Water + Benediction

Surrender. Our bodies feel water and surrender to it in a way that is almost archetypal: that feeling of stepping into a body of water gets us all on a cellular level, as though the amoeba that are at our ancestral root are still somewhere in there wiggling with joy at returning to state of one-ness with everything. There’s something so immensely healing about water, and how we let go and allow the greater world around us in when we’re floating in it. But, this is not something that we often do willingly or naturally. 

Most of the time in our lives, we push for things. We are in a hurry to get places, or to finish our to-do lists, and so we push ourselves forwards as quickly as possible, often with a running dialogue of everything we need to get done. There’s pressure there, and its immense, and it usually comes directly from us. What happens when we do this is that we extend outside ourselves: it’s a push forwards, a drive, an expansion. 

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Bitter + sweet (Hawthorn and orange bitters)

Bitterness (serves 1) 

1 cup of anger a heaping half-cup of powerlessness mixed with a tablespoon of regret and a big pinch of stagnation

Method: Condense, over time, squeezing it hard into a tiny little ball that looks remarkably like a gall stone, then drop into the body and carry around for a long time.

hawthorn bitters1

‘Eat bitter to taste sweetness’ -Chinese proverb.

This proverb, or something like it (I remember something along the lines of ‘eat bitter to avoid a bitter life’), was thrown around a lot when I was at TCM school. Lately, when I’ve been making batches of bitters for the holiday shows I’m doing, I’ve been tossing it around like a hard candy. It's got me thinking about bitterness and sweetness, and the balance between the two, both in taste and in life. 

What is ‘bitterness’ anyway? In our bodies, as taste receptors go, that’s pretty obvious— we learn bitter from an early age: it wrinkles our faces and we learn, as we should, that a little goes a long way. We learn that bitter is strong, and unpleasant. What we don’t learn is that we actually have bitter taste receptors in our lungs. In our GI tracts. In, uh, other places.

We have these receptors for a couple of reasons— the first is that a lot of poisons are bitter, and the flavour serves as an early warning. The second is that triggering them creates a cascade of digestive reactions, from our mouths to our anuses (anii?): digestive juices are squirted out and enzymes are triggered and peristalsis is kicked into gear; stomach acid starts churning; the pancreas releases more pancreatic juices; bile is released; the liver processes more; food is broken down quicker. As a result we absorb more nutrients from our food; bitter is the great digestive efficiency-maker. Every single thing that works along the digestive tract works better with bitters, which isn’t that big a deal if you’re one of those anabolic people who can digest everything, but for the rest of us who have slightly weaker digestion (Food sits in our guts a little longer. We get gassy after meals. Transit time is slow. We feel tired after eating.), bitters are usually a quick and easy fix that make a world of difference.

But, we have a societal aversion to bitter. As an instant gratification society, somewhere along the way we started rejecting the bitter, and everything that comes along with it, and picking out the sweet. Sweet is light, it’s fresh, it makes us feel good. When we eat sweet our eyes get wide and we smile and say ‘more please’ and people indulge us. Sweet is wide-eyed innocent youthfulness: it’s Bambi with its big eyes, or little pig-tailed people or fluffy kittens. Bitter is old and wrinkled, its gnarled and hardened and when we eat it our faces wrinkle and we say things like ‘yeugh’ and spit it out. To be liked in society, we must be sweet, be soft (Winnie the Pooh wanted honey, not dandelion greens). And sweet is nourishing, building, reinforcing. Sweet things (traditionally, pre-processed food I guess) are full of nutrients and trigger insulin which is like a key that unlocks the gates to our cells, allowing the cells to store the nutrients— in that sense, sweetness opens us up, lets us take things in, nourishes us with glucose or fluffy kitten alike.

