In response to the plans of the Russian Parliament to revoke Russia’s recognition of Lithuania’s Declaration of Independence from the USSR in 1991, the Kyiv City Council has cancelled the decree by Kyiv Rus Grand Prince Volodymyr of the founding of Moscow in 1147.
Anne Eubank, in Atlas Obscura, describes a seasonal favorite of my native Anthracite Coal Region: Boilo.
Winter’s the time for toddies and eggnog, or any cocktail that combines fistfuls of spices with warm sweetness. But when it comes to sweetness, spice, and sheer boozy firepower, boilo has them all beat.
You can be forgiven for not knowing about boilo. Outside of Pennsylvania, this warm drink, sipped by the shot, is rarely seen, and its main ingredient, Four Queens whiskey, is practically impossible to source over the state border. But for many residents of Pennsylvania coal country, the drink is an indispensable winter treat that began as a favorite of the area’s hardy miners. Today, it endures as a cold-weather cocktail and an unlikely soother of colds and the flu. However, due to its main ingredient, 101-proof whiskey, boilo needs to be treated with wary respect, whether drinking it by the glass or heating it on the stove.
Often stirred up for a Christmas party or a firefighter’s fundraiser, the basic elements of boilo are sliced oranges and lemons, squeezed and cooked in water or ginger ale, along with pounds of honey, spices, and the occasional handful of raisins. The mixture is brought to a boil (one folk etymology claims that the name comes from “boil over,” which is very easy for a foamy, sugary pot of honey and sugar water to do), and then the heat is lowered to let the spices and citrus peels infuse the brew. Only after the mixture is removed from the heat and strained is the whiskey added, since legends tell of boilo explosions from fire meeting a dribble of flammable Four Queens whiskey.
A riff on an Eastern European spirit, boilo is rooted deep in Pennsylvania coal country.
“Boilo” is essentially a literal translation of the Lithuanian virytas.
My own family’s recipe goes roughly so:
2 quarts moonshine or inexpensive bar whiskey, rye preferred
1/2 cup of raisins
2-7 tablespoons sugar (to taste)
2 cups honey
13 herbs and spices: including 2-4 cinnamon sticks, vanilla beans, juniper berries, cardamom seeds, whiskey glass full of caraway seeds, whole nutmeg, whole allspice, whole cloves, peppercorns, bay leaves, saffron, candied ginger, and 1 cup hard candy
Peel oranges and lemons and cut into quarters. Squeeze the fruit into a pot, then throw in remaining fruit pulp. Add remaining ingredients. Cook everything at a slow simmer until the hard candy is melted, stirring constantly. Add whiskey and bring briefly to a rising boil. Add orange juice (some people use ginger ale) to restore any lost volume. Strain and serve hot in shot glasses.
We always used moonshine made in Locust Valley (my birthplace, a rural district in Ryan Township, Schuylkill County). You’re supposed to fiddle with the precise quantities of ingredients to get the taste you prefer.
As always with punches, if you find it too harsh and strong, add more orange juice or ginger ale. If you find it too weak or too sweet, add more whiskey.
You drink it hot out of shot glasses. After about three of these, you’ll find your knees are weak.
Set in Poland during the first half of XVII century, the epic documentary-drama “Born for the saber” tells the story of young knight Blazej Wronowski. Jan Jerlicz, a veteran of the Muscovite wars who returns to his fatherland upon Maciej Wronowski’s – his brother’s in arms request to begin training his son, Blazej. “Born for the saber” is a feature story about honor, courage and war, seen through the eyes of a young noble and knight growing up in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. Documentary part of the movie is a cinematic journey through history and art of the mystique of high-end crafting of the polish saber, which to date is considered to be one of the best melee weapons on the globe. Word class experts demonstrate the art of saber fighting and forging this extraordinary weapon.
I doubt that an English-subtitled version is available yet. Yet.
Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania, has been making a point of trying to erect the most beautiful Christmas Tree in Europe in recent years. (link)
November 30, 2019: The traditional lighting of the Christmas tree in Vilnius attracted citizens and guests alike. The capital of Lithuania has received a lot of global attention over the years for its unique and stunning Christmas trees, and this year is no exception. This year, the decorated Christmas tree resembles the 14-15th century Queen figure from the game of chess, which was found by archaeologists in 2007.
Decorations adorn the already traditional 27-meter tall metal construction, which bears some 6,000 branches. The construction is specially designed to create a completely sustainable Christmas tree. All the actual tree branches used in the construction are defiled from the trees by foresters while carrying out the general maintenance of the forest. Therefore not only trees but even branches are not cut just for the spectacle.
The particular figure which served as a model for decorations was found during the archaeological excavations around the Ducal Palace in Vilnius. Dating back to the 14th-15th century, the beautifully ornamented figure was made of spindle tree. Its middle part is carved with geometrical patterns and topped with floral ornaments. According to historians, the game of chess was played by the nobility of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania from the end of the 14th century.
A traditional Christmas market is set up around the Christmas tree, along with another one located at the Town Hall Square. The markets will stay open from the 30th of November to the 7th of January.
The tree’s design was inspired by this 14th-15th Chess Queen found by archaeologists in 2007.
You’d have expected the audience to be made up of the usual hip New York Experimental Film crowd, but actually that night it was full of Lithuanian Americans desperate to catch a look at their Fatherland.
The film (I’m remembering back over 40 years) was not very experimental, or arty, at all. It was really much more like a home movie. And Lithuania was startlingly poor and primitive. I remember that Mekas received accommodation at his relatives’ collective farm being given a pile of straw to sleep on.
Mekas clearly had bent over backward to avoid politics. If he had not, the Soviet authorities were holding lots of relatives of his hostage, and he would certainly never be visiting Lithuania again, if he’d expressed negative opinions of the system.
The audience, however, of hot-blooded, anti-Soviet Lithuanians was not happy with Mekas’s restraint. He got no cinematic questions, but he was deluged with demands that he openly condemn Communism and the Soviet Occupation.
The poor film-maker was nonplussed. He wanted to talk film. His audience wanted to fight Communism.
I met him, and found out that he was a Lutheran from Northern Lithuania.
KalÄ—dÅ³ rytÅ³ roÅ¾Ä— inÅ¾ydo
(Christmas morning a rose has bloomed)
KalÄ—dÅ³ rytÅ³ roÅ¾Ä— inÅ¾ydo, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da,
SekminiÅ³ rytu dyvai pasidarÄ—, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da,
Dyvai pasidarÄ—: aÅ¾erai uÅ¾Å¡alo, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da,
Jaunas bernelis ladelÄ¯ kirto, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da,
LadelÄ¯ kirto, Å¾irgelÄ¯ girdÄ—, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da,
Å½irgelÄ¯ girdÄ—, mergeli virgdÄ—, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da,
AtlakÄ— elnias Devyniaragis, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da,
Ant pirmo rago ugnelÄ— degÄ—, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da,
An` antro rago kavoliai kalÄ—, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da.
Christmas morning a rose has bloomed, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da,
Sunday morning a miracle has happened, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da
A Miracle happened as the lake is frozen, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da
The Young boy was smashing the ice, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da, Was s
Smashing the ice, to give the horse a drink, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da
Giving a horse a drink made a girl cry, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da,
Then came the Moose with nine horns, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da
On the first horn the Fire was burning, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da
On the other horn blacksmiths were hammering, lylio kalÄ—da kalÄ—da.
Detal from Jan Matejko, Battle of Grunwald, 1878, National Museum, Warsaw: Grand Duke Witold (your typical Lithuanian) breaking through the German line.
Kat Argo thinks Lithuanian special forces injected into the Ukraine conflict would rapidly clean the Russian militias’ clocks.
