“And if you are to love, love like the moon loves. It doesn’t steal the night.

It only unveils the beauty of the dark.” –Isra Al-Thibeh

Greetings Dear Ones!

I seriously considered not writing a blog this week. I have every excuse: I’m tired. I’m busy. I’m cold. I’m tired of being tired, tired of being busy, tired of being cold… But then I realize I have these same excuses every week; this week is nothing new, just a little more so. Some of you Dear Ones are occasionally kind enough to write to me and remind me that you too are Hungry, Cold, Tired, Busy—longing for warmth, laugher, a nap and some crumbs… So, because I love you SEW much...

I was awake half the night last night with anxiety about this weekend’s upcoming Pure Dead Brilliant fiddle weekend—a fiddle-frolic-frenzy I have been cooking for, for nearly seventeen years… Is that right? Honestly, I’ve lost count… I just remember that when they began, in my former home, every bed and floor space in house and barn was taken and there was no place to put my toddler son to bed except in a small nest in a cupboard under the stairs. (This was before we ever heard of Harry Potter—though there does seem to be Magic imparted to those who are forced to sleep beneath a staircase!)

Every President’s Day weekend, anywhere from 40-200 of us gather to fiddle, cook, and nourish our tribal bonds to Each Other, Our Spirits, and The Music. And just about now, I begin awakening in the preceding nights to fret and frazzle about whether I should have almond milk or oat milk for those who cannot tolerate dairy. Should I buy both? I bolt upright in bed, eyes starched wide, and think “Did I even remember to put Potatoes on the grocery list?? What if I forget to buy the potatoes???” This group eats an average of 35 pounds of potatoes at every meal. What about peppers? Eggplants? (“Have we ever served eggplants?? Why are you thinking about eggplants at a time like this, daft cow?” says Prudence, primly from beneath her nightcap. ) Then I crash backwards onto the pillows. It is like I am on a raft at sea in rough waters, spluttering, drowning, counting Nightshades and calculating the amount of non-dairy creamer we might need in an emergency.

Out the window, the full moon is lighting the snow so much that I think the lights have been left on downstairs. I drift silently through the dark house in my sheep pajamas to check. No. It’s just the moon. In the light of this gorgeous moon, the fears subside and feel ridiculous. The moon is my lighthouse, calling me home to myself, away from the shoals and whitecaps of frothy coconut milk and the Freudian phantasmagoria of vegan sausages. Prudence, who has been muttering that “vegans are just trouble-makers; no one should have to be vegan at ALL times” lapses into silence in the glow.

It’s February, the perfect time to think about Love, which is a damn sight more cheering to consider than contemplating cabbages and serving sizes of rutabaga, so I sit in a pool of light from the full moon and try to think of things I love:

I love the way the moonlight is dancing on the snow.

I love the silence of the paw tracks leading into the darkness of the woods.

I love reminding myself that sometimes we need Peace more than we need sleep.

I love Serving the Music in any way I can.

And… (damnit!) I love the vegans. Truly, I do. I will buy them both Oat milk and Almond milk.

Wickedly, Prudence reminds me that if I buy almond milk, then I do not love the Earth (which is one of the main reasons to go vegan) since almonds are grown where there are water shortages and the almond industry is causing environmental trouble… Ugh… Cashew milk then… Prudence has no idea if cashews cause trouble. I make a note to research that in the morning. But what of those with nut allergies?? Does this affect them?

I love those with nut allergies. “Yes, but the poor vegans will not have enough protein if you do not offer nuts,” says Prudence slyly. It’s a nut-free facility, I tell her. No nuts allowed. Except for me, of course. I must be nuts to take this on, year after year, especially while having to listen to her yapping.

I love the Gluten Free people. The homemade soups, sans noodles, croutons, or crackers, are all for them. So is the salad bar. Gluten free people cause very little trouble. “Unless of course, you want to serve pizza, or pasta, or anything that is typically considered cheap and easy crowd food,” mutters Prudence, rolling her eyes and tutting, “Thanks to them, the gravies will be thin.”

I love the vegetarians. Especially those who eat fish and sneak bacon when no one is looking. “These are the people who sprinkle cheese before them as they go and eat up all the vegan options,” says Prudence, “leaving the poor vegans no choice but to smuggle peanut butter in their dorm rooms.”

