OW’S THIS FOR a weird-ass thing to celebrate? “St. Martin’s Day (or Martinstag or Martinmas) is November 11, the feast day of Martin of Tours,
who started out as a Roman soldier. He was baptized as an adult and
became a monk.” That tidbit comes from Wikipedia, but since it’s a Catholic saint we’re trying to learn about, we must dip into a much older source of widely accepted half-truths: the Legenda Aurea or Golden Legend of Jacobus de Voragine. Here’s what this collection of medieval hagiographies has to say about our man Marty: “Martin is as much to say as holding Mars, that is the God of battle, against vices
and sins. Or Martin is said as one of the martyrs, for he was a martyr by his will, and by
mortifying of his flesh. Or Martin is expounded thus: As despising, provoking, or
seignioring. He despised the devil his enemy, he provoked the name of our Lord to mercy,
and he seigniored over his flesh by continual abstinence in making it lean. . . .”
Sorry, what? I must have dozed off. At any rate, speaking of “flesh,” St. Martin’s Day happens to be celebrated by feasting upon a delicious goose. Often there’s also a parade of children carrying lanterns (see above, from some creepy country like Germany). Over the weekend I was invited to both a lantern walk and a goose carving. Since I’m not a Krampus, I decided to pass on the former—but who could say no to this?
I have no idea how the hostess prepared that thing. I’ll try to find out. It all happened before I arrived, and besides, I was too shellacked (hi, Mom) on French 75s (hi, St. Martin of Tours) to have the faintest clue what was going on. Here’s my associate Max Watman—the author of this forthcoming masterpiece—on the French 75, the queen of cocktails.
Isn’t she beautiful? Sketchy dudes take note—the womenfolk were practically unintelligible after like two sips of this thing.
It’s lucky there was some stick-to-your-ribs carbohydrate to soak this up. The following picture puts me in mind of a probably apocryphal story about Diogenes of Sinope. A well-meaning friend told Diogenes something like, “If you would only learn to flatter the tyrant, you wouldn’t have to eat lentils.” To which Diogenes said, “If you would only learn to eat lentils, you wouldn’t have to flatter the tyrant.” To which I said, “If you would only learn to make lentils this tasty, we wouldn’t be standing around in togas having this dumb conversation.” (The finished dish included candy-like chunks of sugar pumpkin.)
So I don’t know how to roast a goose or cook lentils—what am I good for, except, as one friend put it, “eating-related self-calls”? I can tell you how to mix up something that will blow the effin’ doilies off your Thanksgiving appeteaser table this year: cranberry salsa dip with cream cheese. First, you click this. Then you do what it says. Then you get a big mouthful of cranberry, capsaicin, cream cheese, cilantro, ginger, and the elegant cracker of your choice.
Just look at that. Festive enough for ya?