Sweetness is nourishment and nourishment is self-love. Why is is that we reach for a tub of ice cream when heartbroken? Why is it that the more unsettled and stressful life is the more people tend to crave sweet things? I can’t tell you the number of people I see exhausting themselves and punishing themselves for not being able to do more and be more, who then want a herb to stop the sugar cravings they experience on a constant basis. That sweet is like a hug that you’re allowing yourself, a tiny smidgen of self-care, because even if your brain says ‘no that’s bad’ the body is cleverer than the brain, and wants it anyway. It's self-acceptance in a jar. Removing it without tackling the other stuff takes away the nourishment and leaves you bereft— it is self punishment in the worst sense. bitters2

Maybe our desire for sweetness as a society isn’t simply because we’re all fat and lazy but because we are balancing out the societal self-punishment that is dealt out on a daily basis. And even if we don’t appear to be self-punishing on the surface, we certainly are underneath— have you ever written down the number of self-reprimanding comments your brain makes on a daily basis? Try it. It's shocking. Then consider those sweet cravings from a different light.

And if sweet is nourishment, what then is bitter? Bitter stimulates digestive juices and enzymes. If sweet builds up, then bitter breaks down— it helps with the process of breaking down foods into their molecular pieces so that they can be more easily absorbed over the gut barrier. Without bitter, digestion slows, as food takes longer to break down. With slowed digestion, you have more old crap (literally) sitting in your body fermenting, creating gas, getting hard. Maybe if you want a sweet life you should avoid being constipated because few things make people as miserable; if someone walks around looking uptight and bitter one might say ‘he looks constipated’ might one not? 

But while constipation does refer to the passage of feces through the bowels I personally think of it in situations where there is something that needs to be let out that isn’t. Applying *this* action across the human body and psyche and all of a sudden you have a few other things too: bile, emotions, creativity, sexuality, who we are in the world. And yeah, toxins and waste products. The bitter flavour helps us break things down so that we don’t hold onto them. It's an energetic action that can be applied to more than one area— feeling angry? Break it down— what angered you and why? When you understand it and break it down, you can express it and do something about it. Express it and all of a sudden you’re not holding onto things and feel lighter and more free. You can move on. Let that shit go. 

What is bitterness emotionally? It's not quite anger; it's more like an unexpressed anger caused by feelings of powerlessness (see above recipe). Bitterness doesn’t usually just spring upon us, we don’t suffer from ‘acute bitterness’; it's something that builds over time, starting as anger and transforming, hardening, becoming like a little nut of bile stuck in the body. In its own way, this bitterness is a form of self-protection: we get disappointed enough, feel powerless enough, unable to say ‘YOU HURT ME’ and ‘I’M ANGRY WITH YOU’ enough and we need to form some kind of hard wall that protects us from this happening again. Not only that but that hard wall of bitterness is like a scaffold, strengthening us, making us feel justified in our feelings. It stops us from getting hurt and it makes us feel empowered. Bitterness holds the world at bay, it says ‘don’t eat me because I am poisonous, and don’t get any closer or I will cut you’.

Here’s where it gets even more interesting: In Chinese medicine, the liver is where anger goes— it is responsible for the free-flow of energy around the body and this also relates to emotions. Emotions need to flow freely; they are not constructed to be contained within our bodies but felt, expressed, dealt with, and sent back to neutral. They are notifications systems telling us things about our environment and interactions— the first niggling sense that something is wrong. Or right. Fear and anger both warn us of danger— we feel fear if the situation is something we don’t feel equipped to deal with, and anger if it's something we can.

Liver function, as with anger expression, can be under or over-active. A liver that operates at a healthy capacity processes a crap-load of blood each day, removing toxins and sending that healthy blood off to the rest of the body. Sometimes the liver under-functions, and sometimes we don’t process enough, and end up with a bunch o’ crap accumulating in the body that gets stuck. A healthy emotional-processing situation does the same: processing the ‘toxic’ stuff and sending it to a place where it can be expressed. Sometimes we feel something and don’t understand it, but instead of breaking it down and looking at it, we just shove it out the way and pretend it's not there. Bitter foods stimulate this function, the secretion of bile and digestive juices, breaking things down into manageable pieces. An under-functioning liver cannot process, and as a result stagnation happens, be it physical or emotional.