There has been a lot of strong rhetoric from the Lithuanian government in reference to the Ukrainian Crisis. The small country by the Baltic Sea has been one of Kyivâ€™s greatest allies in the EU and NATO. Their ambassador, at an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council in response to the separatist Donetsk Peopleâ€™s Republicâ€™s parade of captured Ukrainian Soldiers at bayonet-point, had said, â€œâ€¦ instead of seeking the solution, Russia has been escalating the situation as flow of weapons, equipment, mercenaries and now troops continue across Russiaâ€™s borders into the territory of Ukraine. Let us be clear; weapons donâ€™t fall in the hands of rebels out of blue skies.â€
Likewise, Lithuanian officials have made their anti-Russia stance completely clear.
What little experience I have with Lithuanians is with their most elite soldiers in Afghanistan â€“ the Aitvaras, or their Special Forces (LITHSOF) â€“ and I know that if they were to respond to the Ukrainian Crisis, it would change.
The LITHSOF were the mechanized horsemen of the Apocalypse â€“ where they rode, death would come after.
Instead of horses, they had four motorcycles, and wore a black and white kerchief over their nose and mouth with the outline of a skull. The Taliban feared them.
They had a blatant disregard for US regulations, such as the 10km/h speed limit around the base or the need to constantly wear helmets and reflective belts. If the rule was stupid, they didnâ€™t follow it. Their sense of independence, and unit autonomy drove many an American commander insane.
Once, the Lithuanians were refueling a vehicle on base, and a young American sergeant approached to correct their lack of helmets and protective gear. The driver shrugged and claimed â€œNo English!â€ and drove off (too fast), leaving the young sergeant standing in his dust.
With only dozens of LITHSOF in Afghanistan, they made their numbers count. They became the terror of the Taliban in Zabul Province. It was the single justification of their existence, and the basis of their legend. They were amazing fighters, vicious and joyful in the combat, living in a constant, controlled recklessness.
They criticized the Americanâ€™s unwillingness to go outside the wire, and the accompanying safety regulations that degraded common sense.
â€œYou want to play safe in war? That is how you loseâ€¦â€ or more directly, â€œWe are soldiers. Not children.â€
They would go out on a dime if called upon. No fear. No excuses. They bent the rules if it helped the mission.
For all that viciousness, they were gracious hosts. They opened their compound to a few of us who would spend our evenings smoking cigars in their â€œcaveâ€ â€“ a place that became a sanctuary for many of us.
They made us loose-leaf chamomile tea from fresh flowers or coffee from fresh grounds with fresh honey (imported from their home). Each newcomer has to try their sauna, which they were very proud of. Through my time, I often asked for permission to steal a cup of coffee or grab some of their tea, until they became frustrated and said, â€œKatyte, you donâ€™t understand,â€ using the nickname they had picked out for me, which was the cute form of the word cat, â€œOur cave is your cave. Feel free, donâ€™t hesitate. Stop asking!â€
Around the base, their commander was called Leonidas (but never to his face) which was a reference to his striking resemblance to the Spartan King, as played by Gerard Butler. The name also suited his reputation.
Leonidas once sat me down to teach me numbers, days, months in his native Lithuanian language â€“ which, by the way, was not easy. Late at night, when I couldnâ€™t sleep, he would sit with me in the common room and we would talk about life, about family, and he would try to impart his brotherly advice.
â€œWe are a big family in this cave,â€ Leonidas said, â€œWe spend more time with each other than even our real family. We fight, we get angry at each other, but we are family. And I think we are your family too.â€
Leonidas once told me that Americans were too used to a comfortable life â€“ in prosperity we had lost our perspective. We were a comfortable, fat, super power and losing our sight of the world.
Leonidas lamented the Russian invasion of Lithuania.
He explained to me that their society had been prosperous, comfortable and fat too. They gave up their liberties for continued comfort until the day they were invaded when they had no more of their liberty left to trade.
â€œThe Russians were allowed to take over without firing one single shot,â€ he said.
It was shameful to him, and he spoke with great resolve, declaring that it would never happen again. The little country of Lithuania would never allow themselves to be taken cheaply again and, through the conviction of his dark eyes, I came to believe that Putin would have to pry Lithuaniaâ€™s liberty from Leonidasâ€™ cold, clenched fist.
