How exactly do you go about being an American pagan?
For many people, being pagan is all about bringing old European traditions and rituals into their lives. (Though of course, Europe is not the only source of pagan tradition.) For many pagans, much of their practice is involved with recreating these rituals in this land in which we live. And so we build our stone and wood henges, and plant our gardens with the herbs from our inherited traditions. We follow, too, inherited seasonal calendars, and repeat among ourselves their lore, so that pagans on many continents know that by this day these plants will have bloomed, and that these blooms marked midsummer, or some other passage. They might not be blooming outside your door, as the cycles of growth change immensely across distance. These plants might not grow at all outside your door, but tradition, when we have it, is very important.
The flip side of tradition is that these customs arose from people who lived much closer to the earth, and who were perforce much more intimately involved in its cycles than most of us are today. There are changes one can track abstractly, with a calendar, and then there are the changes that occur directly in the world around you. To be an American pagan is for many people about answering and balancing both of these calls, to give honor both to traditions that have often made great journeys both in distance and time, and to equally revere the land that is around us, and the cycles and turning points that are natural to it. Such balance does not always come without effort.
Case in point: Recently, I was involved in a discussion of the identity of the "true" rowan. I am skeptical about the very idea, as from what I can tell even in the British Isles which variety of mountain ash should properly be called rowan seems to vary according to where you are -- and the botanical names only further confuse the issue; some plants have more than one, one system implying that the European and American mountain ashes are kissing cousins, others suggesting a more distant relationship. I've been told by some people that only certain varieties are effective for magical work. But there is not any noticeable agreement which varieties, nor has my own experience suggested such a marked distinction.
Early immigrants to these shores identified the native mountain ashes as rowans. We have quite a variety of mountain ashes, from coast to coast, highlands and lowlands, all with fairly similar leaves and clusters of orange-red berries, for all that they vary in height from four feet to forty. One can buy either American or European varieties in nurseries. And so one can imagine competing approaches: On the one hand, you can hunt down the precise variety appropriate to the traditions you wish to emulate, and plant and nurture such tree. On the other hand, you can make a pilgrimage up into the mountains, perhaps into the alpine areas where our native mountain ashes grow as short brilliant bushes, and collect the leaves and berries you find there. (Somewhere in the middle, a savvy urban scavenger should be able to find either variety without much trouble.) I think most people can appreciate the merits of either approach.
Squash is another place where tradition and locality have met and mingled. The original jack o' lanterns were carved of turnips (and the translucence of turnips is well-suited to this purpose, even if their small size was not). But the image of squashes, with their round, lumpy and fleshy shapes colored orange, green and red, have worked their way into both pagan and popular images of autumn and harvest.
Squashes are, of course, New World plants. Certain distantly related varieties of edible gourds were eaten in Europe before contact with the Americas, though they were largely abandoned in favor of their larger, fleshier New World cousins. (However, many of the gourds sold in stores for seasonal decoration are these European gourds, and are in fact edible, though the edibility is often greatly reduced by the application of a layer of varnish -- beware!) There is some speculation that a variety of the pumpkin family might have been established in Africa prior to the advent of widespread global trade, but no agreement. The theory has even been proposed that a buoyant squash, full of seeds, might have made the long trip across the ocean, to my mind a charming image. Certainly, our ancient European ancestors did not cultivate pumpkins, Peter Peter to the contrary.
From the archaeological record, it appears that squashes were originally grown for their seeds, not their flesh at all. The oldest squashes had thin, hard shells, closer perhaps to what we usually think of as gourds. (There are still squashes selected for this very purpose, and the seeds of all winter squash may be salted and roasted for a protein- and vitamin-rich snack.) But squash has been companion to humans for many a year, and has been adapted to our tastes. Nowadays, some cultivars have grown so tender that the immature fruits are eaten, rind, flesh, seeds and all, giving us the wonderful array of summer squashes.
In my own accounting, squashes track the turning of the year, summer into winter. From late spring on, one can eat the fragrant blossoms, and through the hot days of summer the bounteous harvest of zucchini and patty-pans fills many a table with their bright colors and delicate flesh. But as the year turns dark, the Summer King passes and these tender fruits give way to their larger, tougher siblings. After the warm-weather garden is mostly cleared away, the squashes will sit on the ground along their sprawling vines, with their rinds toughening. A summer squash may be light and delicate, and should be eaten soon after it is picked. A winter squash is tough and dense and will grow all the sweeter for being stored many months into winter.
In early October, I buy the acorn squash that I'll stuff and serve for Thanksgiving -- a holiday itself purely American, and at the same time another variation of the harvest festivals common to so many pagan traditions. They will sit in the pantry and ripen, their green skins turning orange and inner flesh turning soft and sweet. The logic of the squashes is not impenetrable. In summer, my soft skin is open to the weather, and I crave foods that are light and succulent, satisfying thirst as much as hunger. In winter, I too wish for heavy clothes between myself and the elements and seek out richer, denser foods.
After many years of research and training in lore and esoterica on the one hand, and walking our local woods and studying their native denizens and cycles, the balance I have made for myself is something like this: The lore I have studied is inspiration for me, and has enriched my symbolic language, and become a part of the many threaded tapestry of my interactions with my world. But this is the ground my feet stand on, and I will climb into the alpine Cascades to find my rowan berries, and celebrate the harvest with wild blueberries and squash, beaked filberts and the turning leaves of big-leafed maples. I'll keep the traditional turnings, as I keep a calendar that marks many turnings, and the strongest of those to me are told by how the shadows fall here.
Zucchini in Wine
Why do people complain about zucchini? Sometimes it seems as if it's grown more often than eaten. Personally, I can't get enough of it. This recipe below is quick and simple, and the acidity of the wine counteracts the slight bitterness of the zucchini skin. For a colorful variant, substitute a yellow squash (such as yellow patty-pan or yellow crookneck) for half the zucchini, and then make sure to use the sweet red peppers -- the bright red, yellow and green is quite striking.
In a large skillet or wok, cook the zucchini in oil over medium-high heat until the zucchini begins to wilt.
Add wine and sauté until the zucchini is soft and tender.
Add basil or peppers, and sauté for another minute.
Salt and pepper to taste.
Spaghetti Squash with Lemon and Herbs
Spaghetti squash is a winter squash, but this preparation is light and fitting for the warm golden days of the harvest.
*There is considerable leeway in what herbs to use. Basil, of course, is delicious. I am also fond of combining a couple of sage leaves with a mint leaf or two, and an equal or greater amount of chives. Chives and sweet cicely also work well, as does savory.
Cut the squash in half, remove seeds and their associated "guts," and steam until tender (about 20 minutes). Cool.
Scoop out the squash flesh, the "spaghetti," from the rind, and fluff it slightly with your fingers. Add the rest of the ingredients, and toss gently.