(I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out that this emotional stagnation is known commonly as ‘liver qi stagnation’ and that there are herbs for it (rose, citrus peels, black cohosh, ocotillo, redroot, bupleurum,  etc) and that in itself is a whole other series of posts...)

Bitter, in this sense, treats the bitterness, stimulating the functioning of the liver. An ability to healthily break down, process and express emotions and feel like we have power in our lives means we can move forward and not create that hard nugget of bitterness. And think of this: bitter stimulating secretions, breaking food down, the eating of ‘sweet’ afterwards means that you'll absorb the nutrients from the food. Not only that but bitters help with insulin response so post-bitter blood sugar levels are much more stable when eating sweet things. You eat the bitter, and then the sweet can nourish you even better as a result. 

Or, metaphorically speaking, lets say that bitter is hard work and sweet is relaxation; or bitter is abject misery and sweet is a really good day; or bitter is the process of breaking down the emotional crap allowing us to deal with it, and sweet is experiencing life without pushing that Sisyphean rock. Eat bitter physically and you avoid the bitterness of constipation; eat bitter metaphorically and you avoid a bitter life. 

Which brings me to a bitters recipe. I’m going through a hawthorn phase (it's that time of year), and these are easy to make, delicious, and a nice thing to take a few drops of before meals to help with the digestion factor. Interestingly I find hawthorn to be one of the best herbs for helping a person strengthen their innards and sense of self-worth so that they feel more safe expressing emotions out into the world, so it's a double whammy. Bitter, slightly sweet, nourishing to the core of who you are and the citrus peel gets that stagnant liver energy moving too. Plus, they’re just plain delicious. Give it a go. hawthorn1

Hawthorn-orange bitters Makes just under a quart

2 oranges 1 tsp dried ginger 4 dried cardamom pods 1 cup dried hawthorn berries pinch gentian root 1 tsp cinnamon vodka (any kind, but there’s no point in investing in a super expensive one)

Second part: 1 1/2 cups sugar 1 orange

With a potato peeler, peel the rind off the orange. Place that and the rest of the ingredients in a quart size jar, and fill to the brim with vodka. Cover and leave for 4 weeks.

After 4 weeks, strain off the vodka and set aside. Put the strained out ingredients into a pot, add 1 1/2 cup of water and 1 1/2 cup of sugar, the juice and peel of one orange, and bring to a simmer. Simmer, uncovered for around an hour, then strain. At this point you can throw away the herbs. Combine the syrup and the infused vodka. You can either bottle it individually and give as gifts or keep a big bottle for yourself and take a little before meals or add to cocktails.

MANY THANKS to the lovely people on Facebook for indulging my whims and discussing bitterness with me all morning.

Hawthorn ketchup

(Things to do with hawthorn: on death, time, funny light, and change)


Paying attention to the seasons and to what I eat is a way of connecting to the cycles of life. The more connections there are in meaning, the richer life feels: there’s a history, a weight, a gravity that only deepens with each layer. These layers can be different things— they can come from your garden, or from the wild; they can be something you connect to your childhood, or maybe your ancestry. In the case of my obsession with hawthorn in the autumn, the layers of connection aren’t local or from my garden or even from the mountains where I gather the majority of my herbs; the connections stretch across a different sort of plane— one of dreams and magic and rings in the grass and mists that sweep in from far away in a matter of seconds, obscuring the path, making things look… different. 

There was a partial eclipse yesterday and the air took on an underwater quality for an hour. I stared at the shadows, transfixed, and thought about how fitting this eclipse was to the fall light. And I remembered a time when the light changing caused me great discomfort. The gloaming, now my favourite time of day, at one time made me feel rudderless and cast out to sea. Fall light used to do the same. Maybe because it exemplifies change. You can’t catch it or keep up with it. Fall is a transition time, where that which was reaching its zenith is now curling into itself, conserving, settling down. Its the turning time, the movement of time, the passing of moments so fleeting that we can’t even touch them let along grab on indefinitely. And isn’t that what we generally try to do? Grab on indefinitely, pretend its not changing, pretend that the flicker just outside our field of vision didn’t happen— that the world is as we see it and we don’t age and nothing changes and things (especially us) certainly don’t… die. 

