In The Bleak Midwinter
(If you can handle the hygge, pop to the end of this post before reading it, and hit “play” on the song. Then scroll back up here and commence to reading. You’re welcome.)
No one has been “officially” sick here all winter so far, and I am well and happy in the soul-of-my-soul, praise be.
But winter still begs for stocks and soups - heavy on the garlic, with garnishes of gremolata or pesto, and lots of those tiny datalini pastas.
I love a cashew pesto garnish on a hearty Italian chicken soup
Soup is perennial tonic, but winter soup is its own thing. Revelatory. Layered with flavors and February colors, it’s as contemplative as it is nourishing. It murmurs its love when it bubbles in the copper stock pot.
There’s “The Nurturer” living inside you and me, my friend, and cold rain in February is her jam. Let’s let her out, these next four weeks, for she knows how to winter well. She doesn’t even need paintbrushes or art journals. She just needs people to love.
She needs bellies to feed and friends with whom to share stew.
As we softly step past the Celtic celebration of “Imbolc”, gathering daylight as we go, we dare not waste the brittle cold, nor set our heart on days of false spring. For they are but shadows of the substance that is April and May. The goal is to say goodbye to winter 2023 having done the dang thing. No regrets.
So. Let’s allow The Nurturer to gather her spices and conjure her broths. Let’s watch her build fires using our own hands. Light candles. Sit idling with flames and little children. Stare at stars, while wrapped in blankets.
The Nurturer is as rooted and she is wild and wide. She’s just as creative, and I’d dare to say more so, than any other kind of artist.
May you be well, this February. May your month be filled with the satisfaction of a walk or two in the stark freeze, and the joy of kitchen-ish things.
Because never trust an artist who rarely cooks for her people.
