In psychology, "romanticizing your life" is often called savoring or positive cognitive reframing and is recognized as a legitimate tool for boosting mental health. Rather than just a social media trend, experts view it as a real way to rewire the brain's neurobiology.

So I try to do it - often.

It takes practice and time to turn something into a habit though. Sometimes I fall out of it and life moves faster. It feels a little less joyful. It feels more tedious and maybe even more stressful. But as soon as I slow down and refocus and start “romanticizing”, it turns to color again.

Here are some small ways I romanticize an average day:

• Notice the light as you stand and brush your teeth. The milky glow from the sun looks like it could be a dreamy montage from a movie, doesn’t it?

• As you pour your coffee - notice every sense that is activated. The sound of the pour, the dark aroma of the brew, the clink of any rings you wear against the mug’s handle.

• As you shower and get dressed - recognize that you aren’t just doing the bare minimum of a required task. You’re tending to yourself. Like you would a garden. You’re brushing and sudsing and lotioning and isn’t it luxurious? The water trailing down your skin and the soft towel soaking it up. And getting dressed? What would the you who you want to be wear? Have a character from a show or movie that you want to emulate? What would they wear? Get excited about your clothes. Aren’t we lucky to have so many to choose from?

• Running errands and going to work doesn’t have to be a favorite part of your day, but you know what can be? The little trinkets on your desk that make you smile. The lunch you have that makes you feel energized and satisfied. The breeze as you sit outside and take a break from the daily grind. Couldn’t this be in a music video? The sky is so blue and the trees are so green.

• Unwinding after a long day isn’t just crashing on the couch and putting on a TV show. It’s choosing a dinner that makes you feel loved and tended to. It’s the comfy clothes you change into and the warm blanket that you wrap up in. It’s the tea or wine you pour yourself to trigger relax-mode. It’s the candle you light that fills the space with a warm and cozy scent.

Focusing on the little things brings you into the present moment. It’s like when you learn a new word and suddenly see it everywhere. When you train your brain to see beauty in moments where it’s so easy for it to get lost, suddenly you see beauty everywhere.

I know this isn’t a new concept but sometimes we need the reminder. That "romanticizing life", "being present", finding things that "spark joy" — it doesn't have to be complicated. It doesn’t have to cost money. It doesn’t have to include anyone else. It can be a private little noticing that you just share with you. And I bet, I really bet, you’ll glow a little brighter and the people in your orbit will too.

Xx,

Lily

For the Skin

The days are feeling a little lighter and cooler - maybe not cold yet but it’s feeling a little different than those sweltering summer months. This time of year I like to get ahead of the chill that will roll in soon. Lately I’ve been using Sonsie and I’m in love. Truly. The lip balm and the moisturizer are some of the most nourishing but lightweight products I’ve ever found.

For the Wardrobe

This handbag is SO good. It’s slouchy and soft and looks broken in but is so minimal. The color is to die for and it fits the perfect amount of things inside. I have no notes.

This plaid shirt has been my go-to a lot lately. Whether it’s with a pair of shorts, a comfy pair of sweats, or if I throw it over a tank top for running errands, it brings a little autumnal charm without screaming it.

This V neck sweater is great flung over your shoulders on a warm afternoon and then worn for a cozy night curled up with a loved one. It’s SO soft - you’d have no idea it’s from the Gap. Impresssssive.

For the Home

These rechargeable bulbs! They’re also remote operated once charged so you can have sweet little lamps around your house that you don’t need cords for. Really helps to set the cozy vibes.

These LED strip lights for kitchen shelves - these took me no time to install and I’m obsessed. They’re so cozy and completely bring a room to life.

This candle. I cannot bring myself to care if it’s “basic”. It’s so great to fire up in the evening or a brisk morning and feel the autumn vibes roll right in.

For the Body

I’ve been a little tired lately. My son is growing his back teeth so he’s awake a lot throughout the night and between that and my internal clock, I’m dragging a bit. I’ve upped my postnatal vitamin intake and protein. These are my favorite protein drinks and these are the vitamins I’ve been taking daily. I am not a doctor :) But I do love these as a way to ensure I’m keeping up with my one-year-old and work and daily life.