Yes, I said it. The big D. How can one not, in the face of all this downward momentum, change, transformation, with the bare bones of tree skeletons emerging with every falling leaf that turns to rot on the ground. How can we not think of dying? And how can it not scare the crap out of us at the same time? hawthorn3


I notice in places where there’s a rich and old cultural history, people tend to have more of an understanding that we aren’t the centre of the universe. All souls day, dia de los muertos, Samhain, these aren’t just times to get dressed up like slutty nurses and drink ourselves into a stupor, but times when the connections are strongest. The height of that falling time, the middle-point, where the light is oddest and we feel the most unsettled. In other cultures you deal with this by diving into it— honouring the ancestors, getting a deep sense of your place in history as one in a long line of humans that stretches out behind you like a series of stream beds panning out over the desert, and in front of you like a gossamer path that shape-shifts with each action we choose. Time. Age. Change. There is something beautiful about being rooted in history. Walking around old cities, sometimes you get a feel for the age of it and it provides a sense of gravity, of rootedness. Where old gnarled trees and old stone meet and your timescale is suddenly switched from the immediate to the archaological. Earth time. Slow time. Old time. 

Hawthorn is an archetypal plant for this: otherworldly, connecting the rational world with the dreaming— the gateway plant. It does this because its stable and comfortable on this journey. It too lives between two worlds, and straddles them. It is the plant to face change with, a strong hand behind your upper back between your shoulder blades saying ‘its cool, we’ve got this’*.

Its 11am. The light outside is orange. There are birds in the tree outside and a breeze coming in through the window. The birdsong and the breeze act as a hypnotic, pulling me into the light until its just a series of pixels, orange and dancing on the green of the tree out front. All of a sudden, I am simultaneously in my living room and in the branch of the tree, dappled light hitting my eyelids as I turn my face to the sun. And then in a heartbeat I am in my childhood garden, with the fall light reaching through the oak trees, moving over my face and then, as now, I am transfixed by it all. Time is loose like that. Simultaneous, happening everywhere at once. Unsettling, but now is the time to dive in. Grab your hawthorn and turn towards that changing light and see it in its place— as a part of a huge cycle, of birth, and growth, and withering, and death, and how we fit into that huge cycle with our brief lives. 

Its not scary to me anymore, the gloaming. It is beautiful in its honesty, in the flickers of things I see and hear in the shadows, in that which it shows and doesn’t show. In the connection to that which is bigger, uncontrollable, unfathomable, sometimes its reassuring to just be a tiny speck of light in a vast moving sea, not of something important or special, but of something that simply is.

I received a big box of hawthorn berries in the mail last week, and after tincturing and elixir-ing most of them, I was left with enough to play around with. This is a recipe for hawthorn ketchup, adapted from the River Cottage preserve book. Its delicious on roasted meats, like a combination between brown sauce (HP Sauce!) and something fruitier. Definitely worth a try. 

*My favourite hawthorn formula for all of this is hawthorn, rose and devil’s club, to work with these connections to the past, to ancestry and diving into that which is unseen. 


Hawthorn ketchup Adapted from The River Cottage Preserves book

1/2 onion 1 tsp grated ginger 2 cloves 1/2 tsp ground cinnamon 2 allspice berries 1/2 tsp ground mustard 1/4 tsp black pepper 1/2 tsp salt 1 3/4 cups apple cider vinegar 3/4 cup brown sugar

If using fresh hawthorn berries: 2 pounds fresh hawthorn berries 1 3/4 cups water

If using dried hawthorn berries: 1 lb dried hawthorn berries 3 cups water

1. Put everything in a big pot, bring to a simmer, cover, and cook for approximately an hour. It'll take slightly less time with fresh berries, and with dried you may need to simmer for up to 2 hours. They're ready when the berries have gone light in colour and everything has turned to mush.

