Seven o’clock in the morning and it is still dark outside. Indeed, it is darker now than it was at two, when the moon hung high in the sky, bright enough to cast shadows.
It has been an unusually dry start to winter, so here at the winter solstice the darkness feels less oppressive than it sometimes does. There will be sunshine today, at least briefly.
More importantly, there will be summer’s bounty to eat, even in the darkness.
Just a few years ago, shortly after we’d moved into the new place, I blogged about eating the last of the black currants on the winter solstice. This year on the solstice, the cupboard and freezer still groan with summer fruits and vegetables—a testament to how far the garden has come in a short time.
And because it has been dry, I’ve spent more time in the garden in May and June than I normally would. Summer’s dead plants have been cleared away, the fruit trees and berry bushes have been pruned, and the view of the garden on a frosty morning is one of tidy rest, of anticipation.
I am already thinking about spring. The autumn-planted broad beans are lush—sitting quietly in these short, cold days, but ready to burst into growth as the days grow longer in the coming weeks. I can already smell the musty scent of their September blossoms.
In the kitchen, every meal is a gift from the summer garden, from the summer me, who spent long hours picking and processing vegetables. It is hard not to feel guilty for how easy it is to prepare dinner in winter—heat a jar of vegetable soup, toss a jar of pasta sauce over noodles, thaw some frozen corn and peas … But maybe the guilt is not because I barely have to work for a meal in winter, but because I didn’t appreciate summer’s bounty enough when it was fresh.
Here in the dark of winter, vegetable soup is a blessing, frozen sweet corn is ambrosia, and homemade tomato sauce is a more potent antidepressant than Prozac.
And so, there is joy and pleasure, there is the flavour of sunshine, even in the darkness.
And next week, the days will be a little longer. Next week I will take stock of my seeds and begin planning next summer’s crops. Next week we will celebrate Matariki, the start of a new year.
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Robinne Weiss 