The New Way of Tradition
Autumn has arrived in all her splendor, and all too soon the trees will undress for winter slumber. Spectacular colors burst around us, the air cools and crackles with harvest-time energy, gratitude, and celebration of hard work well-rewarded. Autumn is full of ephemeral lessons, taught anew each year and re-learned with another season of wisdom. We are learning to let go of the abundance of summer, the inevitable and indescribable sadness of making the final call to retire the garden, even when it sits in tatters. Letting go of the garden until next season still means much work is to be done. We have toiled endless hours among the yarrow, the chamomile, the ashwagandha, the peppers, and now it has come to an end. We pull out tired stalks of calendula, corn, and tomatoes that have languished for weeks until we could bear to say the season’s goodbye. We walk the coastline for hours, gathering all the seaweed we can carry, to cover the winter garden and put it to bed for the long nights ahead. So much of the garden never recovered from the smoke and abandonment during the wildfire season, so much was lost. These are the lessons learned year after year, and we carve another groove in our belt of experience. Something unexpected will always happen, but the unadulterated joy of seeing seeds germinate, delicate flowers emerge, and fruits swell on the vine becomes the groundwork for hope and being truly fulfilled, and the doing of it all over again, and again. The brutality and the beauty of a year around the sun are irrevocably intertwined. We could not appreciate and learn from one without the other. We would not make progress in the future without both in equal measure.
The shift in this season has always meant a bountiful harvest leading to dining room tables bursting at the seams with family, in-laws, cousins, friends, those who we hold dear. We extend grace over family quarrels so we may find joy in the moment. In preparation for the celebration we dig through cupboards and old cookbooks, finding all the mismatched note cards and stained pages with recipes grandma used to make, transformed over the years with notations scrawled in the margins. These notes tell the story of all who have come and gone from around the table, all who have had a hand in feeding those who gather. These recipes are how we remember, how we reconcile what has passed, what is present, how we move forward. This food is the taste of home. Feasting and gratitude, mixed with laughter and board games and pie, have been the story of the harvest holiday tradition passed down through many generations.
There is no question this year will look different. Travel is discouraged and gatherings are limited. Many of those who live far away from the gathering table will remain afar. Phone calls will replace holding hands and saying grace. So many of our inherited recipes will not be made this year, so many who will not be present. In this new place we exist, somewhere between the old traditions and ones that are not yet written, there is a ferocity of determination, in how we mourn for what we do not have while finding opportunity and possibility in what may come. We have been given permission by our circumstances to write a new story of tradition, the re-writing of a ritual that lives bone deep for most of us on American soil. Something set so firmly in the passage of tradition will wrap itself around the events and the reality of the new way we are collectively learning to live. We can marry the familiar with the uncharted. There is still much to be grateful for, even if it does not take shape in a mountain of food and a messy kitchen. This year we are reminded that giving thanks for what we have is a season, a lifetime, not a single day of the year. Despite, or maybe especially because of, the heartache of a hard year full of loss and disappointment, we give thanks. The lives taken by the pandemic, the graduations left unattended, the homes and forests and livelihoods turned to ash by the fires, tell us how to move forward. If we are willing, if we are listening. For these lessons and the loved ones we still have, we are grateful.
The shorter days and colder nights of the approaching winter season will not differ from years past, but the stories we tell will be different. Build a fire and keep it going through the dark. Pile up the blankets and make new plans, while the garden is sleeping and seeds are harnessing their mighty power to make new life when the sun comes back. Tell of what has been and what you hope will be.
These ephemeral lessons of loss and hope and fear and tenacity are laying the foundation for new traditions.
-Jenn
Adaptogenic Drinking Chocolate
Drinking chocolate is different from regular hot chocolate in that it is actual dark chocolate melted down, not a powder mixed in. It is more rich than your average hot chocolate, so a small amount for sipping suffices. You can play around with the flavors you are adding and tweak to your liking. This drinking chocolate recipe is rich in antioxidants and the adaptogens we mix in help us cope with stress and anxiety.
3 cups whole milk, oat milk, or other milk alternative2 teaspoons raw honey5 ounces dark chocolate, chopped1/8 teaspoon ground cardamom1/8 teaspoon chili powder1/2 teaspoon maca powder1/2 teaspoon powdered ashwagandha rootAdd the milk, honey, chocolate, cardamom, chili powder, maca, and ashwagandha to a medium saucepan and heat on low. Whisk continuously once the chocolate begins to melt. Continue to heat the drinking chocolate on low until it has turned dark-brown and is warm to the touch, about 12-15 minutes. Stir or whisk often to prevent burning. Do not heat the milk to boiling.
Pour into cups to serve. This recipe makes enough for 5-6 people.