That’s my quick little rundown of what’s been bringing me joy this summer to fall transition. There’s so much more that feels like a celebration of fall but I’ll wait until we’re actually in the next season before I jump ahead. :)

+ my favorite glasses for serving

INGREDIENTS

— For the peach syrup —

• 3 large ripe peaches, pitted and roughly chopped (skin on or off, your preference)

• 100g (⅓ cup) agave (honey or maple syrup is fine too)

• 120ml (½ cup) water

• 4–5 sprigs fresh thyme

— For the tea —

• 4 bags of tea — Go autumnal, black tea for caffeine, or even chamomile for a gentle flavor

• 1 liter (4 cups) boiled water

• 500ml (2 cups) cold water

• Juice of 1 lemon

• Ice, to serve

• Thin peach slices and fresh thyme sprigs, to garnish

METHOD

1. Make the peach syrup: combine the peaches, agave, water, and thyme in a small saucepan. Bring to a gentle simmer, stirring to dissolve the agave, then cook for 8–10 minutes until the peaches are completely soft and have released all their juice. Remove from heat and steep for 10 minutes.

2. Strain through a fine-mesh sieve, pressing firmly on the solids to extract every drop of the deeply colored, fragrant syrup. Discard the solids and thyme.

3. Steep the tea bags in the just-boiled water for 5-10minutes.

4. Combine the brewed tea, cold water, peach syrup, and lemon juice in a large pitcher. Stir, taste, and adjust with more lemon or a little extra agave as needed.

5. Refrigerate until thoroughly cold and serve over plenty of ice, garnished with a thin slice of fresh peach and a sprig of thyme.

This drink is one of my favorites to have on hand at the end of summer. It’s refreshing but sweet and feels like a total celebration of summer. 🍑🍹

A couple years ago I found out I was pregnant. And the way I thought about what I put on my face changed overnight. I wanted to know what was actually in my products and whether they were safe for the baby. And then he was born, and my relationship to makeup changed again, in a different direction.

It was meant to make me feel good. Inside and outside. It started to feel like a ritual. It became fun and felt special.

So this isn’t a list of everything I’ve ever loved. That list is long. I’ll make it someday. But this list is the main stash that’s always in my makeup bag. When I start to run out, I add to cart immediately.

** these are not what I vetted as safe during pregnancy! Please do your own research on that. ♥️ These are just my absolute tried and trusted makeup loves.

1. The base

Clinique Even Better Makeup SPF15

Clinique Even Better Makeup SPF15

Buildable, evens everything out, and never feels heavy. This is the one I reach for nearly every day. It’s never upset my skin and it looks so natural. Plus it has a little SPF. 🤌🏼

Merit Minimalist Complexion Stick

Merit The Minimalist Perfecting Complexion Stick

A cream stick that does concealer and foundation work at once. I use this for under eyes but it’s not rare for me to use it for my whole face too if I want more coverage. It’s really incredible.

2. The color

Merit Flush Balm Blush

Merit Flush Balm Blush

A cream blush that melts in and leaves a flush that looks healthy and plump. Merit really nailed it here. Truly no notes.

Merit Bronze Balm Sheer Bronzer

Merit Bronze Balm Sheer Bronzer

Sheer but buildable. Never muddy and doesn’t wear off patchy at all. It just reinstates some color and blends SO quickly.

Benefit Benetint

Benefit Benetint

The original. I was using this back in the YouTube era and I’m still using it now. A rose tinted stain for lips and cheeks. I use it generously when I want a sun-kissed look or sparingly for a little cute flush. A fave with everyone for a reason. I reach for it ALL the time.

Clinique Chubby Stick Blush Stick

Clinique Chubby Stick Blush Stick

I especially like the Ramp’d Up Rouge shade for a little pat on the lips and a sunny red for the apples of the cheeks. It wears so well throughout the day and is creamy but doesn’t budge.

3. The lips

Huda Beauty Lip Contour

Huda Beauty Lip Contour

This dries FAST once it’s on. But it stays for hours. If you get the hang of it, it’s a gamechanger. I use it when I really need some staying power.

NYX Slim Lip Pencil

NYX Slim Lip Pencil

Specifically in the color Beige Nude. This really is the lipliner I TRUST the most. No matter the makeup vibe, this as a liner is that perfect blended blurry lip edge that amps up a little pat of color in the middle. I think I have like three sticks that are sharpened down to nubs in my bag at any time.

4. The eyes

e.l.f. Lash XTNDR Mascara

e.l.f. Lash XTNDR Mascara

A tubing mascara — it took me a bit to like it but I’m so glad I warmed up to it. I have long lashes and a traditional mascara transfers to my brow bone over the course of the day and looks ridiculous. This doesn’t flake, doesn’t budge, and comes off in little tubes with water. No raccoon eyes.

