IN GOD'S SERVICE

Servitas in Cultu

et

Cultus per Servitatem

What is a "Verger"?

One of the esoteric, and frankly powerful remnants of medieval times in the liturgical worship of the Anglican Communion is the office of verger. Posted above is a photo of one of the best. It is a picture of the legendary Charles Agneau, Head Verger of Grace Cathedral, San Francisco taken not long before his death at age 76.

What is a verger?

David Jette, the retired President of the Verger's Guild of the Episcopal Church spoke to a group of vergers in training: "Basically, a verger is God's butler." The office of verger can be as simple as a ceremonial office to lead processions within the church. Or, it can be as complicated as being the overseeing officer, Sargent-at Arms, instructor and head of all of the subordinate guilds within a cathedral church.

Just as a Head Butler was in charge of all the servants within a Georgian/Victorian household, so a verger is in charge of all the servants who keep the liturgical dance in pace and cadence and alive with reverential vigor within the Anglican Church.

He or she serves the priest or cathedral dean or the bishop, making certain that their needs are met, that the altar guild and acolytes and ushers and choir are all trained and prepared to serve. This allows the ordained ministers to concentrate on their priestly and pastoral duties while the great dance of the liturgy flows around them, supporting them and lifting up their position as God's chosen priests.

Originally, the verger carried a mace to keep unruly and/or drunken congregants, choir members in line and to help remove errant livestock from the sanctuary. He would keep watch over the expensive books and bibles, gold and silver altar adornments. Usually, he was a retired military man, well versed in the art of combat and maintaining order. His mace was not ornamental....it was a weapon.

The contemporary office of Sargent-at-Arms within the US Congress or the British Parliment is the outgrowth of the office of Verger within the Church.

Yours truly, 1st Sunday after Christmas,

Martyrdom of Holy Innocents

I serve as verger in our small congregation at St. James, Wheat Ridge. My post is second in ceremonial and liturgical importance. Only our Rector or priest-in-charge holds more authority. He is ordained and can perform all of the sacraments outlined in the Canon Law of the Anglican Communion. Although I am highly skilled and trained in all of the liturgal nuances and canon law, I am not ordained. Therefore, I cannot perform baptisms, marriages, bless and sanctify Eucharistic elements, sacred oils or holy water.

OH yes!....and what does the latin above mean?

"Service in Worship and Worship through Service."

~~*~~ For the Love of a Cat ~~*~~

William "Sprocket" Cat

Ten years ago this coming March 26th, a litter of six black kitteh's were born to our dear neighbor's dam. Some nine weeks later, Ms. D was visiting and playing with the all litter mates. As she arose to leave, one little black fluffball followed her and began mewing.

That lil' furball was Sprocket.

He has graced our house, our lives and the neighborhood ever since. He latched on to me early on.

I taught him how to hunt, the joys of feasting on fresh fish and wild birds. He ranges far and wide in the neighborhood, following the "cat highways" know only to the felines who all roam here in the North-West Highlands of Denver.

William “Sprocket” Cat, the self-proclaimed:

- Emperor of the North Highlands,

- Knight of the Raleigh Street Irregulars,

- Master of Mice and Sparrow, and,

- Time Lord appellation: Felis Grandicus Concolor

The ornery gato has some scars and we've had some scares when he has come up sick. He has bounced back from each one...until last Thursday. He has not eaten since, nor has he ingested fluids....The Vet has given him fluids by subcutaneous injection.

I've shared much of what has happened to him through the beneficence of that sweet and ornery Headmistress: Sondra @ http://www.sondrak.com/. She is the founder of the Fund which so many of you have made contributions.

I am dumbfounded by this outpouring of support and joyful help!

THANK YOU!

BLESS YOU ALL!

