November Nourishment
By the first of November, I am quite tired from chasing the sun. Even those precious, fleeting blue October skies, so inspiring after the dawn of September’s autumnal equinox, have left me yearning for quietude.
The November squirrels continue to play chase with my spaniel in their quest to harvest before winter settles. They know the last of the acorns will soon be falling onto the damp ground.
I watch the orange leaves turn to brown and note the familiar formation of migratory birds glide across the sky. My fall fervor for Halloween tricks, enchanted pumpkin patches, and sweet treats has quieted.
I am content with the simplicity of November: the hard winter squash, canned tomatoes, and cured garlic that will see us through the dark months that preface spring. Sustain us, until we embrace another season filled with growth and hope, with days that begin to stretch like a growing child, one who still can hear the magic of birdsong that lingers far into the pale blue dusk.
And so, we rest during November, one of the last ’ber months. The pull to chase the sun by land or sea begins to fade. Gardeners can lay their gloves aside with a sense of satisfaction. Beneath the humblest of beds, the worms will delight in the garden’s detritus, tending the soil while the gardener and the earth rest in the comfortable companionship of winter.
We can gain strength during this time of shortened days and burgeoning nights. A time spent with family, honoring rituals steeped in tradition, born out of necessity. When we accept the role of nature in our lives, when we value the steady comfort of her changing seasons, we turn inward to learn about ourselves and those that we love.
Familial stories are steeped in nourishment. November is a humble month filled with candlelit meals and slow evenings. A month that draws us into the narrative of the changing seasons and the stories told by our loved ones across the kitchen table or over the sparking flames of a campfire.
The turn of seasons invites new appetites. Our longing for softly stewed apples or the burn of a mellow bourbon.
The fleeting time between November and December welcomes comfort. Meal preparations become proverbial food for thought, especially, when the inspired cook leafs through a tattered recipe book bound by a rubber band, stained with tomatoes or tea, textured by butter and sugar, worn with family love. It is then that the cookies or scones, roast or stew, become something elemental for both body and soul.
It is curious how nature can almost sense what our bodies need: rest or vigor. After snow or rain, we long for hot tea. In the heat of August, we crave lemons and crisp greens. In climates where the seasons remain temperate, I imagine there is a subtlety to the day, a slight change in the slant of the sun that makes one crave this or that.
One must, however, be sensitive to the collaboration between the earth and her family.
In Listen to the Land Speak, writer and documentary filmmaker Manchán Magan reminds us that “the land has always existed. It just is . . . the choice is ours whether we wish to engage with it in a meaningful way or merely accept it as a backdrop to our lives.”
Essentially, we are all storytellers who bring meaning to days and nights, marked only by the rising and setting of the sun. It is up to us to write the narrative, to listen to the tale.
This past June, our holiday in the west of Ireland conjured the essence of November rather than summer. If it weren’t for the abundance of everchanging wildflowers blossoming along the winding roads, the traveler would have thought that autumn was well and duly established.
No bother, because Ireland possesses the magic of comfort. Rich creamy soups, home baked soda breads, buttery potatoes, and foamy pints of stout leave you craving cozy conversation and a blanket by a turf fire.
On a cloudy day promising rain and wind, I sat by our aunt’s hearth. The kettle had boiled and we were about to tuck into a rich slice of porter cake when I noticed a charmingly dusty, empty bottle of Power and Son Irish Whiskey sitting on the counter.
I commented how I would take that vintage bottle and create a lovely rustic bouquet of wildflowers gathered from the hedgerows. The aunt laughed and told me it was her rolling pin. Known for her delicious rhubarb pies, I thought how perfect that she rolls the buttery pastry flaky-thin with an empty bottle.
The aunt then went to collect another domestic treasure. This time she produced a potato grater honed from an old piece of wood, a hand-punched tin, and a crooked nail. This primitive masterpiece was lovingly made for her by her husband when they were first married. It is her only grater and is reserved for making boxty, savory Irish potato cakes. I smiled at her tale and my heart warmed.
Much like our aunt, I have never been one for kitchen gadgets and speedy cooking. Time honored recipes and the seasons dictate my appetite.
Fresh Irish rhubarb harvested at the end of spring. Garden grown potatoes tilled from rich, organic soil. Homecooking tastes even better when you know the love with which the dishes are crafted, when you listen to the stories that begin in the past.
As Thanksgiving approaches and the darkness of winter falls, before the bustle of the Christmas season alights, lean into the gift of quiet. Long, starry nights call for slow meals and illuminating tales.
Wonder at the wise cycle of nature. Embrace the comfort of tradition. Feel blessed that something so tangible as a pot of soup has traveled from the silent pages of our past and onto the table.