I love omnivores with no dilemmas—especially the ones who can cope with spices more exotic than salt and pepper and don’t consider adding vanilla to French toast “going wild.” Omnivores who obediently eat everything on their plate without complaints are Prudence’s favorites. That’s how she was raised. Why wasn’t everyone else? How DARE they have dietary preferences based on knowledge of their own body-wisdom? I sigh. I envy others their body-wisdom.

“You need to feed this camp the way you feed your barn animals,” says Prudence. “There should be designated troughs and buckets and locked chutes, gates, and pens so that only those who are supposed to eat the vegan options get access to the vegan options. Check their ear tags and tails as they enter the dining hall. Meat people can be locked together in the meat pen; Flexi-tarians will have to make their minds up once and for all and stop poking their snouts through the fences. People who eat curry should be fed outside so that the smell doesn’t carry and make those who are simply chewing lettuce think that they have accidentally wandered down a back street in Calcutta. Above all, those who partake of the midnight chili should be forced to sleep alone. People are more like sheep than you would like to admit. You can try to keep them away from foods that contain toxic levels of copper, but that just makes them want it all the more!”

“Prudence!” I snap, “We are supposed to be looking at the moon and feeling LOVE. Now, hush!”

She drums her fingers but keeps quiet.

I am trying to find a way to love her too.

There are so many kinds of love all over the world. I want to remind myself of all the important ways Love finds me in my day. There is the Sheep Love, which pushes and shoves and demands scratches and wooly head rubs. There is the Steer Love, with its nuzzles and bumps and huge scritchy tongues swiping my neck and cheek like 80 grit sandpaper. There is the Chicken Love of cooing and pecking and rushing towards me to investigate what their hot mash brings today. There is the Dog Love, so small, furry, insecure and needy it must be cuddled under my robe and held against my chest in the dark. It cannot bear to be separated from me for a moment. Each of these Loves must be fed differently. So it is.

I feed them daily—not as much as they want, but always as much as they Need. I feed them so that they can continually replace and continue being the parts of themselves they have used up against the cold, in growth, in work, in wool, in capers, in Being Themselves. We all need that renewal—multiple times a day. Part of Loving another being, is figuring out how to Feed it—to feed its body, mind, or Spirit. What are treats and what is true nutrition? (You cannot raise a baby duck, or a septuagenarian, on cheerios alone!) In Love, we feed the Hunger where we find it—hunger to be Accepted, Nourished, Welcomed, Included, Protected.

One of the things that makes this upcoming camp so unique is that I have always insisted that the campers help with the cooking—partially because I am, at heart, a Slacker and this is way too much work for one. A Big reason is that coming together to make and break bread (or oat cakes for the GF) creates community. It’s vital that members of a tribe learn to feed each other. The Best reason of course is that the food simply tastes better. The first ingredient is Togetherness: Someone in that togetherness has watched enough episodes of “America’s Test Kitchen” or the “Great British Bake-Off” to be dangerous and gets teamed up with someone who volunteers at a homeless shelter and/or someone whose granny made the best gazpacho and then some young college kid who just now learned how to peel an onion joins in and MAGIC ENSUES. It’s true democracy at work—a little messy, a little chaotic with “too many cooks” hovering over the broth—but the end result is way better than any dictator, no matter how benevolent, could hope to provide.

There are no recipes. No measuring. I never watch what herbs or secrets go into the pot. We all take turns tasting and figuring it out. In Spices as in Music, we “jam.” We seek a Harmony where all the yummy differences add complexity not discord. Perhaps it is the music that makes it all taste great. A little Hunger helps. But at the end of the day, Music, Love, and Spices are team sports.

Come what may, I know my team will pull me through. Gradually, the buzzing in my head stops. Prudence has succumbed to her lavender & laudanum and slumps slack-jawed, drooling. The little dog against my chest is snoring. I look at the bright circle in the sky—Is it the Mother’s night light showing us the beauty of the darkness? God’s mirror reflecting the light of the sun? Or just a giant slice of non-dairy Provalone up there, waiting to lure this sailor back to sea? Who can say?

“If I just remember the potatoes, all shall be well,” I mumble wearily and shuffle off to bed.

Today, Dear Ones, may every delicious kind of love find you. May you have enough to nourish yourself and others. Keep up the Good Mending!

With sew much love (and non-dairy creamer),

Yours aye,

Nancy