Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire
Wednesday, November 24th, 2004I’m a sucker for Cheesy Christmas songs. That’s right. Give me Bing Crosby. Give me Mahalia Jackson. Tune in to my apartment in December and you’ll find my place is the sappiest around even before we sticky our fingers trying to get the Christmas tree through the front door.
A favorite of mine is Peggy Lee’s “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire”. Can you hear the crackling of the record player, the strings swelling, and then Peggy’s voice, comfortable, nostalgic, the combined effect enough to make us all want to link arms and sing those familiar words . . .
Chestnuts roasting on an open fire
Jack Frost nipping at your nose
Yuletide carols being sung by a choir
And folks dressed up like Eskimos
Everybody knows
A turkey and some mistletoe
Help to make the season bright
Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow
Will find it hard to sleep tonight
They know that Santa’s on his way
He’s loaded lots of toys and goodies
On his sleigh
And ev’ry mother’s child
Is gonna spy
To see if reindeer really know how to fly
And so, I’m offering this simple phrase
To kids from one to ninety-two
Although it’s been said many times
Many ways
“Merry Christmas to you”
“Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire” was written by well-known American jazz singer Mel Tormé. History has it that Tormé composed this song at his piano on a hot, summer day, longing for that Christmas feeling. Apparently the heat got to him because the funny thing is chestnuts have very little to do with Christmas for most Americans. In my neck of the woods, chestnuts are about as American as Spanish tortilla. Most Americans don’t even know what chestnuts look like, that is, unless they’ve been in Europe.
Here in Madrid chestnuts are everywhere. Go to the market at this time of year, and you can buy a kilo of chestnuts, or castañas, for around 2 euros. Just down the street from where we live near the metro entrance there’s a chestnut stand. “Castañas Asadas” is painted over the stand in red, capital letters.
The first time I had chestnuts was years ago. It was my first visit to Europe, at a time in my life when I actually thought that no one on the continent spoke English because, of course, French people speak French, German people speak German, Spanish people speak Spanish, and so on. I should have known, being American, that English isn’t only for English people.
I was actually in Paris and had just finished a marathon day in the Louvre Museum, one of those museums that done properly could last a person a good week or two, but in practicality, is most often “accomplished”, dare I use the word, in an afternoon, leaving a person, me, haggard and damp. I’d have worn jogging pants that day if I had been smart.
Anyway, I surfaced after a few hours in the museum, and there must have been a park nearby, at least that’s what my memory tells me, because I was walking through this park area, and there was the chestnut stand. An open grill. The guy was poking around at his rack-full of chestnuts, each like a knob of wood sanded smooth, stained a deep brown, and glossed with vanish.
There must have been a sign up or something over the grill in English that said “Roasted Chestnuts” because I knew right away that they were chestnuts, even though I had never seen them before. Or maybe the guy was yelling, with a French accent of course, “Chestnuts, chestnuts,” which, come to think of it, would actually make a better story given how things turned out.
The point was my mind was made up. I had to have roasted chestnuts. We were, after all, only in Paris for the weekend. What if Paris was the only place in the world where they roasted chestnuts? What if this was my only chance? What would people think of me back home if they knew I had had the chance to eat roasted chestnuts, to solve the riddle, to break the code, to once and for all experience first-hand the words of that favored Christmas carol, but had simply puttered by instead? How would I ever sing that Christmas song again and mean it?
My decision was final. I would have my own paper funnel piled with chestnuts.
But, I didn’t speak French.
All I had was this piece of paper. A friend of mine who is Canadian and who had studied French all through primary and secondary school had scribbled down a few phrases in French for me with the English translations underneath each phrase. This piece of paper was my life preserver. My Rosetta Stone. I fished through my backpack for the folded-up piece of paper and found the phrase I needed.
I wasn’t about to pronounce the words. I don’t know much about French, but I do know it’s not a language you’d want to pronounce impromptu. Someone could probably make a business of starting up comedy clubs in France where they ship in people from outside the country who don’t speak French, put them in front of a microphone, and have them read French phrases off a piece of paper. People would go hysterical. It would be funny. Those poor people without a clue how to speak through your nose, without even the slightest clue which syllables are to be pronounced and which are to be left silent.
No, I had a plan. I would use the pointing method. I’d show the guy behind the grill my piece of paper. I’d point at the appropriate phrase. He’d read the phrase, then offer a look of recognition. Maybe he’d point at the chestnuts and I’d nod my head in agreement or something. But in the end, there would be a transaction. The money. The chestnuts. Business as usual.
Well, as all stories go involving travels in another country, it didn’t turn out quite the way I had planned. But, everything did end in my favor. The man at the grill looked at my piece of paper, then looked at me, then at the paper again. His forehead wrinkled up like he was trying to fill in a crossword puzzle. Then he shook his head back and forth, a gesture anyone on the planet knows means bad news, before what seemed like his last-ditch effort when he said in English, French accent, “I don’t read French, but I speak English. Do you speak English?”
Who knows in this increasingly Englishized world we live in. Maybe this December in Madrid I’ll hear “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire” playing on the loudspeaker in Plaza Mayor as the vendors in the square sell their furry Santa Claus caps and plastic Christmas trees.
THE RECIPE:
For those of you who would like to make chestnuts, castañas, at home as I hear some families do here in Madrid at this time of year, you can pick up a kilo at your nearest market. Here’s how you prepare them.
Rinse chestnuts and cut a small X on the flat side of each nut, being sure to cut through the skin. The intent is to allow steam to escape gently instead of by explosion, which can be very messy and sometimes painful!
If you want to insure that your chestnuts will be cooked evenly, boil them first for about 20 minutes before you roast them.
Now, let’s get to the roasting. There are three methods of roasting chestnuts: by oven, by open fire, and by microwave.
To roast chestnuts in the oven, spread them out evenly on a pan with the X cut in each chestnut facing up. Bake for about 20 minutes at 190ªC (or 375ªF).
To roast chestnuts street-vendor style, roast them over an open fire. Test as you go for desired softness.
To roast chestnuts in the microwave, make very sure that every nut has been scored, as mentioned above. Arrange nuts on a microwave-safe dish and cook for about 2 minutes on high.
Once the chestnuts are roasted, serve them hot. Hot chestnuts peel easier than cold ones, so when you remove them from the heat, immediately dump them into a towel and keep them covered as you remove one at a time to peel. Or serve them individually in a newspaper cone and make each person peel their own.
Serve with salt if desired.
Recipe adapted from this recipe by Steve and Marilyn Kerman at fatfree.com.