NYX The Brow Glue

NYX The Brow Glue

Scrape off the brush before you brush your brows so you don’t get flakes but then this is the simplest, more dependable brown gel I know of. A forever repurchase.

5. The tools

Merit Brush No. 1

Merit Brush No. 1

A pricier brush but honestly soooo soft. Blends cream products without eating the product. I use it for blush or even setting powder. Anything I want a light touch with sense it’s so gentle.

Real Techniques Makeup Brush Set

Real Techniques Everyday Essentials Makeup Brush Set

These are my FAVORITE brushes. The dense dome brush is my favorite for creams and the fluffy brush is amazing for bronzers and blushes AND liquid foundations. I have like three sets of these. And they last years before you even think of replacing them.

Shop all the products

I was deep in the postpartum haze. Home almost all day, every day. My hands were busy constantly. I loved him fiercely and I was also missing my time getting creative in the kitchen.

Read more

Beaded necklaces that look like art

Think stacked resin beads in citrus orange, cobalt, and buttercream yellow — pieces with weight, with presence, with a little bit of attitude. Layer them over a plain white tee or let one stand alone against bare skin. No wallflower jewelry this season — just pure, joyful color doing the talking.

Read more

Figs have one of the shortest fresh seasons of any fruit — a matter of weeks in late summer and early autumn, varying by climate and variety. When they're here, they deserve this treatment: roasted briefly until their honeyed sweetness concentrates and their edges caramelize, laid over a bright herb spread on good bread, finished with walnuts and honey. Optional: crumbled goat cheese under the figs is extraordinary if you eat dairy.

Serves 4–6 as an appetizer   ·   25 minutes

INGREDIENTS

• — For the whipped herb spread —

• 200g (7 oz) firm silken tofu, drained

• 3 tablespoons good olive oil

• 1 small clove garlic

• Juice of half a lemon

• Large handful of mixed fresh herbs: thyme, flat-leaf parsley, and chives

• Salt and white pepper

• Optional: substitute 200g (¾ cup) fresh goat cheese or ricotta

• — For the roasted figs —

• 8–10 ripe fresh figs, halved

• 1 tablespoon olive oil

• 1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar

• 1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves

• Pinch of salt

• — To assemble —

• 1 good baguette or sourdough, sliced and toasted

• 50g (½ cup) walnut halves, toasted in a dry pan

• Good runny honey

• Flaky sea salt

METHOD

1.  Preheat the oven to 425°F / 220°C. Arrange the halved figs cut-side up on a small baking sheet. Drizzle with olive oil and balsamic, scatter with thyme and a pinch of salt.

2.  Roast for 12–15 minutes until the figs are soft, deeply caramelized at the edges, and beginning to collapse. Remove and rest for a few minutes — they should be warm but not scorching when assembled.

3.  Make the herb spread: blend the silken tofu, olive oil, garlic, lemon juice, and fresh herbs until completely smooth and vividly green. Season generously. (If using goat cheese or ricotta, simply stir in the chopped herbs, lemon, and olive oil.)

4.  Toast the bread until crisp and deeply golden. Spread each slice generously with the herb spread.

5.  Top each crostini with a roasted fig half or two, a walnut, a drizzle of honey, and a pinch of flaky salt. Serve while the figs are still warm.

The most common culprit is temperature, and it’s the one that surprises people most. Tomatoes ripen through a process driven by the production of ethylene gas and the breakdown of chlorophyll — and this process has a temperature ceiling. When daytime temperatures consistently exceed 85–90°F / 29–32°C, lycopene and carotene production (the pigments responsible for red color) essentially stalls. The tomato is not broken. It is waiting for the heat to ease. In very hot climates, this means tomatoes that set fruit in June may not ripen until late August or September when the nights begin to cool. There is nothing to do about this except shade cloth over the most exposed plants and patience. The tomatoes know what they are doing

.The second most common cause is too much nitrogen. Nitrogen drives vigorous leafy green growth — which is exactly what you want in May and June when the plant is establishing. But if you’ve been feeding with a high-nitrogen fertilizer through July, the plant prioritizes foliage over fruit and the tomatoes simply don’t get the signal to ripen. Switch to a fertilizer with a higher second and third number (phosphorus and potassium) once the fruit has set, or stop fertilizing altogether. The plant has what it needs to finish the job.

