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We were once again in Sweden and staying in a flat not too far from Nykoping Castle (i.e., site of the infamous Nykoping banquet). The main reason we were there was not for fun or to see this dark tourist destination, but for work. One of us, not the writer of this tale, needed to visit a Swedish collaborator to do some research. We both knew that it would not be boring or tedious, though. The Swedes – and Scandinavians in general – are very warm and generous hosts. It was therefore not terribly surprising that the collaborator and his wife rolled out the red carpet and treated us like family. They invited us over for a homemade vegetarian meal and were also generous with serving up wee glasses of the local tipple, Akvavit*. As the “water of life” flowed along with good conversation, the patriarch of the family started talking about history and, more specifically, what it was like to live in Sweden after the second World War. As you can imagine, there were some very bad times, but as you can also imagine, the Swedes are a pretty stoic people, so it wasn’t all grim. There was still fun to be had. He then told us about a favorite childhood dessert that was quick, cheap, and easy to make, even with post-war rationing. He mentioned the Swedish phrase for this childhood classic, but I can’t remember it – there was too much akvavit that night, but it sounded pretty good. All you needed to do to make this sweet was get a bunch of fresh or frozen berries and boil them with water and sugar. After the berries start to fall apart and turn into a pie filling–like consistency, you add some potato starch to thicken it up. He said that they often added cream if they had any. This fresh berry pudding sounded pretty good and healthier than most desserts we eat in the states. He also noted that it was also easy enough to make that he and his siblings would help his mother prepare it.  Random castle ruins outside of Gothenburg, Sweden. Not related to our tale, but fun nonetheless. He then started laughing and disclosed that there was another name for this favorite childhood treat: “spit cream”. The story was a little confusing to my English ears, but what I gathered was that cherries and other stone fruits weren’t pitted using one of those fancy metal contraptions we have now. They were instead chewed in the mouth to remove the stones. Then, the stones were spit out. Hence the quaint name: spit cream. I thought this was a really funny and touching memory. It was also a bit unexpected. I know that certain foods and drinks are prepared like this (e.g., chicha, a fermented corn beverage), and we all know about how mama birds feed their young, but I never saw the Swedish Chef preparing food this way on the Muppets. I recall laughing out loud as we all listened to his animated and vivid descriptions of making this dish. Then he said, “You know, I have a bag of frozen cherries from last year. That tree out back had a big harvest. Why don’t I make us all some authentic cherry spit cream?” I gasped inaudibly (at least I hope it was inaudible) and my smile faded faster than a Swedish sunset in January. My mind then exploded in a torrent of nausea-inducing possibilities as I contemplated the bare-bones reality of what it would be like to eat a spoonful of this kindly old man’s mouth-pitted cherries as they floated in a pool of hot sugar water. Cherries - my favorite fruit - now seemed as appealing as a group of gross, sunburnt tourists swimming in an unclean swimming pool on a Riviera holiday. This truly felt just one step below cannibalism in terms of grossness. I quickly said, “No, no! You’ve already been far too kind to us. You just made us a huge meal and we don’t want to put you to any trouble.” He replied, “Nonsense! It won’t take long at all! I must go into the kitchen and get it going.”  Fresh sour cherries from the yard. I gasped inaudibly (at least I hoped no one could hear it) and my smile faded faster than a Swedish sunset in January. My mind then exploded in a torrent of nausea-inducing possibilities as I contemplated the bare-bones reality of what it would be like to eat a spoonful of this kindly old man’s mouth-pitted cherries as they floated in a pool of hot sugar water. The cherries seemed as appealing as the sight of a group of gross, sunburnt American tourists swimming in a pool on a Riviera holiday. This truly felt just one step below cannibalism in terms of grossness. I quickly said, “No, no! You’ve already been far too kind to us. You just made us a huge meal and we don’t want to put you to