In the time when Christianity was still considered a highly dangerous cult, a wealthy Greek merchant family (in modern-day Turkey) was buying its’ way into religious prominence in much the same way many modern day American celebrities pay obscene money to the Church of Scientology in order to buy the latest version of enlightenment from an organization widely regarded as a dangerous cult.

While much of the family’s contributions, both literal and figurative, were recognized by early church leaders, the most enduring fame lies with a guy named Nikolaos who both inherited and made a fortune from a variety of family business ventures during a time when the great unwashed Christian masses were being fed to the lions.

A decade later, the then-current Roman Emperor was a bit more kosher when it came to handling the bizarre Christian sect which had gained a substantial brand awareness among citizens of the day. Nikolaos took advantage of the opportunity by purchasing himself the title of Bishop from the money-starved religious institution and began playing the role in and around his normal corporate activities.

These days, we’re pretty sure Nikolaos was cunning enough to understand the obedience of contemporary armies was bought with cash and, thus, he spent a large amount of his wealth over the years buttering folks up with gifts in order to curry a favorable ear from non-believers. Lots of poor people responded well to the charitable actions and thought such a generous religion might be fun to dabble in for a while, doting on his kindly habits.

We’re also pretty sure Nikolaos was clever enough to see beyond the small talk of piety and overlook the whole ‘turn the other cheek’ nonsense. Instead, he saw some growth advantages in being a blabbermouth rabblerouser who could incite his gift-recipients into riots. With this wisdom, he unleashed his minions to destroy several competing religious temples to set an early example of Christian tolerance which served as a role-model to future church leaders for centuries to come.

It’s been said he leaped off the side a ship during a storm at sea to single-handedly rescue a man from drowning. Apparently, our liturgical lifeguard was successful and then the entire boat turned around during the storm to pick up the two men floating around in the water. Whether or not the tale of heroism is true, the story was posthumously elevated to the status of miracle.

It’s been said Nikolaos used clairvoyant powers to speak to the Roman emperor during a dream wherein he threated the ruler and demanded some prisoners be released. The next day, the inmates were summoned and discovered to be invoking the name of Nikolaos, so they were released from jail. This same leader of the empire would go on to grant Christianity legal status.

It’s been said that, during a time of famine, there was a butcher who chopped up three little kids and began preparing their meat to sell as pork. Apparently, our weekend warrior used his magic bishop crosier to detect the happenings of the crime. He promptly jumped into the batmobile and arrived on the scene, whereupon he proceeded to use his special god-like powers to reconstruct the three bodies and subsequently resurrect their very souls.

It’s been said Arabs looted a town after a siege and took with them a young Greek boy to serve their king. The mother prayed to Nikolaos, who then summarily appeared in mid-air above the ship at sea. He used wizard-like teleportation to bring the boy to his parents’ home instantaneously, the serving dish still in his hand.

It’s been said there was a man had three harpy daughters he couldn’t wait to get rid of, but could no longer afford the customary dowries of those days in order to dispatch with them in an honorable way. He realized he could actually make money by selling them into prostitution and thus be enriched while rid of them. It seems the part-time priest took an interest in the virginity of the three young ladies, enough so to show up in the dark of night and pay the father three sacks of gold. Ostensibly, no quid pro quo, mind you.

Next thing you know, a couple hundred years have passed. Christianity is spreading like wildfire by co-opting most of the pagan holidays, rituals, and symbolism deeply ingrained in cultural customs. Because people generally enjoy worshipping an entire stable of gods, the Christians start trying to fill in that gap by elevating notable figures to a semi-god status called sainthood.

Technically, this new God isn’t supposed to be too groovy with people worshipping anyone other than himself, but the church thinks it’s okay if people kinda, sorta pray a little bit in some ways to these various saints. You know, invoking their spirit for protection and help. That type of thing. It’s somewhat like worshipping them as powerful demigods, but somehow justified as being different when questioned too closely by the biblically accurate.

