It’s 17 December and, for a brief moment, I feel like a Real Estonian Man. You know, a Kalevipoeg strong enough to carry a huge stack of planks, but too stupid to spell his own name.
There’s plenty of chances to feel like a Real Estonian Man during Christmas time in Estonia. You could eat enormous piles of meat or put real candles in a tree. Not those fake led lights that everyone in western Europe seems to opt for. Chickens! To hell with fire safety, whoever burns down his house in Estonia at least does so in a festive mood.
But these are not the reason why I feel like a Real Estonian Man. I’ve just sawed down a spruce tree. Well… a very small tree. We first scoured the forest near Paikuse for half an hour, looking for the most suitable piece. No illegal practices. By sending an SMS to RMK, the Estonian government agency for forests, you buy yourself an official permit to pick out a Christmas tree in one of the state forests. It costs eight euros for a tree up to two metres high and happens on the basis of mutual trust. Fortunately, the Estonians have a few trees left. Forests cover about half of the country.
Oldest Christmas tree
Speaking of Christmas trees: the Estonians boast that Tallinn was the setting for the first Christmas tree ever, somewhere in the mid-15th century. The neighbours from Latvia believe the same about theirs. It’s an endless point of contention between the two nations, much like the tug of war between Tongeren and Tournai for the title of the oldest city in Belgium. But it doesn’t matter much, parts of Estonia and Latvia belonged to the same area at the time, Livonia. The Baltic Germans probably spread the tradition all over the country.
Yes, those same Germans who, a few centuries earlier, had introduced Christianity to this pagan region with fire and fury. Not that the Estonians did not celebrate the end of December. On the contrary, the festivities around the winter solstice – called Joel – lasted twelve days. December 21 was the shortest day and the longest night of the year, the counterpart of midsummer. The time, according to folklore, when the sun lies passed out in bed. After that, the sun comes out of its hibernation slowly, very, very slowly. Enough reason to slaughter a pig and brew a batch of ale.
Even now, Estonians call Christmas jõulud. Together with the Nordic peoples, Estonians are the only ones who still use the old pagan word to indicate the birthday of Jesus. Pagans, we already said it.
Christmas in Estonia, every day of the year
Christmas in Estonia is celebrated the Estonian way. Not ostentatious or blatant, but in their own way with complete dedication. Estonians bake piparkook for a whole legion. One devilish radio station plays on Christmas songs throughout the whole month of December, such as this Estonian version of Jingle Bells:
In Belgium and the Netherlands, black Pete puts all kinds of sweets in the shoes of good children. In Estonia, a horde of päkapikks do the dirty work, small elf-like helpers of Santa Claus. Although we suspect that our päkapikk is about one metre sixty-five tall and listens to a name that starts with an A. For the time being, not a single vertically challenged person has complained that this custom is an insult.
Of course, Christmas in Estonia also means Christmas markets. The on in Tallinn is touted as a fairy tale. Sure, the tree is pretty. But other than that, this is the regular souvenir market, with the same woollen socks and souvenirs from Baltic amber from Kaliningrad, WHICH IS AVAILABLE ALL AROUND THE YEAR. The only difference: some stalls sell mulled wine with almonds and raisins and Christmas fare.
Meat jelly
Estonians make a ‘hot’ table for Christmas and a ‘cold’ one for New Year. The reason is simple. Christmas in Estonia is a family affair, everyone eats together. On New Year’s Eve, you may get visitors all evening, who are all hungry. On Christmas Eve, Estonians eat pork, black pudding, sauerkraut (hapukapsas), oven-baked potatoes, blueberry jam (pohlamoos), and marinated pumpkin. A lick of Estonian mustard is optional, the strong stuff that was undoubtedly a key ingredient of Little Boy, the atomic bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima. (On a side note: the mustard of their Finnish brothers is, ironically, sweet enough to catch flies in the summer.)
Overeating is essential and symbolic for Estonians: it implies that they will find enough food in their pantries the following year. It may be changing slowly, but Estonians have a close relationship with their food. Traditionally, they had to work very hard for it. Cutting down forests, draining peat bogs and marshes and making the best of barren farmland strewn with stones, all in order to be able to harvest enough potatoes and grains. Gathering berries in the summer and mushrooms in the fall, smoking, marinating and salting – everything to get through that damned winter. And even though they can buy everything in Rimi and Selver these days, no Estonian over 40 will let Halloween pass without marinating enough pumpkins to feed an army and storing them away in giant preserving jars.
Especially blood sausages are of vital importance on every Christmas table. Estonians are so crazy about their black pudding that they even have two types – verivorst and verikäkk. Well. And to think that the true nightmare for every vegetarian is New Year’s Eve when every right-minded Estonian eats a heap of blubber with a fleshy substance in it. It might look like cat food, but the Estonians eat their famous sült, or meat jelly, with gusto. Just admit it, it looks finger-licking good:
To church or university, that’s the question
Don’t think Christmas is over after December 26. Christmas trees can be purchased everywhere for at least another week. During their occupation, the Soviets banned Christmas in Estonia for being too ‘bourgeois’ and ‘religious’. December 25 was a normal workday. “My primary teacher checked which children secretly went to church”, says Agnes, Anete’s mother. “Those caught were no longer allowed to go to university.”
New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day were celebrated in the Soviet Union. Hence, many Russian Estonians still regard that celebration as the most important holiday of the Christmas period. And that’s why there are Christmas trees for sale in Lasnamäe until December 31. By the way, Orthodox Russians officially celebrate Christmas on 6 and 7 January.
Did you know that there’s a Russian equivalent of Santa Claus? Ded Moroz, or Grandfather Frost, is an old fella dressed in a grey and blue fur coat with a staff that freezes everything he touches. Every year, he meets the Estonian jõuluvana on the bridge over the Narva River, on the border between Estonia and Russia. Unlike Santa Claus, who lives in a comfortable village near Rovaniemi, Finland, Grandfather Frost lives deep in the Russian taiga, with his charming granddaughter, the snow maiden. Yes, exactly like we imagine Vladimir Putin’s retirement.
Kerzzzzzzzzzti
Of course, Putin makes an appearance on New Year’s Eve. After watching TV for a while – a crazy quiz! a kooky Estonian comedy from 1959! – we turn on the Russian state television. The Irony of Fate, the most classic Christmas (hence, New Year’s) film has just ended and the local impression of the Song Festival goes in overdrive. No people so fond of kitsch as the Russians.
Then uncle Vlad’s makes his speech. He talks about family values – being kind to your parents and your children. Outside, Lasnamäe fires an honorary salute, flares rocketing up constantly. “Welcome to Chechnya”, says Agnes. The time difference between Moscow and Tallinn is one hour, so a little while later, it’s Kersti Kaljulaid’s turn. The Estonian president recently lulled Angela Merkel to sleep, and now tries really hard to do the same with the Estonian nation. EU here, NATO there. Fortunately, there are still fireworks outside. Welcome to Chechnya.
