Much of my life is focused on the world outside the walls of the cottage but within the bounds of the cottage proper: yard chores, land projects, taking care of the chickens, tending to and dreaming in the various gardens, and hanging with the birds, pollinators, and other living beings. Nature following nature, I suppose, the world outdoors has become a nearly subliminal temple where my interactions with the spiritual, divine, and holy are intuitive and free-flowing.
In that temple, conversations, rituals, and my general magical practice occur easily, even casually. This is a tiny homestead; my childhood Fisher Price Little People farm come to life (minus the tractor and larger livestock.) While I am in awe of the never-ending wonders around me, this place is sized and crafted toward spiritual communion rather than worship. I live and work with and among the spirits of this land, the divine I have chosen, and who have chosen me. Always nearby are the spirits and warm presence of ancestors, both mine and those who walked this piece of land. We are at ease together in ways that make faith a part of the natural order of the realms where we share space. There is no need to leap to faith here. In this place, in this time, I know what I know. One step simply follows the other.
A loaf of honey bread [B. Rhodes]
The gardens, the land, the orchard – for the most part – are spaces that the humans I live with acknowledge as my domain. No one pays attention to whatever Witchy stuff I get up to unless it is the neighbors. By now, I think any unusual-seeming activities like me talking to myself (really to the land spirits!) are chalked up to my being an eccentric “nature lover.” I have been told that they hiss-whisper those words when they say them. Apparently, nobody wants to say even a soft euphemism for “Witch” too loudly. Bless their sweet neighborly hearts. They are all doing their best to be good people.
Inside the house, where living space is shared with my spouse and his elderly father, I tend to tread more gently. My father-in-law knows I am a Witch, and we have managed to strike a balance of acceptance and tolerance for one another’s spiritual beliefs. This is to say we do not discuss them; no one forces the issue of blessing a meal or asking people to attend rituals or services. He never asks about the dozens of jars full of herbs and dried flowers in the airing cupboard or the statues on the altar in the living room and thinks Kitchen Witching means home cooking. I am happy to let him believe that.
I have always taken a more formal approach to spiritual housekeeping. There have been times when sharing space has been a slight impediment with the more ritualistic aspects of that. However, being flexible with adherence to the moon calendar allows me to maintain a regular cycle of cleansing energy and other basic maintenance work. Lately, though, I have felt the need to do more than the basics inside and outside the house. My housemates are looped into news, political, and social media spin cycles, which often results in this country’s uglier atmosphere and the tension in the world oozing across the thresholds of the cottage.
What magic to do regularly to purge that energy from the house? How to weave elemental energies into a cozy layer of comfort and peace without disturbing the balance of acceptance? I let those questions simmer inside me one night, confident the answer would bubble to the surface if I was patient and did not stir the pot too often. To distract myself, I searched online for a mixing bowl I had seen and thought I wanted. It was not the sort of kitchenware that would typically catch my attention, but it had a cute farmyard-themed design. I found the pretty turquoise bowl, decided it was not meant for me, and then rabbit-holed from that flour mill company’s website into the world of bread bowls. Who knew there was such a thing?
From a magical perspective, it is worth noting that I was seeking this new magic while planning a new native plants garden and a vegetable garden. Fair to say gardens are part of the spiritual fabric of life at the Cottage, and when my online searching led me to a page with a collection of baker’s bowls called “In the Meadow,” the simmering feeling kicked up a notch. Then I saw the gorgeous purple bowl embossed with daisies, and the magical solution I had been seeking joyfully bubbled into my mind and spirit. Although I have never made bread from scratch, I would begin a weekly practice of baking bread.
I felt it, knew it, and thought it all at the same moment. I delighted in recognizing that I was taking a step of faith in this new magical practice with the same ease I felt when taking such action outdoors. That realization bridged the gap I had been unconsciously holding between indoors and outdoors, “our world” and “my world.” Another key turned in the lock on the door of mysteries in my life.
Jean and Mae Barker in the kitchen, 1960 [courtesy]
Out of the blue, it seemed, I thought of the times I saw my mother and my father’s mother working together in the kitchen. I know that there was a great deal of trauma and drama in the relationship my mother had with my grandmother. I also know that Mom met that time and again with love and compassion as she tried to build a relationship with a very difficult woman. Perhaps it was a combination of instinct and intelligence that led her to invite Gram into her life and heart by connecting in the kitchen. My mother never made any bones about the fact that she entered motherhood and marriage without knowing how to even boil water. Seeking guidance from her mother-in-law was a natural step to take. How very wise our little Jeannie was, creating peace from the hearth center of her home.
I ordered that pretty purple bowl and some new tea towels to use to cover bread dough as it proofs. I also bought some measuring cups and spoons, a mixing spoon, and loaf pans. When I had all of those things together, I washed them, then cleansed them, and consecrated them as I would any new magical implement. They have a special place in the airing cupboard, and my spouse knows they are not to be used for any other purpose.
While I was waiting for the bowl to arrive, I spent some time looking for simple bread recipes. I also did some casual research on the history of bread and its importance to many cultures. One night my writing instructor shared this quote from Pablo Neruda: “Peace goes into the making of a poem, as flour goes into the making of bread.”
An affirmation, it seemed, but as I continued seeking poems and quotes and visual art, I began to believe that peace goes into the making of the bread as well. By the time I made the first loaf, I knew it with certainty, and I worked that peace and some other magics into the dough as I kneaded it on the counter in the hearth center of my own home. When I was mixing the ingredients, I used the flour sifter that is a twin to the one my mother had when I was a child. I talked to my mom and grandmother, and all my ancestors who ever made bread or farmed or fed someone from the labor of their hands, and I felt their strength and love fill this space.
The purple bread bowl [B. Rhodes]
During World War II, M.F.K. Fisher published a book that was meant to encourage those who were challenged by rations and shortages to continue to celebrate life. Her words still hold great meaning during these current dark days.
Perhaps this war will make it simpler for us to go back to some of the old ways we knew before we came over to this land and made the Big Money. Perhaps, even, we will remember how to make good bread again.
It does not cost much. It is pleasant: one of those almost hypnotic businesses, like a dance from some ancient ceremony. It leaves you filled with peace and the house filled with one of the world’s sweetest smells. But it takes a lot of time. If you can find that, the rest is easy. And if you cannot rightly find it, make it, for probably there is no chiropractic treatment, no Yoga exercise, no hour of meditation in a music-throbbing chapel, that will leave you emptier of bad thoughts than this homely ceremony of making bread.
― M.F.K. Fisher, How to Cook a Wolf
It is Sunday morning as I write this, and even though all the windows are open, the house is filled with the rich, warm, yeasty aroma of bread baking in the oven. Three weeks into this practice and it has already become an anchor point for me and, by extension, an anchor point for all the residents of the Cottage.
I go into the kitchen in the morning, gather the tools and ingredients, and by the time my father-in-law returns from church, there is fresh bread waiting on the counter. He comes in to make his lunch and lifts the tea towel to see if the loaf has been sliced. Of course, it has, and my spouse has already eaten the heel slathered with butter. Throughout the day, I see them both sniffing the air, catching the remnants of the scent of goodness and home. There is more gentle conversation about more pleasant topics, and before the day is over they will both seek me out to tell me how good the bread is. The magic is working.
Gentle reader, I leave you with one last quote I found to have the sweet tone of truth: as Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra once said, “All sorrows are less with bread.”
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