Inconsistent watering is the third factor, and it affects ripening in two ways. First, water stress causes the plant to redirect resources away from fruit development. Second — and this is the one people don’t expect — overwatering after a dry period can cause the plant to produce a flush of new growth that effectively resets the plant’s priorities. Water deeply and consistently rather than in response to stress, and mulch around the base of each plant to keep soil moisture stable between waterings.

Finally, and this is the easiest fix: too much foliage. A tomato plant covered in dense leaf growth is shading its own fruit, and tomatoes do need light on their skin to ripen properly — not necessarily direct sun, but reasonable light exposure. In late July it is completely appropriate, even beneficial, to remove some of the lower and interior foliage from the plant to improve air circulation and light penetration. Remove leaves that are yellowing or touching the ground first, then thin any areas where the canopy is especially dense. This also dramatically reduces the risk of fungal disease, which spreads most readily in the humid, still air trapped inside a dense tomato plant.

The one thing not to do is pick tomatoes early and ripen them on a windowsill in direct sun. Tomatoes ripen best at room temperature, away from direct light — a counter or a shaded spot indoors is correct. A windowsill in full sun produces mealy, uneven texture. The windowsill myth is persistent and wrong.

A note for those in the Southern Hemisphere: if you’re reading this in late July, you’re in the middle of winter and your tomatoes are months away. File this one away for January, when it will be exactly the right time.

The tomatoes will turn. Late July just requires a particular kind of trust in the season — the understanding that the garden is working even when the evidence is still green.

PRINTS

The question of prints is where most people hesitate, and understandably so. A print is a commitment in a way that a solid isn't — it has a point of view, it makes a statement, it is visible from across the room. The fear is that it will be too much, or that it will date quickly, or that it simply won't look the way it looked in the magazine where you first saw it. These are all reasonable concerns, and the way through them is understanding a few principles about how prints actually work on the body and in an outfit rather than relying on instinct alone.

Scale is the principle that matters most and that most people don't think about explicitly. A large-scale print — big flowers, wide stripes, bold graphic elements — makes its impact from a distance and reads as a single confident statement. A small-scale print reads as texture from a distance and reveals itself only up close, which makes it inherently more versatile and easier to wear but also less arresting. Neither is better; they do different things. If you're new to prints, small-scale is the more forgiving entry point. If you want to make an actual impression, large-scale is where that happens.

COLOR

Color is the other variable, and the one with the most room for genuine personal expression. The most useful thing to know about color and summer dressing is that the colors that look best in summer light are often not the ones that look best indoors. The warm, saturated tones — burnt orange, deep terracotta, rich olive green, warm camel — that read as sophisticated under artificial light can flatten in bright natural light. The colors that come alive in summer sun are often the unexpected ones: a sharp citron yellow, a true cobalt, a poppy red, a clear coral. Try your existing clothes in natural light before assuming they don't work for summer.

GET OUTSIDE YOUR COMFORT ZONE

On stepping outside your comfort zone specifically: the most effective approach is to change one thing at a time, not everything simultaneously. If your default is solid, neutral separates, add one printed piece and keep everything else where it is. A printed skirt with a white linen shirt and simple sandals is neither too much nor a costume. If your default is pattern-on-pattern, try pulling one element back to a solid and see how the remaining print reads with more room around it. The goal is not a transformation into someone with a completely different aesthetic sensibility — it's finding the specific version of more that belongs to you.

The single summer piece most worth committing to is a printed dress in a scale and color that genuinely excites you, worn with the most uncomplicated shoes you own. It requires no styling decision beyond itself and will almost certainly make you feel better than the reliable separates it's replacing. Buy it on impulse, in the exact print that makes you pause. The pausing is the signal.

A spoonful of black cherry jam — the dark, jammy, slightly tart kind — stirred into sparkling water with a squeeze of lemon and a few fresh thyme leaves makes a drink that is genuinely more interesting than most things served at summer gatherings. No muddling, no simple syrup, no equipment. Just what’s already in the pantry.

Serves 2 · 5 minutes

INGREDIENTS

– 2 heaping tablespoons black cherry jam or preserves

– 2 tablespoons warm water

– Juice of half a lemon

– 400ml (about 1⅔ cups) sparkling water, chilled

– 2 sprigs fresh thyme

– Ice

– Optional: a splash of bourbon or prosecco to make it a cocktail

METHOD

1. Stir the jam and warm water together in a small bowl or measuring cup until the jam has loosened into a thin syrup. This step prevents clumps settling at the bottom of the glass.

