So, it’s come to this. It’s Imbolc today, a Celtic holiday celebrating the renewal of light and the beginning of a new season. It coincides with a full moon in Leo, the astrological sign that represents a fierce devotion to our fiery vitality and loyalty to life itself. The skies are signaling: Spring is on the horizon, plant seeds! The Earth is signaling: Brace yourselves for some more turbulent weather! The human newscasters are signaling: Apocalypse now!
And in between the cramps of my premenstrual pelvic floor, clicking through local accounts from the battle ground that has become of Minneapolis, Minnesota, the grief I feel for a country I lived in for nearly ten years descending into the abyss of totalitarian rule, the way I am not surprised, the immensity of love I feel in my heart for family and friends overseas, the struggle with balancing a small part-time job in the “normal world” for a tiny shred of financial stability so that I am able to do my true work with people at a pace that’s actually ethical and in alignment with my nervous system’s sensitivities, the impossibly complex landscapes of mutually satisfying romantic relationships as an already once divorced + therapy-treated-and-dry-cleaned Millennial Elder, the astoundingly unequal division of emotional labor in all human affairs, the complex questions I continue to navigate about an unquestionably “neuro-divergent” brain that paradoxically doesn’t believe a supposedly “neuro-typical” brain exists (what does exist, in my opinion, is an unending list of extremely rigid normalized coping mechanisms; adaptations to a dysfunctional way of living we can’t seem to escape), and the onslaught of destabilizing news from absolutely all corners of the globe – I also have the flu.
And I am fine. You see. This is what fine looks like these days, comparatively. I am loved and loving. Folks drop off groceries by my door not because it’s unsafe for me to go outside without my passport stapled to my forehead in Europe (just yet) – but because I have a fever. I am fine because my financial footprint is basically as small as it can possibly get in the city center of a European city, and as such, the bare minimum suffices for the moment. I am fine because I am free, right now, in this very instant, to breathe a deep breath, and to feel the effects of that in my body. Yes, if you are reading this right now, go ahead:
One slow deep breath in (((( )))))
And all the way out )))))) (((((((
I am fine because I am living with the abundant wealth of a kettle, clean water, fresh ginger, and a handheld foodprocessor someone gifted me years ago. And with that wobbly foodprocessor, I have recently been making Shir Khorma.
I found this recipe when I was researching the history of hot beverages at the start of this winter.
/// I am going to go off on a tangent here. Let’s honor that Leo full moon and allow a full blown unsolicited unadulterated Leo native sun’s fever tangent. Bear with me, or scroll down for the recipe I don’t want you to miss out on. ///
Listen, I’d been feeling off about the standard menu of warm drinks in 21st century cafes. It’s precisely the same list in nearly every establishment. The list feels unnecessarily unimaginative and defined by some implicit standard of monocultural taste. We keep looking at the same menu like: “Oooh, I wonder what I’m going to get this time!” But that’s obviously a performative move because it’s the same thing you get every time… This started irking me. Are we not bored? It’s similar to the way you can try to search for more information about a recent event, only to find the exact same story copied and pasted by every single news outlet. Are we too distracted to be offended? Perhaps I am more aware of the limited lists of hot beverages in restaurants because I rarely drink coffee anymore. I quit a few years ago when I realized how addicted I was, and had to concede that I don’t actually fare so well on the perpetual state of socially encouraged anxiety caffeine induces in my body. Anyway, the drinks menu became so glaringly generic I started feeling like somewhere along the line we may have given up on something vital… Like novelty. Or surprise. Or gastronomic authenticity.
Additionally, every time I order a tea, I can’t help but feel like I must be the unknowing subject on some inter-planetary comedy show. Like the Truman Show, but for aliens. Every time I am being charged 4,95 for a glass of boiled tapwater and 3 paper thin slices of old ginger… surely somebody somewhere is having a laughing fit? As the drinks arrive, I observe my sheepishly polite smile (because I did, indeed, order this myself, because I had to order something) as I offer the server the least ungrateful sounding “Thank yououo” I can muster. It’s not their fault, anyway. To mitigate my pit-tea-party, I tend to opt for the ever-present odd-one-out on the menu: the chai latte. This is on the rare occasion I still find myself in good company in an uncomfortably noisy cafe where I absolutely will have a hard time paying attention to what you are saying. And without fail, I will be silently disappointed by the sad beige flavor floating in a cup in front of me. I never mention this, unless someone specifically asks, because I don’t want to be that person. But admittedly, I quietly take note. Hence my research project into the forgotten hot punches of the past… There must be some kinda way outta here? (said the disappointed joker to the scheming thief.)
Of course there is! On god (I say jokingly appropriating, although I secretly like it), planet Earth knows how to produce a flavorful thing! Rich traditions of spices and quality ingredients precede the sensual deprivation late-stage capitalism presents to us as luxury. That’s how I came across Shir Khorma. [I think this is where the tangent ends, thank you for still being here.] The recipe kept lingering in my thoughts until I finally gathered all the ingredients to make it at home.
Now the absolutely fucked up thing about this situation is that many Iranian people, to whose cultural heritage we owe this recipe, do not have the privilege of making this traditionally Persian drink to sooth their ailments because they have been brutality executed by their government. I can’t claim to know enough about the politics at play to make any substantial comments about it. I do know the horrors of state-violence come dressed in many coats and wear many masks, and that the threat of authoritarian governments abusing their illegitimate power is a global phenomenon we, as a species, still haven’t eradicated ANYWHERE.
I have been making this Iranian drink daily for the past week, sensing my body needing it. And every time I pour this warm creamy brew into a cup, as medicine for my aching limbs, I cannot help but to pause, and to send my gratitude and deep respect to every human being on this planet who is fighting for their (our) freedom right now.
So, it has come to this, I wanted to say, this full moon’s entry is just a recipe, because I have the flu, and it’s hard to write much with the flu. Or so I presumed… I hope you try this recipe, that it nourishes you with nutrients, abundant flavor, and the life-affirming joy of trying something that’s not on the menu. Let each cup remind you of your human rights of freedom and dignity. And perhaps, if possible, see if you can share a cup with someone in your neighborhood who could use the medicine of kindness and mutual aid and solidarity just as much as you do.
Shir Khorma:
(My methods are intuitive, I can’t follow a recipe for the life of me, so feel free to adjust to taste and preference, and, obviously, allergies.)
1 serving is roughly…
– 1 cup of milk (I use oat milk; barista for extra creamy flavor)
– 3 or 4 pitted dates
– A small handful of walnuts
– A chunk of fresh ginger around the size of the top of your thumb
– Cinnamon
– Cardamom (don’t be careful with this one…. like… ever)
Stir together in a small pan. Let simmer until flavors are blended and milk gets a little frothy. Turn off the stove and blend with a foodprocessor or blender. Pour out to serve. Top off with some more cinnamon and cardamom.
Enjoy.
Peace be upon those who are struggling in the face of state-violence the world over. May a whole new era of systemic justice be upon us all.
Metaphysical Mulch 