2. Run it all through a food mill or sieve. The hawthorn pits will get stuck and you'll curse ever starting this recipe but persevere because its worth it. The resulting mush should be the consistency of ketchup. If its too liquidy, simmer it down to a ketchup consistency, if too thick, add a bit of water.

3. Allow to cool, then spoon into jars. It'll keep in the fridge for 6 months.

Apple-rosemary coffee cake

"There's rosemary, that's for remembrance." (Hamlet, iv. 5.)

Rosemary divides people. Not quite like cilantro does (word on the street is that some peoples' taste buds are *different* and that cilantro tastes like soap to them), but still, if you say the word 'rosemary' there is a group of people (I call them, originally enough, 'rosemary people') who's eyes will light up and they'll say 'oh I LOVE rosemary!' Rosemary people. Often sweet of voice and soft of face. Often dreamy-eyed, and slightly sluggish. Look for a slightly grey tinge in the skin (this is often more of an intuitive thing), or a general feeling of 'blah' and lack of movement. Or look for signs of bad circulation and coldness combined with liver stagnation- moodiness, crampiness, bursting into tears for no apparent reason, blueish fingers and toes, trouble digesting meats and fats, hardness, coldness, being overwhelmed by inertia easily and often.

Rosemary people love rosemary because it gets things moving. I like to liken it to a little old Italian grandma with her hair pulled back tight and a broom in her hand. She'll smack you on the butt then sweep out the cobwebs in all the corners before you knew what hit you. There's also the common phrase 'rosemary for remembrance' and, while it's actually referring to remembrance of the dead, there's actually something to rosemary's ability to help folks remember anything. Think of that little old broom-wielding Italian lady, and now think of your foggy, sluggish brain, and how much better it'd function if someone beat out all the dust and crud. Yep. Rosemary for remembrance, indeed.

I've made this cake three times now. Twice at home, then once when I arrived in Palm Desert this last weekend to stay at my friend Alysa's house- I thought it'd be a nice thing for her to come home to after a long day at work. The flavour, my friends, will woo you from the get-go. The sprigs on top are important- as the cake cooks, the aromatic oils from the rosemary will seep into the crust.

A note about using gluten free flour: depending on what mix you use, this cake could end up very dense. I used a boxed cake flour for my third version and, while it was springy enough fresh out the oven, by the next night it was like a brick. My recommendation (as discovered by the genius Alysa) is to toast slices of this day old brick-cake, and slather it with butter. Not only will you get your butter rations for the week in one dose (hooray for healthy fats!) but the rosemary in the cake will help you digest it!

Rosemary Apple cake

Adapted loosely from Nigella's Rosemary Remembrance Cake recipe

For the apple mush:

2 apples, peeled, cored, chopped into wee chunks

2 sprigs rosemary for flavour, plus another bunch for decoration

1 tsp sugar

 For the cake: 

2 sticks butter

3/4 cup sugar (I use sucanat)

2 cups flour (I use gluten free all purpose plus 1 tsp extra baking powder)

1 tsp vanilla

3 eggs

2 tsp baking powder



Preheat the oven to 325F.

In a pot on the stove, simmer one chopped apple with a teaspoon of sugar, the rosemary, and about 1/4 cup water, with the lid on, for about 8 minutes. The apple will become mush. This is good.

Meanwhile, in a mixer, beat the butter until fluffy. Throw in the sugar, and keep beating, then the eggs, one by one. Next add the vanilla, and then the apple mush mixture. Then, in three parts, on a slow setting, add the flour and baking powder. When its incorporated, spoon into either individual muffin tins or a loaf pan, or, in my case, a cast iron pan. Make sure this pan is well-greased with butter.

Before cooking, decorate the top with sprigs of rosemary. In the case of the muffins, I found it easier to de-stem the rosemary and just sprinkle it on top.

Cook for 35 minutes, or until a knife inserted comes out clean, and the tops are golden brown. Tastes best on the first day.