any trouble.” He replied, “Nonsense! It won’t take long at all! I must go into the kitchen and get it going.” My god. Could this really be happening? My heart sank. I looked over at the the other half of the Proper Degenerate team and didn’t see even a hint of a negative reaction. I know she has a far stronger stomach than mine, but this was really pushing it. I guess I’m on my own… I frantically tried to think of excuses. Could I be too full to eat? No, they’d want me to at least try this local delicacy. Could I be allergic to cherries? No, as they already asked about food allergies before they prepared the meal for us. Who does that!? What happened to that callous Viking spirit… ? But, these random thoughts are merely distracting me from solving this problem. I must admit that I was at a loss. I must have generated at least thirty different reasons for why I couldn’t eat these diabolical cherries, but they were all fruitless (unlike my culinary future). There was apparently NO WAY I was going to be able to avoid putting this drooly dessert into my mouth and swallowing it without being viewed as a very poor guest. These people were just too nice (damn Swedes!). I couldn’t be rude in any way to them, even if it grossed me out. So, my goalposts shifted to how I could (a) accept the fact that I am going to be eating this slobbery sweet and (b) make sure that I could do wo without throwing up, thus becoming an even worse house guest. The kindly chef then came back in the room and said “They’re boiling now. Shouldn’t be too long. Who wants a bit of cream poured on?” As I watched him taking requests, I could swear that I saw a fleck of cherry flesh dangling from his neatly cropped beard like a fishing lure. This was going to be a rough night. I internally steeled myself as best as I could for the forthcoming "dessert" and now wondered whether it would be more or less gross with the addition of cream. ‘Well, on the one hand it would make it thicker and cool it down (i.e., what’s worse? warm or cold spit? Probably the latter), but on the other hand it would at least dilute the saliva.’ I couldn’t decide. I resigned myself to this terrible way to end an otherwise wonderful evening. Then, the moment of truth arrives…. Our host brought out the spit cream and my heart quickened. It was clearly hot, as I could see steam emanating from the top of the ornate serving dish that, like everything in a Swedish kitchen, seems to be both functional and attractive. Our happy host then filled up all of our bowls with this bright red dessert that I had been obsessing about over the past hour. As he finished up the plating he said, “I’m sorry that it took so long to make. It usually only takes about 15-20 minutes, but it took me some extra time to find the cherry pitter.” Alas, I misunderstood our nice host's initial story. Essentially, if they got a bit "lazy" (i.e., if they temporarily became very Un-Swede-like), they would boil the cherries whole and spit out the pits while they were eating the dessert. Small differences can be important... *The quickest way to describe Akvavit is vodka flavored with various spices and/or herbs. Each area, and probably even town, has their own special recipe, but the most common flavors seem to be caraway or dill seed. There is another, very bitter version flavored with wormwood.  Fresh cherry "spit cream" in a fancy glass. RECIPE
Ingredients: -2.5 cups fresh or frozen cherries with the pits removed (it's up to you how you choose to do this) -5 cups water -1 cup + 2 tablespoons of table sugar -3-4 tablespoons of potato starch (more = a thicker dessert) -1-2 pinches of salt (optional) -1-2 ounces of cherry vodka (optional) Directions: -Add cherries and sugar (and salt if desired) to the water in a large enough saucepan --Slowly bring the mixture up to a slight boil. -Reduce heat as need to keep the cherries at a slow simmer, stirring occasssionally -Simmer for 20-30 minutes or until the cherries break apart -Turn off heat -Mix the potato starch with just enough water to make a smooth slurry -Add in the potato starch slurry and stir quickly to prevent lumps; continue stirring every now and then as the spit cream cools down slightly to prevent a skin from forming on the top. -Serve hot or cold with or without fresh cream
