All of Transylvania has been infected by the Halloween virus. All of Transylvania? No! One village, still inhabited by a few Transylvanian Saxons, located pretty much in the center of Romania, continues to resist the invasive commercialism. On October 31st, the Sasi, as the Romanians call the old Saxons, celebrate Reformation Day there with an Old Saxon church service, commemorating Luther's 95 Theses, which began the schism in the Church in 1517. On this occasion, the pastor delivers the service in Saxon.

His sermon, delivered in the old Transylvanian Saxon dialect, a Moselle Franconian dialect that originated in the High Middle Ages, is still fully understood by only a minority of churchgoers. But all are united in their fervent desire for the refreshment that awaits them after the service in the parsonage: Protestant bacon.

This spread made from ground fatty bacon, onions, and hard-boiled eggs isn't for everyone, especially those who don't possess a Saxon heart for the venerable traditions of this vanishing German ethnic group. However, the dish's connection to the Reformation, which once took hold particularly successfully among the Transylvanian Saxons, makes their fervent affirmation of the rather limited culinary merits of "Evangelical Bacon" a matter of honor.

Recently, this turned into a small drama in Kleingroßdorf, where the German community still numbers around 100 members – by no means all Saxons.

"Ugh!" thought Michael, turning to the wall and surreptitiously spitting the piece of bread he had just bitten off in his left hand into his right, clenching it into a fist, and then turning his attention back to what was happening in the rectory, scanning the room for a napkin or a wastepaper basket. There was neither.

His father was engaged in lively conversation with the priest, a towering man with enormous, clumsy hands. The priest was still wearing his vestments. These consisted of a black, knee-length tunic, the dolman. Over this, the clergyman wore the tightly pleated, open-necked frock coat. On the priest's head sat a beret.

His dolman was held at the waist by a black velvet belt with tassels. Above the hips, a long row of carefully polished silver clasps – the crepel – fastened the priest's tunic across his chest.

Michael had already admired them during the church service, as they gleamed in the candlelight. "Cool," he thought again now, stepping closer, absently kneading the saliva-stained bread and bacon mixture in his right hand.

His parents had dragged him through all sorts of churches on this holiday; they called them fortified churches, and indeed, some of them did look a bit like his Playmobil castle back home in Schwäbisch Hall. He himself would have preferred to go back to Gran Canaria, but his parents felt it was time he saw the land of their origins, where they themselves had spent their youth before fleeing to Germany. The Reformation service in their old home village was the highlight of the trip for them, a trip that had already brought tears to their eyes in several places.

Michael's father noticed his son approaching. He turned halfway towards him and called out: "Ah, Michi! Come here and say hello to the pastor!"

The pastor smiled a kind smile, bent down to Michael, pointed first to the child's left hand holding the sandwich, and then extended his own right hand towards him. As he did so, he said, "Well, my son, I see you've already found the Protestant bacon. Do you like it?"

Michael's step faltered. The slimy mass in his fist suddenly burned like fire. He stared in horror at the priest's hand, hid his own right hand behind his back, and shook his head.

The priest frowned. Michael's father said impatiently, "Now give the priest his hand already. Will it be soon?" Michael looked up at the priest. The priest nodded encouragingly. Michael looked at his father. The father inclined his head toward the priest, gesturing to his son to finally take his hand.

Michael sighed and reached out. The priest forgave, as was his calling.