January's nature, food and captured thoughts
Part: ode to a Grandmother, winter cosiness appreciation, mindfulness exercise, recipe. Plus a poem.
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I have a fabulous guest column for you this week from
who is both a great writer, cook, poet and also my very good friend. I’m not sure I know anyone else as acutely tuned into the seasons and what nourishes her as she.This beautiful piece is part exercise in mindfulness, part ode to her Grandmother, part winter cosiness appreciation and part recipe. And it includes a poem, you lucky things.
Sally is based just outside of Canterbury in Kent and appreciates nature deep within her bones. She loves nothing more than cooking, eating and walking and documenting these escapades with hastily written words or with photographs.
Thank you to Sally for these gorgeous words and images. I will be heading back to London this weekend after being away for several weeks; it’s going to be a shock to my system. This post is gently easing me into the cold scenes waiting my arrival. One you might want to read snuggled up with a hot drink.
As always, thank you for being here and I hope you enjoy this piece.
January’s nature, food and captured thoughts
A guest column by Sally Gurteen
I’ve long been trying to write a book called Celia. It’s an annual and sum of all things that are Celia to me: captured images, moments or thoughts, scribbled notes gathered in the brackets of seasons that visit over and again, ways to cook and share food — all accumulating in some kind of timelessness and amassed wisdom.
It is an annual of no year but of all the years that reach long before and after this one.
Celia was my Grandmother’s name. The name has long reminded me of the Latin word for sky (caelum) which I only recently discovered Celia is actually derived from, meaning ‘heavenly’ or ‘of the heavens’. How suitable this seemed that just the word Celia could articulate a sense of beauty that can be savoured in any given moment, if we only take the time to notice.
And how fortuitous that the name for the book is now not just my Grandmother’s, but serendipitously emphasises its precise purpose. Even more so that the cover of this book will be of a sunrise in Clissold Park so utterly astounding, it was as if heaven was here on Earth. Maybe it was. Maybe it is?
And who was Celia herself? She was a noticer, a lover of delight, often seen rubbing her palms together with glee, or smacking her lips in anticipation of a good meal prepared with loved ones, someone that paid great attention to others.
“Are your hands cold, Sally? Here, I’ll hold them.” In short, she was lovely.
I (my name is Sally, hello) take note of what is beautiful as it appears in the year and each time it might very well be the same, but I have grown, the world has changed and another layer of understanding is acquired. For this reason, I wonder if Celia will ever be finished?
Bits of Celia escape me all the time — on my Substack, on Instagram, on paper or the plate — and I pursue it all the same. Today, let’s take a look at where we are.
January. The first month of the year.
What’s so Celia about January?
Nature: a world in monochrome
I’ve come to appreciate January for its stillness. Everything is stripped back and so the only place to really feast the attention is indoors, and inwards. Perhaps we only glance into ourselves quickly throughout the rest of the year, so January becomes a time to linger in reflection.
In lieu of resolutions, I enjoy using a simple anchor for the year. Just one word that I have to answer to. Dance. Listen. Play. This year it is ‘acceptance’. Of myself. Of others. Of the world.
What’s your anchor? What do you need more of?
In early January, colour evades everything. Birds on chimney tops black-pocked upon dull grey skies, trees stark with arms outstretched, steam coiling from pipes in oh-so-slow waking houses and mud that never dries.
I see how every glimpse of colour pops against this backdrop - the glow of a candle, the yellow lines painted on the roads, the early butter of mimosa, the vibrant pink of forced rhubarb as February arrives.
How and where do you see colour in January?
Compared to the rest of the calendar year, January is deprived of scent almost entirely except perhaps for a waft of distant wood smoke or apples rotting in our orchards on warmer days.
January smells ‘cold’ and it feels that way in your body too; each breath reminding you of the presence and intricacy of our lungs and all their frills.
What do you smell? What do you feel? Write it down. And look at it again next January. Is it the same?
Food: how to eat a chicken
January is remarkably beige when it comes to food. That’s OK though, because there’s always chicken.
This ever-so-giving bird that, if treated with care, can warm you through for many meals. If you’re going to eat meat, buy the highest quality you can afford and do it in the winter season when it makes the most sense for nutrition.
I’ve never quite understood why Veganuary is in January when this is the time that meat is at its finest and the best local and seasonal fruit and veg won’t come around again until May to October.
Oh there’s so much Celia in good chicken!
Roasting it and enjoying the crispy skin to yourself; putting the carcass into the slow cooker and half waking at 3am to the scent; having a little glass of broth when you get up and head to the cold kitchen; nibbling a gooey parmesan rind that you’ve dropped in for extra flavour.
Making chicken and papaya soup, or noodle soup, or breakfast congee; tearing the meat and having it with chunks of toast, chopped tarragon and aioli; adding it to a risotto whose leftovers can be rolled into arancini; stuffed into readymade tofu pockets as a quick lunch with fried mushrooms.
These are just some of the ways. How do you like to eat chicken?
Captured thoughts: inspired by steam from slow waking houses in winter
I LOVE watching the world wake up with a cup of tea in bed on winter mornings. Particularly the steam that trails the houses as they come to life, adding movement to what would otherwise be a cold, static scene.
I’ve written about it again and again, but I think it started here with this hastily drafted poem in 2015.
Past the garden gate
The jagged silhouette of a pipe
Puffs soft chugs of steam
That curl like the smoke
From a trembling cigarette
And settle on the milkman's crate
The house is cold-quiet
But for the toe-tip patter
Of Grandma
Up with the dawn
For she's hardly caught a wink
Drawing water for the kettle
From the grumbling sink
Morning breaks over us
In tufts of wool
And shafts of light
Rolling, rays reaching,
Grandma waits patiently
To be seen
The only woman for which she is now known
And stares hard through the window at a blackbird
(2015)
What movement do you perceive in January? How does it make you feel?
You can follow Sally’s sporadic seasonal outpourings on Instagram @sally_gurteen and @sally_gurteen_photo as well as on Substack
.Here are a couple of other Substack pieces Sally has recently published you might enjoy:
I (we!) would love to hear your thoughts on this piece! What are your feelings towards January? What is your anchor at this time of year, what do you need more of? How do you like to eat chicken? What do you smell and feel and see at this time of year? What movement do you perceive?
Join the conversation in the comments below.