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Having just visited the annual Romanian Food Festival in Potomac Maryland and gorged ourselves on sarmales (stuffed cabbage leaves), mamaliga (Romanian polenta), and chocolate salami (we'll talk about these in a future post), we had Romania on our minds. So, of course, we eventually wound up talking about Dracula. No, not the hypnotic and lascivious vampire count played by Hungarian actor, Bela Lugosi, but the real Dracula, Vlad III, son of Dracul (AKA son of the Dragon). For our money, the real Dracula is even more interesting than the fictional one. “But, Bram Stoker’s Dracula was immortal and drank blood and had a trio of sexy bisexual vampiresses living in his castle” you might say. Well, that’s all true, of course. However, old Bela’s character never ran sharpened 12-foot spikes through so many of his enemies’ sensitive orifices that he created veritable forests of the impaled. He was like a macabre Johnny Appleseed, but planting Turkish warriors on spikes instead of fruit trees. This is also what gave him one of his nicknames, Vlad Țepeș, or “Vlad the Impaler”.  The impaled. Though his methods seem brutal, he lived in a different time where murder and torture were part of life. Old Vlad was also a very important figure in the fight for keeping the Ottoman Turks from invading Christian Europe. He’s therefore viewed by many Central and Eastern Europeans as a hero. Though he’s quite famous, a lot of bad information exists. For instance, tourists flock in large numbers to Bran Castle near Brașov, Romania. Billed as “Dracula’s Castle” there are tours, trinkets, and lots of vampire-themed fun. However, to the best of our knowledge, there is no hard historical evidence that Vlad even stayed there, let alone made it one of his homes. Bran Castle is still very much worth a visit, but we have a more exciting Romanian option for you…  Poenari Citadel If you have access to a car, don’t mind walking up a lot of steps, and are not too afraid of bears, we recommend that you plan a little trip to Poenari Castle in Arefu. More a citadel than a “traditional” castle, it has some real Vlad the Impaler history. It has been historically verified that he stayed here. To be fair, though, the site has plusses and minuses. As for upsides, the top of Poenari Citadel is breath-takingly beautiful, with unobstructed views of the Carpathian mountains. It also has some fun impaled mannequins that are perfect for Facebook pics.  A few of the 1,480 steps to the top of the citadel. As for downsides, to get to this fun place, you will have to climb 1,480 steps. That is not a typo. It’s step after step after step. As for other downsides, prior to their putting in a fence around the stairs, several tourists every year were reported to have been attacked by Romanian brown bears. We can only imagine that they were annoying American and UK tourists posing for selfies, though we can’t verify this in the official reports. So, if you like history, are a little morbid, don’t mind driving on the curvy Transfăgărășan rood through the mountains, and are up for a little Romanian adventure, give Poenari a try. We highly recommend it.  It's hard to beat these views. Side Trips
Though a bit of a hoof (i.e., 2.5 hours away from Poenari), if you want to see bears and contribute to a good cause, we HIGHLY recommend making Libearty Bear Sanctuary a stop. This charitable group has improved the lives of poor bears that were kept in zoos, tourist shops, and as house pets. The Libearty people are doing really great work and have a lot of land for their rehabbed bears. You can find them at: Zarnesti, H9VP+74, Zărnești 505800, Romania You’re driving along a winding mountain road late at night. The radio is once again playing that song from The Breakfast Club that you’d sooner forget and you’re becoming sleepy. You change the station in the hopes of hearing some invigorating Pantera, but you are instead treated to that terrible song from Katy Perry about her transforming herself into a lion or tiger or something. If you don’t get some stimulation, you could fall asleep and slip off the road into the valley below. Should this happen – and if you survive – your Geico payments are going to go through the roof. As you ponder this dilemma, you suddenly spy what looks to be a woman standing alone on the side of the road. She’s hitchhiking. Though you realize that this is fairly odd behavior in 2024, you must admit that you momentarily forgot that you were tired. Maybe chatting with a stranger you pick up on the side of the road could help pass the time until you get into town? What could go wrong?  