Kolyva: Food for the Departed

SOMETIMES BEING PART of a multi-cultural family, I feel like a fraud no matter where I turn. I am, at best, half Greek. I am second-generation American and have no history with the Greek Orthodox Church, being raised nominally Presbyterian. In an Orthodox service—although now I’ve been to quite a few—I still hesitate and watch the women in black for some clue of when to sit or stand or how to cross myself properly. But there are some occasions when, for me at least, it will do only to be Greek, or to claim this mantle to the best of my ability, and the only satisfaction comes from observing Greek Orthodox custom. One such occasion is when it comes time to memorialize a family member: at these times, I make and eat kolyva.

Today is the 3rd anniversary of the death of my Aunt Bea, who was my mother’s closest sister—they may as well have been twins; it just wasn’t a biological fact. My aunt was the first of this generation of the family to pass away, and because she was the youngest of six (and because of the swift route from apparent health to final days), it was a bit of a shock to put it mildly.

Bea did not, to my knowledge, embrace Greek Orthodox tradition, though some of her older siblings certainly did. By the time she was born, my grandparents had given up trying to force Greek identity in the New World, or very nearly. No more mandatory Greek School, no longer the arranged marriage. But my aunt was, I know, a very spiritual person. It came through most obviously in her paintings and drawings. Certainly, she deserves a memorial rich in symbolism, deep in feeling—something akin to drama and poetry, not the stiff, remote pretension I’ve always experienced in Protestant death ceremonies. It’s not that these other rituals and remembrances lack emotion or meaning for families; I don’t mean to suggest that.  However, I have always had the impression that fear of death (coupled with an emphasis on propriety) causes too great a distance, a desire to pad ourselves from the idea—no, the knowledge—that this will someday happen to us, too.

This is where the kolyva comes in. A special memorial dish consisting primarily of wheat berries, nuts, and honey, kolyva is prepared in homes and served in church for the benefit of departed souls. Something happens—that restrained, safe Protestant distance is blown away—when you prepare and share a meal for the dead.

Following is the introduction to a kolyva recipe from a 1957 cookbook of Saints Constantine and Helen Greek Orthodox Church, in Detroil, Michigan—the church my grandparents attended, and the church where my mother and her siblings were baptized.

“Amongst the many and varied church rites, the Church Fathers have included a special service for the departed souls of the faithful. this is the ‘mnemosinon,’ or Memorial Service. . . . The boiled wheat symbolizes the resurrection. . . . Just as the grain of wheat must first be planted in the ground in order to take root and bring forth fruit, so is man buried in the earth because of dead—but with the promise of the Risen Lord that one day he too will be resurrected. When we receive kolyva . . . it is to recall to mind the departed soul, and the bereaved make a special appeal to us to pray with them. . . . According to Church tradition, kolyva is offered in the Church three days, nine days, forty days, six months, one year after death, and whenever desired thereafter.”

— The Reverend Father Harry J. Magoulias

When it is served in church, kolyva is scooped into little wax bags or onto napkins and distributed at the end of the liturgy.

Something appeals to me—something more deeply rooted than anything in my newfangled world—about this ritual of eating and remembering. This dish exists to feed the dead, to nourish them in the Underworld and let them know we are thinking of them. In certain areas of Greece, at certain moments in history, I know that the belief was more literal than it is these days: the departed souls still need nourishment. However metaphorically we interpret this now, I still believe it’s a basic truth: we, and our ancestors, need life to continue, sustained in memory if not in a corporeal sense.

The other thing about kolyva, though, is that it tastes otherworldly; its meaty grains and sweetness, its spice and floral accents, make it hard to resist. I don’t know how offensive it might be to make this dish without proper occasion, so I eat it only a couple times a year, with the specific intent of remembering Greek relatives. But I long for it often. It’s the kind of dish I could eat daily and probably never tire of it.

However much it would satisfy my sense of nostalgia to prepare the recipe found in the parish cookbook of my own family, I am reproducing an ever-so-slightly modified version of kolyva found in Diane Kochilas’s book, The Food and Wine of Greece. She adds pomegranate and rose water, and because I love the taste of pomegranate and the symbolism of this, Persephone’s food, I double the amount originally called for. Here, then, in memory of my aunt, is the recipe I have prepared for today’s memorial.

Kolyva After Kochilas

Yield: About 8 cups (double to make enough for 50 memorial servings in church)

Ingredients:

2 cups whole wheat (wheat berries)

salt

1/2 cup sesame seeds, toasted

1 cup ground walnuts

1 cup ground almonds

3/4 cup golden raisins

1/4 cup finely chopped fresh parsley

1 cup pomegranate seeds

1-1/2 tablespoons rose water (optional)

1 teaspoon powdered cinnamon, plus additional for dusting the initials of the departed (if for memorial)

1/4 cup honey

1 to 1-1/2 cup(s) confectioner’s sugar, for garnish

Additional decorations, such as edible (candied) rose petals, blanched slivered almonds, Jordan almond candies

Method:

Well in advance of when you plan to serve the kolyva (ideally, the night before), bring a large pot full of lightly salted water to boil. It should be enough water to cover wheat berries by several inches. Add wheat and simmer uncovered for up to 2 hours, until tender, stirring occasionally to keep the wheat from sticking. Drain well and spread wheat out on a lint-free kitchen towel to dry completely. (This takes quite a while. I have never timed it and always seem to underestimate, which is why I suggest you give it overnight. Impatient? See my note below for an unorthodox method of speed drying.)

In a large bowl, combine the dried wheat berries, sesame seeds, nuts, raisins, parsley, pomegranate seeds, rose water (if using), and cinnamon. Add the honey and blend well, using a gentle motion to avoid crushing the wheat or pomegranate seeds.

To serve as a memorial dish, mound the kolyva in a large serving dish. Sprinkle the confectioner’s sugar over the top and use a piece of wax paper or a rubber spatula to press evenly across the bottom of the dish. The sugar should form a packed layer like icing over the kolyva. Use edible decorations of your choice to form the shape of a Greek cross, and in the corners use a demitasse spoon or toothpick to trace the initials of departed souls in powdered cinnamon.

A Note on Drying Wheat Berries:

If you are pressed for time—either legitimately, or just because you are impatient like me—you can use a hair dryer to speed up the process of drying out the wheat berries. In fact, this is the only use to which I’ve put my hair dryer (a travel size; I’ve never owned a full-scale model) in the past 15 years at least! Well worth keeping it around for this, though.

Tagged as: ceremonial, family traditions, floral, lenten, orthodox, pomegranates, wheatberries