity, but...it was still a blessing.