The "Devil's Elbow" outside of Altoona, Pennsylvania. It's probably the favorite haunt of the Ghost of Wopspy and the site of many fatalities. As she falls more clearly in line with your headlights, you notice that she’s wearing a white dress, is fairly attractive, and has long black hair flowing over her shoulders. Though not exactly dressed for hiking in the mountains at night, she probably has an interesting tale to tell. On a whim, you stop the car, put on your blinkers, and invite this mysterious lady into your car. She gets in the back of the car as if you were her Uber driver. Odd. Oh well, if this helps avoid a sleep-driving incident, you can tolerate a bit of haughtiness. You then slam on the gas pedal to get the car moving before you get rear-ended by another driver. When the engine quiets down, you try to engage the lady in a bit of light conversation. No response. As you peek at her in the rearview mirror, you notice that she’s completely ignoring you. Sadly, this is starting to feel like junior high school all over again... You glance back, more closely this time, and notice that she has a disappointed, wistful, almost melancholic expression on her face as she stares out the window. You are just about to ask her if she’s OK when you notice that a big turn is coming, so you focus on the road so that bad things don’t happen. After you pass the curve, you return your attention to the dour hitchhiker and, looking back in the mirror, come to the startling realization that she’s gone(!!).  A wooded area hiding the few remains of the Wopsohonock Hotel, destroyed by fire in 1903. How can this be? Did she pass out on the floor? Could she have jumped out of a moving car without making a sound? You are deeply unsettled, so you stop at the first pullover you see and get out. You search the back seat of the car only to find that crumpled old Taco Bell bag from last week and an old box of sun-bleached Kleenex. No hitchhiker. There’s not even a single strand of her long black hair… Strange tales like these have been told about a short stretch of highway near Altoona Pennsylvania for decades. In fact, for one of us, this was the very first ghost story they ever heard. As with many ghost stories attached to a particular area, there are some variations. There are people who claimed to have seen the lady walking and there are also stories of her getting in the front seat. We’ve also heard that she screams a lot, and if you hear three screams from this ghostly lady in white, you die. Pretty dramatic stuff for a small city in Pennsylvania Even though Altoona isn’t big, it has had a pretty interesting history. It’s primarily known today for Boyer Candy Company – the makers of Mallo-cups (i.e., like Reese’s peanut butter cups but with coconut marshmallow replacing the peanut butter) and Clark Bars, which taste like peanut butter and toffee coated in chocolate. Altoona is also home to the Railroaders Memorial Museum and is the birthplace of Sheetz convenience stories. However, it’s probably most famous for the Horseshoe Curve, a massive set of three train tracks that spans two ravines and is shaped like – you guessed it – a big horseshoe. It was such a key piece of US infrastructure that Hitler sent a German U-Boat to Long Island that dropped off four Nazis with sabotage on their mind. Their dastardly plan was to destroy the curve. This secret mission even had a name: Operation Pastorius. Fortunately, the Nazis failed after the FBI caught wind of the plot.  The Wopsohonock Overlook. Among dark tourists and paranormal investigators, though, the Altoona area is far more famous for being the haunt of the “White Lady of Wopsohonock (Wopsy) Mountain” or, more simply, “The Ghost of Wopsy”. But how did she come to mess with people dumb enough to pick up hitchhiker’s while driving? Shortly after the horseshoe curve was created, a fancy hotel was built high on the beautiful Wopsohonock mountain right outside of Altoona. More like a resort, this hotel was quite posh, with 60 rooms, a bowling alley, shooting range, etc. It also had a four-story lookout tower that, on a clear day, afforded unobstructed views of several different Pennsylvania counties. However, to get to the Hotel or the lookout tower, you had to drive either a car or horse-drawn carriage up a very treacherous road. At a key point, if you deviated from the road, you would have a steep (i.e., deadly) drop down to the valley far below. This part of the road has been called “The Devil’s Elbow”. Multiple deaths resulting from vehicles careening off this road have been documented for years, and local police still struggle to deal with the aftermath of these unfortunate incidents. The dangerousness of the Devil’s Elbow remains despite the more modern metal guardrails. It should therefore surprise no one that the Ghost is associated with the Elbow.
