The primal, life-giving joy of a winter solstice supper

This night will be bad and tomorrow will be beyond all imagination. . . 

If you were a certain type of child, you can already feel those words, cold as snow and twice as horrible, somewhere in the top of your spine, at the base of your neck.

It is December 21, the day before the winter solstice. Solstice and birthday of Will Stanton, seventh son of a seventh son, last of the Ancients and hero of Susan Cooper’s 1973 classic The darkness is rising. There has never been a Christmas book like this. Part of the reason for this is the 1970s’ nonchalance to leave children with lifelong scars; but perhaps more important is the way Cooper taps into something primal, fundamental, bloody and dark that haunts every living thing, now, yesterday and forever. This may seem like a big statement, but just look at the title. Has there ever been a clearer summary of the number one fear of all?

In the book, Will’s house is ready for Christmas. It’s his 11th birthday. His family is loud and happy and he wishes for the impossible: a white Christmas in the south of England. But the radio becomes static as Will passes, his dogs back away from him and a storm arrives. The storm brings her snow, but her family doesn’t wake up to see her. In fact, no one but him will wake up. It is the eve of the winter solstice and night is rising. And what could make him go back?

The answer, of course, is slight. As always at this time of year. Which is why, I suppose, it seems so fundamentally right to mark Midwinter with fire and friendship and old things.

So old things, bones, wine, ashes. A place also, undoubtedly, for certain herbs, those which are woody, those which keep well dry. A rope of onions, a braid of garlic, old spices, fennel seeds, sprigs of saffron. Dear. Generally, if you could find it in a castle’s quiet room a millennium ago, it’s acceptable now. If it makes sense, it’s acceptable at that time, but it’s also acceptable if it doesn’t make sense. Sometimes, a simple presence in the kitchen is enough. We are here, it is here, etc.

The Longest Night requires ritual attention, but not exactly a tradition. We cannot know the old magic, but we can do our best. What remains of this night is the idea of ​​fire. What remains is the desire to fight against the darkness. It’s of course best to be outside with the thing roaring and leaping as a challenge, but that’s not always possible. Instead, a person can fill their house with candles, massing them in the windows, big chunky pillars, tall elegant tapers and small sweet tea lights, it doesn’t matter. What matters is the flame. This is partly because the flame is a light in the longest night, but also because a fire is an ancient thing, just like the solstice.

What remains of the fire will be ashes, and that counts too. Ash is death, but it is also life, the ancient way of cultivating things, as effective a fertilizer as one could wish for, and of making bread rise. The ashes replace the yeast. The old becomes the new, and darkness becomes light and becomes darkness again. The flame burns and disappears. The default condition of the universe is vacuum stretching to the edges. We are alive while most other things are not. We won’t always be alive. We won’t always be together.

It’s the middle of winter. This is why we must, in a way, also think about something other than Christmas. Not forgetting Christmas, exactly, but also not forgetting the older, deeper form of the year, the turning point, the delicate balance between light and dark, the ease with which we die, the harshness of life to catch up. he. Therefore, the feeling about food should be one of generosity, for whatever you prepare in the middle of winter is an offering; and it is also a celebration, because the middle of winter is the time of sacrifice. Here, in the dark, it’s life and death. So meat, bones and meat, something rich and plentiful but not overwhelming, something delicate and sturdy, a big frying pan and too many spoons.

Osso buco, hollow bones. There’s the sound of Shakespeare that suits Solstice so well: for God’s sake, let’s sit on the floor and tell sad stories about the death of kings. For a long time, I didn’t eat bone marrow because I saw human bone marrow and it made me think of death. It made me think about doing it for Solstice, to feel more alive, like darkness makes fire visible. So I knew what I wanted to make, roasted garlic osso buco, or something like osso buco. (I never make any pretensions to authenticity.) And with that, charred slices of honeyed honey cabbage, cooked in quarters on cast iron, and a sweet, smoked saffron polenta laced liberally with butter.

Bring the platters, bring the bowls, bring the stories. Sit in the dark and make light until the morning, and in the morning we will all be reborn. Happy birthday to the year, becoming lighter every minute. Happy solstice and hope for a better tomorrow.

A Solstice Dinner for Six

Kind of osso buco

1. Keeping the bulb whole, remove any excess paper and cut off a centimeter from the top, reserving the small pieces that remain. Drizzle the bulb with olive oil, wrap it in aluminum foil and roast it at 180°C for 40 minutes.

2. Mix the flour and salt on a plate and coat the veal shank. Then melt the butter in a large saucepan over medium heat and caramelize it on both sides. If you have to do it in batches, so be it. Take it out and set it aside.

3. Chop the garlic tips. Add the olive oil to the large saucepan and sauté the garlic, celery and onion for 10 to 15 minutes, until soft. Squeeze the roasted garlic and stir to crush. Put the veal back in; pour over the broth and wine and add the herbs. Season well with pepper and lightly salt.

4. Cover with the lid and leave to simmer. This should take 90 to 120 minutes, depending on the thickness of the veal. Check it every half hour and turn the meat if it seems dry. When the meat is spoon tender, serve. (This is a perfect dish to make ahead because it reheats wonderfully.)

Smoked saffron polenta

The smokiness here really adds something special (not to mention scary), so try to get your hands on the smoked water and smoked butter if you can. Smoked water is a great ingredient to consume because the water evaporates, leaving behind a pure flavor. If you can’t get one or the other, use regular butter, regular water, and maybe grate it over a little parmesan for a deeper flavor.

• Let the saffron bloom in the smoked water and set aside. In a large saucepan, melt the butter and add the polenta. Add the water, milk, salt, parmesan zest if using and the saffron-smoked water. Stir regularly for 40 to 60 minutes, until the mixture is smooth and delicious.

• Since it’s Christmas, you can finish with more butter for a shinier finish.

Blackened cabbage

1. Preheat the oven to 200°C.

2. Cut the cabbages into quarters; arrange in a cast iron skillet or on a heavy baking sheet (cast iron makes the best charcoal). Drizzle generously with olive oil and honey, sprinkle with sea salt.

3. Roast for 25 to 35 minutes, or until lightly charred and lightly curled.

Ella Risbridger is a food writer and cook. She writes the newsletter “You Get In Love And Then”