A Flavor of Moravia

Not long ago my mother asked me how to spell my middle name.

Okay, now didn’t she give the name to me? I’ve always harbored a quiet suspicion that my parents sort of threw that name at me like you might throw spaghetti against a wall to see if it’s going to stick. When I was old enough to ask about it, they said it was Grandmommy’s maiden name and it was German. I spent decades thinking I had German blood until my aunt discovered the name is actually Moravian. Moravian. Ooh, now that has a ring to it. Moravia. My people are from Moravia. I hail from Moravia…

Just one question. Where the hell is Moravia?

A quick pass at some online research reveals that Moravia used to be its own principality in Europe but is now a region of Czechoslovakia. The pictures seem like a fairytale with quaint bridges, old-world spires and snow covered forests. I can’t tell if my ancestors were charming princes or gingerbread men. Apparently members of the Moravian Church ventured to the new world as missionaries and settled in strong numbers in Pennsylvania and Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Wait a minute, I went to college in North Carolina and this sounds familiar. Old Salem… Christmastime… Moravian Spice Cookies.

I love these cookies! I thought ‘Moravian’ was a brand, like Keebler. (I’d rather be related to gingerbread men than elves.) But the Moravian Spice Cookie is an old European recipe popular during the holidays and famous for being the world’s thinnest cookie. I’m not sure how it differs from an everyday gingersnap but it just does. I would love to send Moravian cookies at Christmastime with a beautiful letterpress card weaving together my Moravian heritage with holiday blessings. This is something I absolutely would have done when I was young and married in my twenties. A real Martha Stewart moment. I’m not having many Martha moments these days, so I just ordered some cookies for myself at A Southern Season, one of my favorite gourmet retailers located in Chapel Hill. Now if you’re in my immediate group of friends and family, don’t you dare steal my idea. I fully intend to make them my signature gift, just not this year.

The cookie packaging is sleek and good looking. Good aesthetics, I knew I would like being Moravian. Our icon is this gorgeous multi-point star, appropriately named The Moravian Star. It began as a geometry project at a Moravian boys’ school in the 1830s and was quickly adopted by the Moravian Church as an Advent symbol. Even Domino Magazine features Moravian Star ornaments to illuminate and decorate for the holidays. I’ve already ordered several.

And when they arrive I am going to make a Christmas wish on my Moravian Star ornaments. I am going to wish that my family will cease and desist from any more genealogy research. Because with my luck they will discover we’ve been misspelling my name all along and take away my Moravian roots. Oh, but let’s not even speak of that. Everything about Moravia is just so magical. Elegant imagery. A spiritual symbol of the Christmas holiday. Paper thin spice cookies.

I am going to try to be more of all of those things in my daily life. More elegant. More spiritual. More thin.

More & More Moravian.


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Fowled Out

Every year I approach Thanksgiving with the same goal: do not succumb to the pressures of holiday gluttony. Enjoy within reason. Exercise twice a day. Emerge on the other side victorious and svelte. I went into this year's battle armed with the usual gameplan. I would fill my plate with turkey and green beans. Avoid the rolls and stuffing. A dot of gravy and just a dollop of sweet potatoes for some color on my plate.

The first play in my playbook worked well, I loaded up on turkey. Nice move, this was going well. Hmm, but look at that gravy. Our good friend had ceremoniously made it just before we served the meal. It looked awfully rich and creamy. Just a touch -- whoops! Ok, so perhaps I was a little heavy handed. No more showboating, or gravyboating as the case may be. But adding too much gravy on my fowl was merely the first of many fouls to come.

Someone was serving the dressing and offered to put a heaping portion on my plate. I couldn't be rude, of course. And then I had to get extra sweet potatoes because I really wanted two marshmallows (marshmallows just seem so light and harmless) and they were spaced kinda far apart. Then came the rolls. Another good friend brought the rolls which were nothing short of luscious. She owns a bakery for heavens sake. They were plump and tall, slightly browned on top with a dusting of flour. Completely soft and doughy on the inside. By the time I found the green beans there was simply no room. I could only fit about three or four little green beans on the edge.

I looked at my plate. YELLOW FLAG! Piling on...definitely a 5-pound penalty.

Then came dessert. My daughter was terribly proud of her shoo-fly pie recipe so I had to have a little slice. And since a guest brought the pumpkin pie, I would have been a bad hostess not to try it. My mother made apple pie and I didn't want to hurt her feelings. Of course everything needed whipped cream.

YELLOW FLAG! Excessive celebration. Another 5-pound penalty.

I rolled myself to bed Thursday night feeling completely stuffed and defeated. How did that happen? I started with turkey and pretty much fowled-out from there. And this was only halftime. I still had to face The Leftovers. Part of me was confident and somewhat idealistic. I knew I could avoid the Leftovers. The food was a nice treat but no longer necessary. I would just eat lean, carb-free foods and enjoy my family and friends for the rest of this game - I mean holiday. That's what it's all about, right?

And then there was the other part of me...the part that was wondering if we had enough apple pie leftover for breakfast. This part of me was backed-up against my own end zone about to throw an interception. The consequences would be harsh. I would have to regroup the minute I get home...New Offense: Stricter Diet....New Defense: Join a Gym....Special Teams: The Master Cleanse. Two-a-days would start on Monday. No, we travel home Monday. Start on Tuesday.

I held my own against the Leftovers for awhile but when the football games started, the grazing began. Ultimately I blame the Texas Longhorns for my downfall. The Aggies beat them like a drum for four straight quarters and I nervously nibbled my way through the entire game. With a little over two minutes to go I gave my daughter this big speech about not giving up on your team, a good fan stays until the end, keep hoping for a miracle. It was a tough loss. And to top it off I got completely wrapped up in the Arkansas-LSU game. Unbelievable! Unranked Arkansas beat #1 LSU in the third overtime. Just goes to show anything is possible. At the first overtime I was still rooting for LSU to win it. But by the third overtime and my third helping of coffee cake I had starting cheering for Arkansas. What a great victory for the underdog.

I suppose hoping against hope is in my blood. My great-grandfather played in 'The Game of the Century' in 1916 when Georgia Tech beat Cumberland 222 to zero. It remains the greatest win (or loss, depending on your point of view) in college football history. And I say, with great pride, my great-grandfather played for Cumberland. I think he was even the quarterback for a few plays. He stills holds the college record for most kick-off returns received. I really cannot imagine what compelled the Cumberland players to press on for all four quarters. In the face of certain defeat how did they pick themselves off the bench and persevere? Perhaps it was a combination of hope, sheer drive and a relentless commitment to their fellow teammates. And maybe just a touch of insanity?

I need a little dose of that Cumberland never-say-die spirit. I need to lose this defeatist attitude. So I overate on Thanksgiving? So I plowed through the Leftovers yesterday? I think my gameplan was flawed. Today is a new day, so I'm calling an audible. I am going to put on my snow boots and take a leisurely walk on the county road, with these beautiful mountains as my backdrop. Maybe I will head into town with my dad for the Carroll College football game. And then help my mom plan Christmas. After a super-traditional Thanksgiving she likes to do a wintry Italian meal for Christmas day. She's thinking Osso Bucco this year...

...hmmmm. Hey Coach, put me in. I'm ready.
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