In one of the more popular origin stories for the Ghost, a young couple in a forbidden romance (of course), decides to elope. The drive down the treacherous pass and skid their car off the devil’s elbow. Both perish from an accident, and the woman’s spirit continues to haunt that stretch of highway today, searching in vain for her lost lover.
Another story describes how, before the lady became a ghost, she was stood up on her wedding day. Wracked with grief and embarrassment, she soon died in an automobile crash and was burned to death. Beset with a post-mortem desire for vengeance, she now lurks in the area, bothering potential lovers who park at the lookout. If you hear her scream three times, you and your lover will die. So, make sure to turn up some romantic Pantera songs whenever you're necking in the Wopsohonock. However, local historians trace the original story for the “ghost” all the way back to 1926. The tale goes something like this… A man and woman were bootlegging moonshine from Cambria County into Blair County. Their car skidded off the road and fell down the embankment of the Devil’s Elbow. The woman, (we’ll call her Mrs. G to protect relatives who still live in the area) died in the hospital shortly after the crash. The man in the car (Mr. T – not the one with the mohawk) wasn't her husband, however, and some salacious rumors soon began to spread. Interestingly, the man survived and, after being cleared of manslaughter charges, later became prominent in Altoona politics (it turns out that Ted Kennedy’s Chappaquiddick scandal was not really that unique after all). According to Dr. Jared Frederick, a historian at Penn State’s Altoona campus, this tale has many features of what helps create a good ghost story. Namely, there is an abrupt death, lost love (i.e., Mrs. G had a husband and five children she would never see again), and a potential miscarriage of justice. We would also throw in the fact that a dangerously famous location and the potential for flapper-era salaciousness doesn’t hurt either. Therefore, it’s possible that the spectral hitchhiker and terminal screamer famous around this lonely stretch of Pennsylvania highway might just be the disembodied spirit of Mrs. G clad in alabaster white and meting out vengeance for that potential miscarriage of justice. We’re not quite sure what righting wrongs has to do with scaring driver’s out of their wits and killing couples who make out in parked cars, but we’re obviously not fancy paranormal investigators. We’re just a couple of dark tourists who enjoy a good ghost story every now and then. Feel free to post if you have any of your own. Directions The Wopsohonock lookout can be found on the aptly named Look Out Road in Dysart, PA 16636. Even though the four-level lookout tower burned to the ground (along with the Wopsohonock Hotel) in 1903, you can still get scenic views of the area. It is particularly nice when leaves change color in the fall. You can find the Devil’s Elbow nearby (i.e., on the way back to Altoona). If you REALLY want to find the exact location, just ask a local or do a quick online search. We would publish the coordinates, but we don’t want to encourage people to do what we did (i.e., hang out of the car taking pictures while driving) and feel responsible for any deadly aftermath that might ensue. Please don’t try this for yourselves, we’re professional degenerates. Side Trips The Horseshoe Curve is a short drive away and would be a shame to miss if you're in the area. If you fancy a drink after ghost-hunting, the Knickerbocker Tavern (3957 6th Ave, Altoona, PA 16602) has an incredible selection of bourbons and other spirits and a very nice, relaxed atmosphere. Should you have children or just want to act like one, you could visit DelGrosso’s Amusement Park and Laguna Splash Water Park in nearby Tipton, PA While on the same trip we described last week (properdegenerate.com/blog/the-wine-illuminati), we spent New Year’s Eve near a town of 4000 people called Poligny, France. It’s colloquially known as the capital of Comté. Comté is a very famous French cheese – one the best in the world – which is produced throughout this region. Though we may later do an entry on Comté, we would like to discuss why Poligny is REALLY famous. To people who fancy the strange and the macabre, it is not known for being a cheese haven, but as the town where the first three "werewolves" were executed in France.  