As part of its religious amalgamation, the Christian church incorporated previously existing seasonal traditions of gift giving that has existed in numerous cultures of bored tribes in the northern hemisphere who had little better to do during winter months. To help it catch on, they focused the holiday around a celebration of the popular Nikolaos. The chosen day was carefully picked to coincide with an existing holiday on December 6 when most people celebrated Artemis, primary goddess of the region for past centuries. The Byzantine emperor even built a worship temple for Nikolaos.

In true respect for Nikolaos’ methodologies, the new holiday sought to usurp traditional Artemis worship by featuring anonymous gift-giving. It didn’t take too long for non-believers to enjoy receiving presents from these Nikolaos-followers. Artemis wasn’t handing out stuff to anyone. With free prizes from the rich, why not give this whole Christian thing a try?

Lo and behold, later years would follow more of Nikolaos’ methodologies, this time with respect to his notions of using armies to destroy other religions and eliminate spiritual competition. And, boy, did they ever get wealthy from the whole chain of events!

They honored that victory-by-destruction vision of Nikolaos so highly that when he was canonized, they named him as protector of the clergy leaders themselves: patron saint of thieves.

Of course, in line with their co-opting, they had to make sure he was patron saint of a few other things, too. People were used to multiple gods with each having multiple specialties. Since December was home to the archer Sagittarius and since Artemis was archer-goddess of the hunt, they made sure Nikolaos was patron saint of archers. As a triple-play bonus, it even fit their schemes for war.

Fastforward.

American religious heritage is predominantly based on puritanism and protestantism. That means we didn’t have a lot of strange European rituals involving corrupt men in extravagant golden robes with funny pointed hats holding jewel-encrusted sceptres and telling politicians who to kill.

Imperfect as it was, the core of American religious past was a little more simple: most people were often encouraged to actually read the bible for themselves. The bulk of religious emphasis was on understanding the message of Christ without nearly as much extraneous baggage as you were likely to find on the old continent.

The means, for the most part, we don’t know about the December 6 celebration that goes on through much of Europe and in Russia. Europeans basically have, like, two Christmases while Americans only have one.

Now, on the sixth day of the twelfth month, that’s when the pseudo-Christian, quasi-pagan European folktale of ol’ Saint Nick begins his flying around to deliver sweets, candies, and fruits to the boots and shoes of good little boys and girls. Then, later in the month, you have the second celebration involving gift exchange and Saturnalia trees.

Meanwhile, Americans are oblivious to the fun. Instead of two holidays, they combine the relatively-new notions of Santa Claus with actual Christmas Day. Father Christmas shows up to stick toys and treats into the stockings of children. Immediately thereafter, the gift exchange breaks out around the Saturnalia tree.

It’s a model of efficiency.

In Romania, we stick with the traditional ways. The first of which is a pagan-turned-Christian holiday called Moş Nicolae. You have to put out your shoes (or big boots, if you’re smart) so they can be filled by the magical Old Man Nikolaos. Inside, you’ll typically find the standard assortment of chocolates and goodies. Although, it seems there are emerging trends in American-style toy purchases.

With my head buried in the sand, I neglected to see my personal psychologist wanted to analyze my current mental state through a cultural line of inquiry: What is it I wanted from Moş Nicolae?

Clearly, it’s a little late to answer that in the future tense, but I can share with you some of items which filled my stockings during my second visit from Moş Nicolae.

The requisite and traditional candy of Moş Nicolae graced my path, albeit in some nontraditional wrappings.

Moş Nicolae slipped me a handwritten note with assurances there would soon be positive news about Romania’s official acceptance into the European Union. I trust it will be an exciting New Year’s celebration in Bucureşti… and I’ll see if I can make my way down there to participate in it.

I had been hoping for additional signs of modernization in Romania and Moş Nicolae surpassed my expectations by bringing word of new online billing systems for a major utility company. I suspect it’s a sign of things to come.

Good fellow that he is, ol’ Saint Nick brought me a bit of Chimay to help while away a little time. I must admit he sure knows how to pick out Europe’s best brews. Noroc!

You know you’re old when you start to care about socks. Well, I’ve yet to find a single pair of decent socks for sale in Romania. They may as well make them from t-shirt fabric. All the cushioning of plastic. And they fall apart quickly. Thankfully, Moş Nicolae brought me a few imported pairs of quality socks made by his westernized elves.