Nathaniel and Sprocket sharing "their" couch.

~~~~~ UPDATE~~~~~

Christmas Day, 2008

Sprocket slept almost all night without vomiting. However, when we tried to hydrate him by administering lukewarm water with an eyedropper.....He immediately threw up again. He has not eaten at all. Nothing stays long in his upper GI.

Ms. D is off work until New Years. She will take him back into the Vet's Clinic tomorrow. I simply do not know how much longer the lil' black bugger can keep this up. He is so weak, lethargic.....moving like a Sloth, slow, almost imperceptably slow.

Sigh..............

We would not be able to keep this up if it were not for your corporate support, both physical, emotional and fiscal!

THAT, as far as I am concerned, is the true miracle here.

THE PIZZELLE REVISITED

Hard at work in the shop office

Christmas Cookie Madness

Dammit Womman, Mrs. Peperium, Headmistress SondraK, MiTX and others have all expressed interest in Pizzelles.

I promised recipes....and recipes you shall have!

I ran a Dogpile search and found the following page, which is replete with basic goody recipes:

http://www.post-gazette.com/food/20010524mailbo.asp

The recipe by Paul Sciullo of Bloomfield is the closest to what my Mom used to make...without the whiskey.

Now I am well constrained to resurrect one of her prized Pizzelle Irons, much like the crenelated snowflake, #2 in the pic below.

Out of my culinary memories, one in particular was brought back with eidetic clarity by "MCPO Airdale" in a thread over at http://www.sondrak.com/ He spoke of rolling the warm pizzelle, fresh from the iron into a tube....thereby creating a foundation for canoli.

~ A San Francisco Tangent

On the southern-most end of the Marin County headlands, near the base of Mt. Tamalipas, there is an old roadhouse which has been in continuous operation since the 1930's. The Buckeye Roadhouse is nothing like what most folk picture a roadhouse. It is a fine, understated, high quality restaurant featuring fantastic Northern California Wine Country cuisine.

My brother and I were taken their by one of our clients while we worked on building and installing custom mill work.

Long story short ~ DINNER:

24 yr. old Glenmorangie and a splash of water followed by a full dozen fresh bay oysters on the half-shell, washed down with an Anchor Steam Porter...T

Then a dinner of pan seared steelhead fillet on a bed of wild rice and fresh serrano chile and corn with angel hair onion rings and a crisp "Stag's Leap" Chardonnay that was spectacular.

Desert was a chocolate pizzelle canoli filled with dark chocolate whipped cream and ricotta cheese drizzled over with hot dark chocolate/pine nut sauce, a glass of 50 year old Spanish Port.....almost as good as making love.....almost! And a cup of the cleanest tasting coffee I have ever had the pleasure to drink, strong but no bitterness at all.

Which in turn reminded me of the pizzelle canoli we had in Mexico:

They were stuffed with fresh whipped cream and mexican vanilla (VERY pungent!) and their version of ricotta and drizzled over with a hot hard sauce with crushed pistachios....a good snifter of Pedro Domeque VSOP and dark, rich michoacan coffee. *SIGH!*

~~~~~~

If any of y'all wish to try your hand at making pizzelles, you can purchase irons like this one here:

at: http://www.kasbahouse.com/villawareonline/pizelle.asp

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Advent Season is nigh over and preparations well in hand to celebrate a Christmas eve Mass at St. James.

There will be Pizzelles!

Thomas Hornsby Ferril ~ Again

Politics and Poetry

Over at "Irish Elk" http://mcns.blogspot.com/ the discussion of Christmas songs that leave one's teeth on edge... fingernails on the slate.....bacofoil on the braces; caused the discussion turned to the "poet laureate select" of the Obamanation. Which, in turn, led me to mention my favorite poet: Tom Ferril, Colorado's Poet Laureate from 1979 until his death in 1988.

His best known work is painted upon the walls of the Colorado State Capitol Rotunda. "Here is a Land Where Life is Written in Water."

