And to you, your wassail too
Everyday spellcasting to get you through next week, and wake up the trees.
Good wassail to you, sweeth.
Hello, and welcome to Volume 29.
Who isn’t in need of a little ‘good health’ right now? I’m not a psychic, but I can sense next week will be heavy, so I offer you this.
Songs are a type of spell casting. A way of calling into existence something you desire, someone you miss, or even to let the edge off of a feeling. Listening or singing along can provide a safe catharsis, even if you don't write them yourself. So, with that, I will offer up what I have done every 17th of January since I moved into this strange little house during COVID. I invite you to wassail.
You may think: “Case, it is way too late in the season for wassail.” Christmas is over. And you’d be right. More likely, you’re asking “What the fuck is wassail? Like caroling?”
Well, yes, and no. In the grand Anglo-Saxon tradition, wassail (pronounced waes-ayl) could mean any of the following:.
A hot drink, typically made of cider, ale, wine and mixed with honey, mulling spices, and baked apples.
Going door to door singing to summon cheer during the long winter months. This wasn’t exclusive to Yuletide, although part of it.
A greeting, like cheers or santé, meaning: “to wish one whole.”
I could use a little help feeling “whole” right now, how about you?
When plotting the garden a few years ago, I knew I wanted apple trees. Northern spy. Honeycrisp. Cortland. I found them on discount near Rhode Island, and determinedly packed them in the trunk of my car with two peach trees for good measure. I wasn’t quite sure where they would go and impulsively decided to stick them in the White Garden to the side of the house. They’re still relatively young and don’t produce much fruit yet, but I have dreamed one day I might be drowning in apples—for few pleasures are greater than the scent of a freshly-picked apple’s skin, except perhaps the burst of juice after taking that first, crisp bite.
Here’s to thee, old apple tree,
Whence thou may’st bud, and though may’st blow!
And whence though may’st bear apples enow!
Hats full! Caps full! Three bushel bags full!
And a little heap under the stairs.
Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!
The Wassail is an ancient mid-winter ritual, typically falling on the old Twelfth Night, or January 17. Maybe I like medieval rites because they survived some of history's darkest chapters and were passed down through the generations. I like that Twelfth Night falls when the prospect of getting through the remainder of winter feels impossible—a reminder that spring is but 9 weeks away. And we can still have joy, as Sarah Flynn reminded me, despite all the horrible things that have occurred this year and what I’m bracing myself for. Joy is imperative.
What helps me is remembering there will be daffodils in this yard again. That the tulips will start to poke their heads through, and the hellebores are already coming back up. I checked this morning, and a few eggplant-hued buds had begun to show under the dusting of snow that blew in overnight. When all feels hopeless, it is always the garden where I go to comfort myself. Somehow, it soldiers on, so perhaps I can, too.
So, we wassail. You don’t have to have an apple tree to do it, but you can say thank you to any tree you like and wish it a good, bountiful year ahead. It’s not not witchcraft. Call it a folkloric thanksgiving. Or whatever you need it to be at the moment.
According to tradition, revelers gather around the oldest tree in the orchard with their mulled cider. The Wassail King or Queen pours cider on the tree's roots and leads the group in song, blessing next year’s harvest. Next, toast is offered to the robins, the orchard's anointed guardians. Gatherers dip their toast into the cider and hang it on the tree’s branches, followed by banging on pots and pans to ward off evil spirits and ‘wake’ the trees up. Next, you go off and be merry with your drink of choice. Like I said, the old ways were bawdy!
So, instead of doomscrolling, watching the spectacle, or refreshing your NYTimes app repeatedly on Monday—I offer you this alternative. Get outdoors. Call a few friends. Put your body in some cold air, holding a cup of something warm and strong. Bang on your pots and pans and look foolish. Sing to some trees, to yourself, to your friends. Make songs up or sing the ones that bring you joy. I can’t promise it’ll do any good, but it can’t do you any harm, either.
There are many good recipes for Wassail, some boozy (with hard cider, Madeira, and ale, oh my!), some nonalcoholic. Pick your poison. Let it simmer away on the stove or in a slow cooker, and your house will smell like mulling spices if you’re into that sort of thing. I like using a dry cider and adding a little fresh cider.
Makes enough to bless one tree generously or a couple of friends in need of feeling whole again. Hang in there.
Old-Fashioned Wassail
Ingredients:
3 pints dry apple cider
1 cup fresh apple cider or orange juice
2 tablespoons honey (or more to taste)
2 strips of orange peel
1 apple, sliced
2 cinnamon sticks
2 cloves
1 allspice berry
1 cardamom pod
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg (preferably grated fresh)
Directions:
Pour the ciders, honey, orange peel, and apple slices into a heavy-bottomed saucepan.
Put the spices into a cheesecloth piece, tie it with kitchen twine, or store it in the pot. I usually am too lazy for the cheesecloth, to be frank.
Bring just to a boil, then simmer on low for 1-2 hrs. Serve with a cinnamon stick and grate nutmeg over the top.
A few other things helping at the moment:
I recently found this super-soft knit wool bandana at Toast. It’s like a security scarf. It folds up into nothing in my bag, but it’s especially great as a kerchief (I guess I’m in my babooshka era; who knew?). I don't see it on their site, but many like it on Etsy or this one at Quince.
I planted Rembrandt mix tulips for the first time this year, which I’m excited about. Every year, I want more color and clash in the spring beds. Screw being tasteful! It’s past season for buying bulbs, but keep an eye out for next year if you haven’t given these a try. They do great in pots, too.
To deal with it getting dark so early, I like candlelight. However, I’m increasingly turned off by expensive scented candles (the packaging feels wasteful, right?) and lean toward colorful unscented tapered candles. I picked up these pastel ones by True Grace at Pentreath and Hall. They burn slowly and make the house feel warmer and cozier.
I couldn’t make it through the winter without an extra hot bath. It’s not always easy with my schedule, but I’m trying to remember to take a bath before bed more often. When I want to treat myself, I keep Sausanne Kaufman Bath for the Senses oil (a little goes a long way!) or these Onsen bath salts around.
File under stuff I have no need for but keep in my Etsy cart as though one day I will: I have a predilection for antique biological models and curiosity cabinet ephemera. The creepier, the better, like this black trumpet one.
I am all out of sorts now that I’m caught up on the second season of Bad Sisters. How the Garveys manage to find themselves consistently in so much deep shit is beyond me, but I can’t get enough of it. And although Sharon Horgan is hot as hell, Bibi remains my favorite sister.
What’s turning my head lately:
Reading: The Instrumentalist by Harriet Constable
Listening: Like everyone else, I can’t get enough of Doechii.
Watching: Fargo. Like, every season of it. I am a late adopter. Yes, you may point and laugh at me.
Cooking: This sticky miso salmon bowl is saving my ass during the working week. Takes no time to pull together (having a rice cooker helps) and feels kinda healthy.
If you liked this issue…
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