Welcome to Poligny Way back in 1521 C.E., there was a series of brutal attacks and murders. Both adults and children were victims and wolves were sometimes spotted leaving the crime scenes. Legend has it that, after one attack, the wolf was unsuccessful in making a poor local man its next meal, and the hairy beast was injured. A blood trail led French authorities to the home of Michel Verdun. At the time, they found poor Michel's wife mending his wound. They naturally surmised that this happened when Michel was in the form of a wolf. This so-called “sympathetic wounding” (i.e., where an injury in animal form carries over into human form) was a dead giveaway that the authorities clearly had a werewolf on their hands. After a brutal interrogation of Michel, two other metamorphizing miscreants were fingered for the crimes: Pierre Bourgot and Philibert Montot. This pernicious pack of putative werewolves were accused not only of shapeshifting and murder, but also eating human flesh. French officials were a bit sensitive to cannibalism at the time and they didn’t just issue a ticket, a stern warning, or 16th century community service. Instead, all three men were quickly executed and burned for their crimes, both the real (i.e., murder) and the imaginary (rampant werewolfery). Fast forward 500 years. A church in Poligny is now supposed to have the only contemporary paintings of the events described in this dark tale. Sadly, records of even big events like these were a bit shoddy half a millennia ago. But, fortunately, the intrepid proper degenerate team located both the town and the correct church (which now contains a museum)! One of us was very excited to see this little bit of early Renaissance history in person.  The church in Poligny. Sadly, not an open door in sight. These historical hopes were quickly dashed, though. After managing to park the rental car in a much-too-small downtown spot, we walked to the church. “Hmm... that looks like construction equipment." Not good... Walking closer to the church, we saw cranes, other construction vehicles, and metal beams on the ground. Alas, the church was undergoing some sort of massive repair or remodel. Not only could we not see the paintings, but we couldn’t even get a quick tour. We walked around the building, trying to get some useful shots, but it felt a bit similar to the end of National Lampoon’s Vacation bereft of the laughs (or the kidnapping of John Candy, for that matter). Somewhat dejected for this failure of appropriate trip-planning and inability to see werewolf paintings, we decided to ease our pain with local French cuisine. But what to eat? What would make the absence-of-werewolf induced pain go away? Maybe google will have an answer? Safely back in the car, we searched online for local specialties as well as French New Year’s Eve traditions. Luckily, we hit upon a winning response that covered both: roasted chestnut soup. Shockingly, we had enough equipment in our AirBnB to put it all together. Feeling a bit better, we drove to the nearest Intermarché and found everything we needed to have a happy French New Year’s Eve dinner.  Peeled chestnuts, a white carrot, shallot, and leuștean/lovage. The French love their chestnuts. Though the best are grown a little southeast of Nice, they are all over the place. Preparing these delightful nuts can be somewhat annoying, though, as they cannot be eaten raw. They must also be cooked to remove the hard outer shell. Enjoying them has been a French tradition since the 10th century, and, from the 13th century on, they were used as a flour, often replacing wheat in sweets. The nuts are so frequently used that, at least in some parts of France, chestnut trees are called "bread trees". It’s extremely possible that spectators to the execution of the rascally werewolves of Poligny were munching on chestnut flour pastries. When we got back to the hotel, we made our first vegetarian version of this classic dish, sticking fairly close to a traditional recipe. It’s gone through several iterations since then, and we will now share what we consider the best version with you.  Our version of French Chestnut soup. Many recipes often include a spritz of sherry or include a charred pork product. Recipe
Directions
Notes: * Leuștean (aka lovage) is a herb common in Southern European cooking. In Romania it is much beloved and often used as the final accent to their famous soups. It is similar in flavor to celery mixed with parsley, but has a stronger and spicier flavor. If you are interesting in having a steady supply, it can be grown as a herbaceous perennial from seed in the U.S.. It grows like a weed, even in poorer soils, and especially if it isn't harvested regularly. In other words, there's no excuse for you not to grow this fun herb, even if you are a terrible gardener. |
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