2. Divide the jam syrup between two tall glasses. Add the lemon juice and stir to combine.

3. Fill each glass with ice. Pour the sparkling water slowly down the side of the glass — this keeps the bubbles alive longer.

4. Bruise a sprig of thyme between your fingers to release its oils and drop it into each glass. If making the cocktail version, add the bourbon or prosecco before the sparkling water. Stir once gently and serve.

Serves 4 · 1 hour 20 minutes

INGREDIENTS

– 2 medium eggplants, cut into 2-inch chunks

– 500g (about 1 lb) roma or plum tomatoes, halved

– 1 whole head of garlic, top sliced off to expose the cloves

– 4 tablespoons olive oil, divided

– 1 teaspoon smoked paprika

– ½ teaspoon dried oregano

– Salt and black pepper

– 2 cans (400g / 15 oz each) cannellini beans, drained and rinsed

– 1 teaspoon red wine vinegar

– Large handful of fresh parsley or basil, roughly chopped

– Toasted bread or cooked farro, to serve

– Optional: crumbled feta or goat cheese over the top

METHOD

1. Preheat the oven to 400°F / 200°C. Spread the eggplant chunks and halved tomatoes across a large baking sheet in a single layer. Nestle the garlic head cut-side up among the vegetables. Drizzle with 3 tablespoons olive oil and sprinkle with smoked paprika, oregano, salt, and pepper. Toss to coat.

2. Roast for 55–65 minutes, turning once halfway through, until the eggplant is completely tender and beginning to collapse, the tomatoes are jammy and caramelized at the edges, and the garlic is soft and golden throughout. Don’t rush this — the depth of flavor comes from the long roast.

3. While the vegetables finish, warm the remaining tablespoon of olive oil in a saucepan over medium heat. Add the drained beans with a pinch of salt and warm through for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove from heat and stir in the red wine vinegar and most of the chopped herbs.

4. Squeeze the roasted garlic cloves out of their skins directly over the beans and stir gently to incorporate. Taste and adjust seasoning.

5. Spoon the herbed beans onto a platter or into bowls. Top with the roasted eggplant and tomatoes, scraping all the pan juices over the top. Scatter the remaining herbs over everything. Add crumbled feta or goat cheese if using. Serve with toasted bread or farro alongside.

There is a particular form of exhaustion that belongs specifically to December — not the satisfying tiredness of a productive season or the bone-deep rest that the body asks for in early winter, but the scattered, slightly frantic exhaustion of too many obligations running simultaneously in a month that is also supposed to be the most meaningful one of the year. The gap between what December is culturally promised to be and what it actually feels like for most people is one of the more quietly dispiriting experiences of adult life, and it recurs annually in a way that makes it seem inevitable rather than chosen.

It is, in significant part, chosen. Not the individual obligations necessarily, but the aggregate of them — the total load of December commitments — is something that most people have more influence over than they exercise. The difficulty is that each individual commitment arrives with its own justification, its own relationship, its own emotional weight, and the cumulative effect is only visible at some point in mid-December when you look at the calendar and feel something close to dread about a month you were genuinely looking forward to in October.

The practice of protecting December's peace starts, somewhat counterintuitively, with September or October — with the decision, made early enough to be meaningful, about what this December is actually for. Not a resolution to do less in some abstract sense, but a specific articulation of what you want the month to contain and what you are willing to trade away to have that. If what you want is a December that involves quiet evenings at home, cooking things that take time, sleeping enough, and one or two genuine celebrations rather than twelve diluted ones, that is an achievable December. It requires saying no to things that are nice but not essential, and saying no early enough that it's a decision rather than a cancellation.

The social dimension of the holidays is where most December overwhelm lives, and it is also where the most useful protection is available: in the clarification of which gatherings are genuinely nourishing and which are attended primarily out of obligation or inertia. The difference is usually obvious if you ask it directly. The people whose presence in a room makes December feel like itself — warm, particular, chosen — are different from the obligations whose presence on the calendar makes the month feel like a performance of holiday life rather than the actual living of it. December is short enough that the distinction is worth making.

On the practical management of December overwhelm: the most effective single intervention is protecting the mornings. December evenings are where the obligations tend to live — the parties, the dinners, the concerts, the late shopping, the wrapping that happens at eleven o'clock the night before something is needed. The mornings are yours if you choose to take them: quiet, early, before the day's demands have begun. A December morning with tea or coffee, something slow to eat, and no particular urgency is one of the season's genuine gifts and one of the easiest to give yourself. Wake thirty minutes earlier than you need to. Sit somewhere comfortable with good light. Let the day begin slowly.

