Friday was a fiesta day for San Valero (“Saint Valerius” in English), a bishop of Zaragoza who died in the 4th century AD and who is now honored in part by the eating of roscón, a kind of cake.
I enjoy these little traditions for more than the days off and the chance to eat. For me, there’s a nurturing aspect to them, an idea I always feel the need to explain, maybe because I am the product of a very leftist education. We ultra-liberals are germophobes, double-checking the insides of the kitchen cabinets of culture and looking under the fridge of society for spots we might have missed, places where some infestation of oppression might still be lurking. We don’t get the chance to rubberstamp the validity of institutions and rituals enthusiastically because we are trained to be suspicious.
So maybe in the absence of believing in much of anything else, I turn to rituals as a way to commune with the rest of world, as a way to be a part of a larger circle than just me and the people I happen to like. I eat the cake and think back to the cakes eaten by those who are long gone, folks with whom I cannot even share time and physical space. And then maybe I'm ever so slightly more aware of humanity.
Coming up next week, on February 5th, there’s another day for Santa Águeda (that’s Saint Agatha to you), who died around 251 AD, after suffering various tortures, including having her breasts cut off (according to tradition and Wikipedia). Spaniards eat a special food for her day, too, one that makes the connection so much more personal than the roscón eaten for San Valero.