The process of rediscovery, generally involving painful efforts of reconstruction, of lost masterworks of the Silent Era of the cinema is still very much underway.
I am remembering with great pleasure the premiere in January of 1981 at Radio City Music Hall of Abel Gance’s “Napoleon” (1927). Karen and I found ourselves by accident sitting next to Susan Sontag (with whom we were mildly acquainted) and Lillian Gish (to whom Sontag introduced us), and we all had a very enjoyable time exchanging witticisms and appreciative observations.
Another major American premiere that we were fortunate enough to present at was that of Andrzej Wajda’s “Pan Tadeusz” (1999), shown at a Polish cultural center in the basement of an old church in the heart of that city’s Polish neighborhood. Polish-language art films were shown there regularly, and that movie theater is the only one I have ever attended whose concession stand featured wine and beer and Polish sausage as well as popcorn.
In it, a family vendetta between two families of old-fashioned Lithuanian nobles turns into a revolt against the occupying
Russians in 1812, just prior to Napoleon’s invasion. Pan Tadeusz is for Poland what Don Quixote is for Spain, simultaneously the supreme achievement of its national literature, and moreover the definitive portrait of its national character. Pan Tadeusz was described by Worcell as “a tombstone laid by the hand of genius upon our Old Poland.”
There was not a dry eye in the auditorium as the background narration solemnly intoned the poem’s famous opening line:
â€œLitwo! Ojczyzno moja! ty jesteÅ› jak zdrowie;
Ile ciÄ™ trzeba ceniÄ‡, ten tylko siÄ™ dowie,
Kto ciÄ™ straciÅ‚.”
Lithuania, my fatherland!, thou
Art like good health; I never knew till now
How precious, till I lost thee.
I had always assumed that the Andrzej Wajda version was the first, and only, attempt ever made to film Pan Tadeusz, but
I recently received some correspondence from the Polish cultural news web-site, Culture.pl, and when I went to investigate the site, I discovered that two attempts had been made to film the novel during the silent era, one of which, directed by Ryszard OrdyÅ„ski was actually completed and released in 1928.
The film was, of course, lost, all copies believed to have been destroyed. But, as the Polish government cultural web-site reports, “in the 1950s… the Polish National Film Archive came into possession of a 40-minute, destroyed fragment of the film, which had an original running time of just under 3 hours. The year 2006 turned out to be crucial â€“ several other incomplete copies of the film surfaced in Wroclaw. After years of re-mastering efforts, the â€œNitrofilmâ€ project team … managed to reconstruct almost 120 minutes of the original picture.”
A gala premiere of the re-release of this spectacular cinematic landmark took place in Warsaw last November 9.
Leon KapliÅ„ski, Hetman Stefan Czarniecki, 1863, National Museum Cracow.
Died 16 February 1665, Polish national hero Hetman [Field Marshal] Stefan Czarniecki [pronounced “Charnyetsky”] of an infected wound received in battle against the Cossacks the previous July.
One of the greatest commanders in Polish history, Czarniecki fought in 27 major engagements. He played the principal role in evicting the Swedes and the Russians from Poland in the mid-17th century period of national disaster known as “The Deluge.”
Despite his age and illness, Czarniecki persisted in traveling in the most bitter winter weather to Lwow, but his strength began to fail and he was taken to a cottage in SokoÅ‚Ã³wce. Recognizing that he was dying, the hero is said to have insisted that his white charger be brought to his bedside for a last farewell. The horse refused the water and oats offered to him, and instead beat the floor with his hoofs, saluting his master. Czarniecki sank into a coma and died after receiving the last rites.
The horse also died shortly afterward, and the peasants living near Czarnca Wloszczowa, where Czarniecki was buried, claim that on February 16th, the hoofbeats of Czarniecki’s horse can be heard on the nearby meadows as he continues to watch over his master’s grave.
Leopold LÃ¶ffler, The Death of Stefan Czarnecki, 1860, National Museum Warsaw.