The holidays are not improved by doing everything they ask of you. They are improved, as most things are, by doing fewer things with more presence — by showing up, when you do show up, genuinely, rather than moving through the season at a pace that makes genuine presence impossible. That is the peace worth protecting. It is also, when you find it, exactly what December promised.

Permalink

There is a category of holiday decorating that is entirely free, or very nearly so, and that is also — by a significant margin — the most beautiful kind available. It does not come from a box or a bin at a craft store. It does not involve anything that needs to be untangled, tested, or inflated. It comes from the garden, the woods, the farmers market, and the kitchen, and it smells like winter itself rather than like whatever synthetic approximation of pine a paraffin candle offers.

The botanical holiday home starts with evergreen, which has been the defining element of winter decoration in the Northern Hemisphere since long before Christmas existed as a holiday — the mid-winter festivals of pre-Christian Europe were built in significant part around the power of living green in the darkest weeks of the year, and that impulse still operates in us whether we know its history or not. What we reach for in December, unconsciously, is green and living, because everything else has gone brown and dormant and the living green is the proof that something endures.

Fir and spruce boughs, cut from the lower branches of existing trees rather than bought pre-cut, are the workhorses of botanical decoration. They can be laid along a mantel, wound along a stair railing, tucked into a wreath form, arranged in a vase with water, or laid flat as a table runner under candles and objects. They last for weeks in the cold, longer if kept moist, and their scent — when the needles are warmed by candlelight — is one of the genuinely irreplaceable scents of the season. Pine, juniper, and cedar all offer variations on the same theme, each slightly different in texture, density, and fragrance.

Bay laurel (Laurus nobilis) is one of the most underused botanical holiday materials and one of the most beautiful. The large, deep green, slightly glossy leaves dry well and hold their color through the season; they can be used fresh or dried, wired into wreaths and garlands, tucked into evergreen arrangements, or laid flat in large overlapping sprays. A bay wreath — made simply by wiring overlapping sprays of fresh bay onto a metal or willow ring — is more elegant than most things sold at twice the price, and it can be taken apart and used for cooking in January.

Dried citrus is easy to make, beautiful, and fragrant. Slice oranges, blood oranges, lemons, or clementines into rounds about half a centimeter thick and dry them in an oven set to its lowest temperature — usually 170°F / 75°C — for three to four hours, turning once, until completely dried and slightly translucent at the edges. Threaded on string or wire, they become garlands. Laid in bowls with cinnamon sticks and star anise, they are a centerpiece and a room scent simultaneously. Hung on the tree or tucked into an evergreen wreath, they add color and warmth without anything synthetic.

Moss, gathered from the garden or a damp shaded bank, can be used to cover the base of potted plants, to line a wreath form before adding other materials, or simply placed in a shallow bowl as a base for candles, stones, or small botanical objects arranged on top. Its green is one of the most vivid greens available in December, and it brings something ancient and specific to any arrangement.

The holiday home decorated with real botanical materials smells correct — like fir and bay and orange peel and beeswax — in a way that no purchased decoration can replicate. It also changes through the season: the fresh arrangements dry gradually, the citrus deepens in color, the fir needles drop eventually and leave a dry, resinous carpet on the mantel. None of this is a failure. It is the material participating in time, which is all winter decoration has ever been asked to do.

Permalink

Eggnog made from scratch is a different object entirely from the carton in the refrigerated aisle — thicker, more complex, with a richness that comes from real ingredients treated with care. This version starts with a coconut cream and cashew base that produces a genuinely luxurious result, spiced with nutmeg that has been freshly grated rather than bought pre-ground, which makes more difference than seems reasonable. Bourbon or dark rum added at the end is the classic choice and the right one. If you eat eggs and dairy, the traditional version is noted in the ingredients.