You know what else is hard to find in Romania? Lens pens. But, my homeboy, Moş Nikonlae gotz my back, know what I’m sayin, yo? Word is bond.

Nikolaus has been been around nearly two millenia which is just about enough time for even a bishop to recognize recent patterns of December being somewhat coldish. To help melt the icicles formed on my mustache, he delivered a supply of fresh, organic jalapenos and habaneros. Yeehaw!

Ever practical, Moş Nicolae knows man cannot live on hot peppers alone. So, to help combat the winter snow, he brought me some long johns which are currently rotating through daily service. Thanks, bro!

Romanian cuisine makes use of the French crepe which they call clatite. For sweetness, they’ll typically fill it with jam, not syrup. While yummy in its own way, it’s no short stack.

Translation: there are no flapjacks in this part of the world. This leaves whatever sad fool is set in his ways vis-a-vis fluffy griddlecakes in poor condition when it comes to syrup selection. I’ve seen caramel flavor, orange flavor, and chocolate flavored syrups which were all made with corn syrup, food coloring, and artificial taste agents. Yech.

Not to worry. While Romania may not understand the concept of quality syrups made from natural ingredients, one can always pray at the Temple of Nikolaos to find one’s boots filled with pancake-worthy toppery made from huckleberries, coconut, and 100% Canadian maple. Mmm mmm mmmm.

In Romania, it seems like nearly all the beverages we buy come in 2 liter bottles. Mineral water, soft drinks, even beer. And once open, the contents won’t stay carbonated for very long. The gas will escape and your drink will go flat. The solution is to have a hand-pressurized bottle cap to keep things fresh. I’ve been looking for one in every Romanian store, but no one seems to know what I’m talking about.

Fortunately, Moş Nicolae does. Put this on top of an open 2-liter, pump with your fingers until you meet resistance. Gata!

Since I moved to Romania, there has been one persistent annoyance which has doggedly pursued me. You see, no matter where you shop, the only available garlic presses you’ll find are mickeymouse crud made of either plastic or aluminum.

Prior to crushing your garlic, you must peel each clove and then cut into smaller pieces. Of course, if you’re going to go to all that trouble, you may as well just finely dice the garlic since the knife is already in your hand.

If you don’t pre-cut your cloves, then your garlic press will break. If I recall correctly, I’ve already broken five different garlic presses sold in Romania. That’s five different models from different companies made from different materials.

5!

Impossibly cheap construction, poor design, and weak materials. And the cost was more than I had expected to pay for such seemingly disposable garlic presses. I love garlic. I use garlic very often. (Who doesn’t?) The only thing worse than buying a new garlic press every other month is when you’ve just broken it last night and now you’ve got nothing to use on tonight’s meal.

Moş Nicolae to the rescue, again, with the classic garlic press from Zyliss. Oh, it is the holiest of holies when it comes to garlic presses, boys and girls. Made from pure stainless steel, precision engineered by Swiss designers, and constructed with superb quality.

You don’t need to chop your cloves. You don’t even have to peel the skin off. You can put in more than one. With far less pressure than a typical press, you can crush your whole garlic with a Zyliss. What’s even more amazing, ladies and gentlemen, is this garlic press will actually squeeze out absolutely every single drop of juice and each bit of pulp on the very first press. The proof is when you open it up to easily remove the thin membrane of skin left inside the press.

Obviously, Moş Nicolae is a chef who takes cooking seriously.

It might not compare to reincarnating three children, teleportation party tricks, or sacks of gold for my virginity, but I have to admit the generosity and kindness Moş Nicolae is gnawing away at my distaste for overhanded religious implications. So what if his likeness appears on frescos and in stained glass? Santa Claus is fully secularlized and his other incantations across Europe have but the most tenuous linkage to religion without any practical significance for most people.

Gift-giving winter holidays have been in practice far before the emergence of Christ in Israel. And there’s not much harm if Nikolaus’ ultimate legacy morphs into a generic unifying point where people look forward to guy in a red suit who gives things to children. I s’pose I should cut the dude a little slack.

Thanks for the stuff, Moş Nicolae.

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