Secret Recipe: Velvety Darkness, Precious Roots, and a Sunday Supper

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In the spring and early summer, every lengthening evening is a sign of hope, a crescendo of lightheartedness that matches the colors of the late sunsets and early sunrises. In the fall, however, the shortening evenings and long stretches of night can feel oppressive, heavy, even depressing. 

Perhaps the reason for this is that our productivity-driven culture tries to drag summer energy into winter’s cycles, and there is a clash within our spirits as a result. There is beauty to be found in every season, and in the ebbs and flows that come with life. Many of us struggle to give ourselves permission to slow down with the rest of the natural world. 

When I started foraging, I started paying more attention to the natural cycles and my own bodily response to them. Now, rather than dreading the short days of winter, I see the growing darkness as a beautiful thing. 

Twilight feels like velvet to me now, a cozy blanket and the depths of a cup of tea. Sometimes it is nice to light a candle or two and just sit in the dark watching strange shadows dance as something delicious slowly roasts on the stove. Oh what beautiful details the darkness affords us! The stems of dried poppy seedheads and fennel blossoms become huge flickering projections on the walls as the air fills with the smell of fragrant spices bubbling away nearby.

When I was in college for glassblowing, one of my favorite things to do when I was lucky enough to have the hotshop to myself and my glassblowing partner was to put on some peaceful music and turn off the lights. We’d work illuminated only by the glow of the furnace and the glass itself. Oh how different everything looked in the dark! 

There was a sunbeam that hit one of the benches during the morning, which made the hot glass glow like luminous honey, entrancing me completely in the beauty of the reflected and refracted light. That same bench drowned in darkness held even more wonder.  The focus became dancing with heat, visually apparent by color and glow. 

Glassblowing has much more to do with understanding heat than lung capacity, contrary to what you might expect. Beautifully hot glass blows out with just a whisper. The hotter areas blow out faster than cooler areas. Manipulating hot glass with tools allows the glassblower to gently tell the glass where to thin and where to stay thick. It’s an understanding that comes with experience, with experiments, and with joining the honey-thick glass in the flow state of creation. With the lights off, I could see every tool mark, every hot area, the result of every touch and every re-heat.  My skill increased dramatically with every dark evening session with the lights off, as did my sense of serenity and my connection to the medium. 

I have a lot of nostalgia for those magical evenings dancing with glass, my partners and I moving around each other in an almost-choreographed fashion, reading body language and subtle signals to communicate without the need for many words. Everything felt so different in the dark. 

While I find myself longing for those dark glassblowing sessions, I set the scene in my own kitchen and lean into the darkness. Normally I am quite particular about working in a well-lit space, with plenty of light to show me true colors and details in anything from sculpting ceramics to decorating cakes. There are times, however, that I set a specific intention to bathe in the beauty of the darkness and I create only by candle light. These evenings feel longer, more serene, even indulgent. I allow myself to work slowly and carefully, chopping vegetables or toasting spices. A dinner by candlelight is the perfect end to a deeply peaceful way of creating. 

Learn into that  opportunity for deep comfort on a Sunday afternoon in the fall or winter. After a brisk morning’s walk (or ski), something about a slow-roasted dinner prepared in no particular rush, with some candles lit and perhaps a glass of wine, feels delightfully indulgent. This is root season, when the energy of plants has returned underground and we reach for roasted treasures to feel our own sense of rootedness. 

There are the chicory roots with their caramelized tones begging to be mixed up into a flavorful spice rub. The onions that become ever-sweeter as they are roasted. The carrots, lending their own earthy sweetness to any preparation. 

Autumnal food is about slow bubbling, aromatic fragrance, filling the house with anticipation of the supper to come. All this dinner requires of you is to toss food into a toasty oven at different rates. What to do in the meantime? Stare out the window at the quail scurrying across the garden. Snuggle up with a blanket, a glass of wine, and a good book. Find someone who will dance in the kitchen with you, between the carrot chopping and the fennel toasting. Let the rich fragrances and soft music encompass you with every twirl. 

This is a Sunday Supper, after all, and the only obligation you hold is to peace, pleasure, and the pursuit of comfort food. Light the candles, dear. 

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