recipes for winter (pt. 1)

In my work with groups and organizations, I was often told that there was something about my presence and the way that I showed up that was impactful. In the last week of summer 2022, I began an individualized master’s program in Embodiment Studies at Goddard College. My intent was to better understand that “way.” Early in my studies, I realized that I was in fact an archive of an embodied way of being passed down to me through my ancestors. Soon the words arrived, “I am the recipe.”

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Growing up, there were often not written recipes for some of my favorite foods. I learned by being at the side of whoever was cooking, as they were cooking it. Often, I did not think about learning the recipe. I was just present. As I got older, whenever I wanted to cook something, I could simply cook what I wanted. Most importantly, I could also improvise and make it my own.

Cooking was an authentic expression of self. When our family had gatherings, we would request specific family member’s dishes. I’d want my Aunt Johnnie’s mac ‘n’ cheese. There would be a special request for my sister’s cheese cake. I was often asked for my collard greens and cranberry sauce.

We had all learned from the same source(s). Yet, we had our own way. This was true even if there was a recipe. Recipe cards were often a list of ingredients and a few sparse sentences on the cooking process. Nothing more.

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This memory inspired me to think about the idea of a recipe box. I did not want to create something to be replicated. I wanted to leave a generous archive to generate new ideas and possibilities. I merged my studies with Decolonial Interdisciplinary Arts Praxis. I engaged poetics as my research method and began developing a creative work.

I initially envisioned a 3-part zine titled Recipes for Winter. Winter was both literal and figurative. My thesis inquiry focused on how we maintain our spark/imagination in the midst of collapse (end times). Much of my studies laid the groundwork for this future creative work. Yet I ended my studies by creating ceremonial recipe box as an archive and celebration of the ancestors who are the source of my practice.

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Here in the early winter 2026, I have been connecting with dear ones and peers in Minneapolis. Often, I struggle for the right words. Alongside words that seem insufficient in weight in adequacy, I offer presence. A presence that provides space to be, feel, and be witnessed as loved and precious. There is no method. It’s a ritual of tending and providing care. My ancestors know these times. I know these times . . . I am again called back to Recipes for Winter.

I close with an excerpt from a poem I wrote during my studies: Mother Tree.

You stand here still

Calling us back to know your name

Our names

We sing a song in many tongues for the children,

torn from us

Grief fills our bellies

We bellow 

Mother

Like my grandma was called

Her sadness

My sadness

Still