Rasa Ardys-Juðka, Editor
Perspectives
As the holidays approach, there are always questions about Lithuanian Christmas traditions. The serious ones ask – What is the significance of the Christmas Eve meal? How do you decorate the tree? The clueless ones ask – When do you celebrate Christmas? If you don't eat meat, what other foods can you eat? That's the way it goes when your ethnic heritage has never been commercially defined.
So, I've decided to let people in on the mother of all traditions practiced by true Lithuanians during the holiest of holidays. It is a tradition that has brought forth priceless facial grimaces on the young that have, to this day, elicited curiously contented feelings for the parents and grandparents. The moment for practicing this particular tradition becomes more of a ritual. A ritual with precise, albeit exaggerated, hand movements and timing. When the moment is right – usually when all the young have been gathered into a warm, cookie-scented kitchen – the tradition of the “silkë” begins.
The “silkë” (to neophytes, it’s herring) is a shiny, brilliant, sleek fish that dances in the moonlight on the foaming waves of the Baltic on the first cold November nights. Fishermen gather their sharp, small hooks (my son says they use nets) and cast into the sea, deftly snaring these Christmas prizes.
Here, in the United States, the “silkë” comes by way of plastic barrel or package or metal tin from Scandinavia or Germany to only select delicatessens. It is not the grayish, anemic herring that languishes in a vinegary brine alongside rubbery onion slices. They are the delicate Baltic fillets nestled in salty oil, waiting in anticipation of eager mouths that entice our crew.
When the family has gathered for the precise moment of the “silkë” preparation, the younger, more naïve members are strategically placed nearest father. I remember my father gently, no, lovingly opening the lid of the cargo and reaching in for the first fillet. He would slowly smile as he looked into our eyes and placed it most gingerly into his waiting mouth. Only the bravest stayed to continue – the rest scampered away screaming.
Our "silkë" would end up sliced into bite-sized pieces and topped with a thick, cold tomato and onion sauce or sprinkled with sauteéd mushrooms and onions or lightly tossed with browned, chopped walnuts and onions. The finished platefuls were adorned with parsley and took their places on the Christmas Eve table (Kûciu stalo). The daring younger family members who would partake for the first time always remembered the Christmas they had become true “silkë” connoisseurs, like my sons.
Ahh, the “silkë“. Never has a fish been so cherished by a nation as this one. Or at least this one small Lithuanian family.