A Pandemic Christmas Table

How can the world put its arms all around me? I feel lost in the city.

-                 –   Yes, Heart of the Sunrise

Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

-                   –   Matthew 25:45 (KJV)

 

The old neighbor cleared his throat, and began, in his English patched with Portuguese and sometimes French words, to tell her a story from behind the mask covering his face. Maryam, also masked, sat respectfully, a few meters away in his garden, listening. It was early December, the time when the churches, closed now to protect the public health, told the stories of that birth long ago and all that followed. The old man spoke of the flight of Joseph and Mary to Egypt, to escape the murderous intentions of a mad king.

She could relate to that story. It had been quiet in their village until that night. Then the knocking, more persistent, the crash of a broken door, raised voices, and shots. Her father and brothers still, a red stain spreading beneath them in the quiet restored.

 

They left that night. Boats and borders a blur, fear and hunger gnawing at her gut as they crossed dark waters into the unknown. At last, though, some normalcy, a place of refuge and humble, much needed work for her mother, gratefully cleaning the houses of their merciful hosts. Until the sickness.

The people were afraid. Soon, her mother was at home, without work, as people feared carried contagion among them. School, too, was different now: no games at recess in the yard, no whispered secrets with friends behind the gymnasium. Before the pandemic, she had begged for more screen time. Now, all she wanted was the open sky and grass beneath her feet.

Her mother, pleading, on the phone in her broken Portuguese, begging help, so little left until the end of the month, a Christmas perhaps without even pão on the table. No bread? Was it really that bad?

She remembered the old man telling other stories, of a life in poverty, daily wages of a loaf of bread or half a sausage. So it’s come to that now, thought Maryam, except there are no wages now, just the kindness of strangers with little to share themselves, and some small relief from their host government.

She remembered hearing how he got his first shoes at the age of 12, and how in some hard times before that they had survived in his fatherless house, by eating acorns stolen from the fields. Stolen by children, because the lords of the herdades would shoot trespassing adults. A beating was a small price to pay for survival.

Acorns?! What about them? she thought. Ah, but the big trees were far out in the countryside, too far for her without transportation. But… hadn’t she seen something like that in the bushes behind the school?

That night, when she asked her mother for another portion of noodles, there was quiet, and in a small, choked voice: there are no more. So it was.

Early the next morning, she woke first, dressed quickly and then walked the half kilometer to the slope behind the shuttered school. It would be another two hours before her class was to meet online in the dreaded Zoom chatroom.

There they were: small points of brown in the bushes. These looked nothing like the great cork oaks which had fed the old man as a hungry young boy. But the leaves, a bit like others she had seen on some big trees, but different. She gathered pockets full quickly, scratching her hands and arms on the prickly leaves, then hurried back home. She was wondering what the acorns would be like, surely substantial and delicious to have saved so many hungry children long ago. The anticipation was too much: she had to know. Stopping, she scanned the ground and found some rocks, took one in her hand and placed an acorn on another and smashed. The creamy whitish meat of the acorn was revealed in a mess of broken shell; she picked out a fat bit, stuck it in her mouth and chewed. Mmmmm. Not bad, kind of nutty, like hazelnuts maybe or cashews, but different.

Then the bitterness came, turning that initial pleasant taste to an astringent awfulness quickly spat onto the ground. Bah!

As she approached her home, she saw the old man in his garden, burning some trash and old sticks. She approached him and said, bom dia.

Bom dia, Maryam, como estas? he replied.

Not so good, she said, my mouth feels nasty. I don’t see how you could live on acorns!

You ate some? he asked.

Just one. That was enough. It’s so awful and bitter!

The old man began to laugh. You didn’t cook it, I assume. You have to do that for some of them. It depends on the kind you have.

She reached into her pocket, grabbed a few and held them out to the man. These! Yuck!

Again, a chuckle. Quercus coccifera, Kermes oak, he said. He had been a teacher and knew a lot of strange words. You’re right, they are bitter. But better if you cook them, or soak them for a while in water to take out the tannins.

What are tannins?

The things that make the acorns bitter. Other fruits have them too. Like persimmons.

Well how do I get rid of them?

There are a couple of ways, the old man said slowly, looking around the garden. He spied an old can, walked over and picked it up, then returned to Maryam and held out his hand. She gave him the acorns, which he dropped into the can and placed it onto the coals of the fire in the garden.

Heat can destroy the tannins, he said. But sometimes that’s not enough. Sometimes you have to soak them in water after you roast them.

For how long, she asked.

It depends. Maybe just an hour. Maybe a day. Maybe a week or longer. Every tree is a little different from others like it, and the environment of the tree can affect the taste and the bitterness a lot.

Her eyes strayed to the can on the coals. She could see that some of the acorn shells had split, revealing the insides, without the need to smash them. Wow, that’s easy, she thought.

Can I try them now? she asked.

Well, said the man, taking the hot can carefully at the upper rim and dumping its contents on the wet garden grass, give them a minute to cool, then go ahead.

The long minute passed, and she reached out, took a split acorn in her fingers and pulled at the edges of the split a little. A golden nut dropped out, giving off an interesting, caramely odor. Smells good, she thought. Popped it in her mouth and chewed. The same interesting taste she had at first before was there, but richer, and it was a bit like the filling of a special chocolate bar her mother bought for her at times. She chewed, swallowed, took another, then another and ate them all. Then she realized: no bitterness.

She reached into her pocket, grabbed another handful, threw it in the can, which she put back on the coals. Just wait.

The old man told her many different things that could be made from acorns: bread, paterniscas, meatballs without meat, more. But people have forgotten these things, he said quietly. They say acorns are food for pigs. Do I look like a pig?

She laughed, bade him adieu, and as she walked through the door of her house to share the breakfast bounty with her mother, visions of… so many delicious things danced in her head, visions of that Christmas table, full of unexpected blessings.

Maryam is ready now to bake the bread. Will you join her?  --->

The names of good people have been changed to protect their privacy. For some bad ones, I've changed the names when I am no longer as angry with them as I once was, or if I do not wish to embarrass them or those close to them or descended from them. Or, if I think that some fool might try to sue me, maim me, or even kill me!

I'm a writer, not a Warrior, for all my dabbling in the Arts. 

Sometimes, the names of Evil remain unchanged, as I have no fear to speak ill of the dead, especially if they are well buried. Or of some living, who hide in the shadows still and are dead to me. The dead cannot sue, they can but haunt me in my dreams, and the worst of them do that already. May I haunt them back.