Yesterday I went to church to help a bunch of Greek ladies (and one gentleman) prepare Kourambiedes, which, for those as uninitiated as I was, are essentially a sort of shortbread cookie made with plenty of butter and even more love. The cookies will eventually be sold at next fall's Greek festival, and these dedicated people have already been baking for weeks.
Many of these ladies have been at this task for 40 or more years, and the art has become a science. I'm clearly not Greek and had to look up Kourambiedes on the internet to have any idea what was to be baked, so I fell into a different category altogether. It turned out, however, that didn't matter; They all embraced me into their well-established fold and allowed me to participate in the process.
Once we had worked out that I had a Greek name, "Nikki", and that my husband was the man who directed the choir the week when our regular choir director was absent, and that we are expecting our first child in August, I was shown where to find my apron, I washed my hands and I was put to work.
My first job was to cut huge blocks of butter into sixths so that the industrial mixer could more easily incorporate them into the dough. The ladies were almost done with that process by the time I arrived, so I only cut up one batch of six pounds. There must have been twenty batches or more.
My next assignment was to stand at a huge metal table in the sprawling kitchen (which, when I admired it, was proclaimed "too small" - "You should see the kitchen at the parish in Winston-Salem," I was told...) and cut circles of dough with little round metal cutters. I was fairly sure I wouldn't mess this task up too badly, but I still approached it with a bit of fear. I left the dough patting in preparation for cutting to the expert women who had been doing it for decades. The dough had to be just right - and the only accurate measure was a practiced eye. Once I had cut the cookies, I lined them up precisely on a baking pan in nine rows of six and collected the scraps so that the next flattened batch of dough could be prepared by experienced hands.
In the process I learned a few Kourambiedes secrets, though I got the feeling I only scratched the surface. At home, some of the women cut the cookies with drinking glasses (or whatever comes to hand) into crescent shapes rather than circles. However, there is more to know that varies by locale and home.
Local custom when baking festival cookies is threefold:
1. Never break the cookies.
2. Never sample the cookies.
3. Hide whatever cracks cannot be avoided with a generous layer of powdered sugar.
One lovely younger woman explained the rules to me, telling me that she had broken rule number two by sampling a cookie the first time she helped and had received a stern reprimand. Now she knows better and was willing to help others avoid learning the hard way.
I, on the other hand, must have come on just the right day. One cookie of thousands had been proclaimed smashed, and I was allowed to have a little nibble. The cookie was delicious (probably because of its decidedly non-lenten butter), and I proclaimed the cookie's virtues enthusiastically when all of the ladies asked my opinion.
It struck me that ultimately these people were all laboring together in preparation for a feast, much in the same way the church labors together towards the resurrection of Christ. There was order and planning, and everything was done "just so". We were making cookies -- as perfect, sweet and uniform as possible -- for the thousands of people who will swarm the church for the festival - our guests of honor, much as we work to perfect our hearts together during lent to receive the resurrected King of all.
Any one of those present could have made cookies at home alone. They all could have brought the finished product to church on the day of the festival. They could have labored in solitude, and the cookies would, I am sure, have been lovely. But they didn't. Each of them sacrificed his or her time and energy and schedule to do this work together, which allowed for a beautiful uniformity in the finished product, not to mention unrivaled efficiency and building of relationships. The process is perfect: they have figured out what works, and they do it -- together. All of us were needed. Those who had done the work for years were there to show the way; those who were newer to the fold were there to learn... and perhaps, someday, to teach.
I tend to resent order and imposed rules. I really, really like to do my own thing my own way. Every once in a while, however, I am reminded gently of why my own thing my own way isn't the right approach. This time, the reminder came in the form of a lenten kitchen that exemplified the beauty of order and laboring together. My part was small and my understanding incomplete, but there was a space at the table for me. For example, when one tray of cookies came out a bit more brittle than desired, I joked that perhaps that was the result of my inexperienced hands "touching them the wrong way." The answer I received was that it would be great if a hundred people would come touch the cookies the wrong way. What mattered was that I was there.
It's not much different in the Church. When we labor together to create a sweet offering for our Lord, it matters first and foremost that we are there. We come, all of us, with our limitations and distractions, but just as we will all be invited to the feast whether we have come at the last hour or the first, we are invited to participate in the preparations, for the sake of our own souls and for the encouragement of others. Much like this well-ordered Greek parish kitchen, the Church in her mercy offers us guidelines for our festal preparations. She says, in effect: "There's room for you at the table. Come and participate. It doesn't matter if you don't know how to do it... if you keep at it, you will learn. It matters only that you are here. Simply come, participate, and try not to break anything. But don't worry, your faults and shortcomings can be covered with a generous layer of sweet grace."
In this kitchen, grace and generosity carried the day. I left with two carefully wrapped cookies that were presented as a gift for me to take home. I'm here to tell you that those cookies were divine.
I still have no idea how to make Kourambiedes, other than it takes a whole lot of delicious yellow butter, much sifting of flour and a generous helping of powdered sugar. Perhaps, if I persist, year after year, my understanding will eventually be made complete. I do know this much, though: when the day for the festival feasting comes, I will have the joy of partaking in and sharing the labor of my hands. I hope, likewise, that when the day of the Paschal feast arrives, my incomplete, imperfect spiritual preparations will add to the joy of the feast we will enjoy together. I know that however well or ill prepared I will be when I arrive on that day, through the grace of Christ, there will be room for me at the table.