Serves 6–8   ·   20 minutes plus 2 hours chilling

INGREDIENTS

• — Plant-based version —

• 400ml (1 can) full-fat coconut cream, refrigerated overnight

• 150g (1 cup) raw cashews, soaked 4 hours and drained

• 480ml (2 cups) oat milk or other plant-based milk

• 3 tablespoons maple syrup or raw honey

• 1½ teaspoons pure vanilla extract

• 1 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg, plus more for serving

• ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

• Pinch of fine salt

• 120–180ml (4–6 oz) good bourbon or dark rum, to taste — optional

• — Traditional dairy version —

• 4 large eggs, separated

• 100g (½ cup) sugar, divided

• 480ml (2 cups) whole milk

• 240ml (1 cup) heavy cream

• Same spices and optional spirit as above

METHOD

1.  For the plant-based version: open the refrigerated coconut cream and scoop the solidified cream from the top into a blender, reserving the liquid for another use. Add the drained cashews, oat milk, maple syrup, vanilla, nutmeg, cinnamon, and salt.

2.  Blend on high for 2 full minutes until completely smooth. The mixture should be thick, creamy, and have no visible cashew texture. Taste and adjust sweetness and spice.

3.  Refrigerate for at least 2 hours until thoroughly cold and slightly thickened. Stir in the bourbon or rum just before serving, if using.

4.  For the traditional dairy version: whisk the egg yolks with half the sugar until pale and thick. Warm the milk gently in a saucepan, then gradually whisk it into the yolk mixture. Return to the pan and cook over low heat, stirring constantly, until the mixture thickens enough to coat a spoon. Cool completely. In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites to soft peaks with the remaining sugar, then beat the cream to soft peaks in another bowl. Fold both into the cooled custard base. Add spices and spirit. Refrigerate until cold.

5.  Serve in small glasses or cups with a generous grating of fresh nutmeg over each. December is the one month of the year when the nutmeg grater earns its keep.

Permalink

Shortbread is the cookie that requires almost nothing and forgives almost everything, which makes it the right thing to bake in December when everything else is demanding more of you than it should. The cardamom here is not a subtle presence — it is the point, warm and floral and slightly citrusy, the spice that makes this shortbread taste specifically like December. Brown the butter first. It takes five extra minutes and changes the cookie entirely.

Serves Makes about 30 cookies   ·   45 minutes plus 1 hour chilling

INGREDIENTS

• 230g (1 cup) vegan butter (Miyoko's cultured vegan butter works magnificently here)

• 100g (½ cup) powdered sugar, sifted

• 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

• 1½ teaspoons ground cardamom

• ¼ teaspoon fine salt

• 240g (2 cups) all-purpose flour

• Flaky sea salt, for finishing

• Optional: substitute unsalted dairy butter; the browned milk solids will give slightly more depth of flavor

METHOD

1.  Brown the butter: melt the vegan butter in a light-colored saucepan over medium heat, swirling occasionally, until it foams and then the foam subsides and the solids turn deep golden and smell deeply nutty — 5 to 7 minutes. Pour immediately into a large bowl and refrigerate until solid but not hard, about 30 minutes. It should be the consistency of softened butter.

2.  Beat the cooled brown butter and powdered sugar together with a wooden spoon or spatula until smooth and combined — about 2 minutes. Add the vanilla, cardamom, and fine salt and mix well.

3.  Add the flour all at once and mix until the dough just comes together. It will seem crumbly at first and then suddenly cohesive. Don't overmix.

4.  Turn the dough onto a piece of parchment or plastic wrap, shape into a log about 5cm / 2 inches in diameter, wrap tightly, and refrigerate for at least 1 hour. The dough can be made up to three days ahead and refrigerated, or frozen for up to a month.

5.  Preheat the oven to 325°F / 165°C. Line two baking sheets with parchment.

6.  Slice the chilled log into rounds about 8mm / ⅓ inch thick. Place on the prepared sheets with a little space between them — they don't spread much. Sprinkle each with a pinch of flaky sea salt.

7.  Bake for 14–16 minutes until the edges are just beginning to color and the tops look set and matte. They firm up considerably as they cool, so don't wait for them to look done in the oven. Cool completely on the pan. Store in an airtight tin — they keep for ten days and are extraordinary as a gift.

Permalink

There is a version of gratitude that has been thoroughly domesticated by wellness culture — the three things you're grateful for in the morning journal, the gratitude meditation, the practice of thankfulness as a trackable daily metric. None of this is without value, and the research on deliberate gratitude practice is genuinely interesting: people who cultivate the habit of noticing and naming what is good do report higher baseline wellbeing over time. But something gets lost in the industrialization of the practice, something that the original impulse behind gratitude knows and that the morning-journal version has largely forgotten.