My own favorite, a seasonal tribute to Springtime, I share here for Mrs. "P" and all who enjoy and appreciate the turn of phrase in well crafted verse. Given that our nation is held in the grip of unseasonably cold weather...this is a grand time to remember that Spring will follow the frigid, insensate Winter wherein Cabin Fever accosts the human spirit.

~~~~~~

The Prairie Melts

The prairie melts into the throats of larks

And green like water green begins to flow

Into the pinto patches of the snow.

I'm here, I move my foot, I count the mountains:

I can make calculations of my being

Here in the spring again, feeling it, seeing...

Three granite mountain ranges wore away

While I was coming here, that is the fourth

To shine in spring to sunlight from the north.

A mountain range ago the sea was here,

Now I am here, the falcons floating over,

Bluebirds swimming foredeeps of the blue,

Spindrift magpies black and splashing white,

The winged fins, the birds, the water green...

Not the ocean ever now, but lilies here,

Sand lilies, yucca lillies, water petaled,

Lilies to delicate, only a little while,

Lilies like going away, like a far sound,

Lilies like wanting to be loved

And tapping with a stick,

An old man tapping

The world in springtime with a stick.

This buffalo grass? O, you who are not here,

What if I knock upon your tombs and say:

The grass is back! Why are you still away?

I know the myth for spring I used to know:

The Son of God was pinned to a wooden truss

But he lived again, His blood contiguous

To mine, His blood still ticking like a clock

Against the collar of my overcoat

That I have buttoned tight to warm my throat.

Who was His lover?

That might keep Him nearer.

Whom did He love in springtime fingering

All fruit to come in any blossom white?

Cupping His hand for tips of nakedness

and whispering:

"You are the flowers, Beloved,

You are the footsteps in the darkness always,

You are the first beginning of forever,

The first fire, the wash of it, the light,

The sweetest plume of wind for a walled town"?

I light my pipe. A heavy gopher sags

Into her burrow scarfed with striping snow,

So quick, so slow, I hardly see her go.

Yonder, a barbed-wire fence, and I remember

Without intention how a wire can twist

A gopher hole until it burns the wrist...

And there are wrists like mine that hang in trees,

And overcoats like mine to mulch the stubble,

And there are houses where young men say

It would be different if the harbors and

The looms were ours...

The end of women wailing for a ship.

But sundown changes day to yesterday:

The purple light withdraws from purple light,

The listing mountains close the lilies tight.

Above the blackness still one falcon burns,

So high, so pale, the palest star seems nearer,

One fleck of sun, one atom floating mirror.

His shadow will not strike this world tonight:

There is a darker homing hollow bone

Of wings returning gives to wings unknown.

My tilted skull? My socket eyes? Are these

With chalk of steers apprenticed to the grass

When mountains wear away and falcons pass?

No answer is.

No policy of rock

Or angel speaks.

Yet there could come a child

A long time hence at sundown to this prairie,

A child far-generated, lover to lover,

Lover to lover, lover to lover over...

(O I can hear them coming, hear them speaking

Far as the pale arroyos of the moon.)

The child could walk this prairie where I stand,

Seeing the sundown spokes of purple turning,

The child could whisper to a falcon floating:

"I am not lost.

They told me of this prairie:

This is the prairie where they used to come

To watch the lilies and the falcons.

Tuti Amore, Cenerentolla Mia

~*~ PIZZELLES ~*~

The delightful e-claire posited a question about Christmas cookies over at

http://www.sondrak.com/

which started a thread about favorites.....and the Italian Pizzelle came to mind. The light lace cookies cooked in an iron that resembles a small waffle iron is a staple in Italian deserts. Most historians agree that the Pizzelle as a cookie originated in the Abruzzo region sometime in the 8th century.

Frequent readers know that my genetics are all Irish/Celt and Scandinavian. However, I grew up in old North Denver/Wheat Ridge which has a strong Italian heritage. That cultural factor continues to influence and flavor my life: cooking, living, loving, music... yep, most of who I am.

Growing up, we always had basket cheese and pizzelles at Eastertide and canoli and pizzelles at Christmas. Mom would make a huge baker's bowl of anise flavored batter and turn we kiddos loose in front of the stove with her two prized pizzelle irons. Hours later the kitchen would be a blizzard of light brown, anise flavored snowflakes!

Mediterranean Cuisine 101:

___________________________________________

Iberian, Italian, Greek, Lebanese, Syrian, the north coast of Africa.....

Ya gotchere whole, healthy food pallette ...goat and sheep, seafood, olives, deep spices and strong herbs, dates and pinon nuts and stuffed grape leaves and hearty red wine.....AND, year round greens.

And, the breads!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Soft, summer wheat to tie the whole feast together. Pasta and simple flat breads, the true sourdough and paninni....the first yeast breads.

There is origin of Pizzelles......honey sweetened....anise, lemon, cinammon, vanilla flavored lace.

Recipes to follow!