The thing that gets lost is specificity. The gratitude that actually changes how you experience your life is not the gratitude for health, family, and a roof over your head — the stock answers that appear in every gratitude list because they are real and important and also so general as to be almost inert. It is the gratitude for the specific: for the particular quality of November light at four in the afternoon, which is unlike any other light of the year. For the way the kitchen smells when beans are braising and rosemary is in the oil. For a specific conversation with a specific person that shifted something. For the dog asleep on the rug. For the fact that the leeks are still in the garden and will be better after a frost.

These specificities are not small. They are, in fact, the actual texture of a life — the accumulation of particular moments that constitute what it meant to be alive in this place in this November. Gratitude that is calibrated to this level of specificity does something that the general version doesn't: it makes the present moment more vivid and more genuinely valued, not as an abstract gift but as the specific, irrepeatable, already-passing thing it is.

The performance problem is different. November brings with it, in many families and communities, an expectation of expressed gratitude — the Thanksgiving tradition of going around the table, the social media posts about being thankful, the seasonal insistence on positivity that can feel, to anyone having a complicated autumn, like a requirement to perform a feeling you are not entirely having. The performance of gratitude and the practice of gratitude are not the same thing and can in fact work against each other, because the performance requires the feeling to be presentable in a way that the actual practice doesn't.

The actual practice of gratitude — meaning the quiet, private act of noticing what is good and letting yourself feel it, without reporting it or optimizing it or turning it into a habit to be tracked — is available in November regardless of how the year has gone. It doesn't require the year to have been good, or the month to be easy, or the gathering to be uncomplicated. It requires only the willingness to look, carefully and specifically, at what is actually here — in the kitchen, in the garden, at the table, in the faces of the people present — and to let that looking be enough.

That is the practice. It fits in a moment. It doesn't always need a journal.

Permalink

The Thanksgiving table has a visual culture so thoroughly established that it is possible to predict, with reasonable accuracy, what the table at any given gathering will look like before you arrive: the orange and rust color palette, the burlap runner, the mini pumpkins placed at intervals, the cluster of pillar candles in the center, the name cards written in a calligraphy font that took four hours to perfect. All of it assembled with genuine effort and real love, and all of it looking, somehow, less like an expression of the specific family around it than like a mood board made real.

The Thanksgiving table that actually resonates — that people remember, that feels right for the particular place and the particular people in it — doesn't come from a template. It comes from looking at what you actually own, what the garden or the farmers market or the woods near your house is offering in the third week of November, and what this table has always been, and building from there rather than from a set of objects chosen to match an idea of what the table should look like.

The most beautiful Thanksgiving tables we've encountered have almost always had a few things in common, none of which involve burlap or matching chargers. They've had real light — candles in multiples, placed low enough that people can see each other across the table, burning from before the guests arrive so the room is already warm with it when the first person walks in. They've had something from outside — branches, foliage, herbs, fruit — arranged without fussiness in whatever vessel seemed right. They've had good linen, not necessarily matching, sometimes a mix of tablecloth and runner, napkins that have been used enough times to be soft and slightly irregular. They've felt inhabited rather than installed.

The centerpiece question is where most people exhaust themselves, and it is, of the decisions to be made, among the least consequential. Guests look at the centerpiece for the first five minutes and then look at each other for the remaining four hours. What matters about the center of the table is that it doesn't obstruct conversation — nothing so tall that people are talking around it — and that it contributes something atmospheric rather than demanding attention. A long, low arrangement of foliage and a few last garden roses, or persimmons and walnuts in a shallow wooden bowl, or a scatter of pillar candles in different heights with a few branches of berries laid between them — all of these do the work without performing it.

The place setting is worth the attention that the centerpiece steals. The specific alignment of the fork, the way the napkin is folded or simply laid, the choice of glassware — these are what each individual person at the table actually sees and touches and uses for hours, and they accumulate into the experience of being at that table in a way that the centerpiece doesn't. A napkin tied simply with a piece of twine and a sprig of rosemary, placed on a well-chosen plate, is more memorable than an elaborate centerpiece because it is personal in scale. It was made for the person sitting there.

The aspiration, if there is one for the Thanksgiving table, is not a table that looks like anywhere else. It's a table that looks like here — like this house, this family, this late November, these particular people gathered for this particular meal. That table cannot be found on Pinterest, which is precisely what makes it worth setting.

Permalink

November is the month when the garden makes its most counterintuitive demand: that you find it beautiful. Not in spite of what it's lost but because of it, because the stripping-back that autumn performs reveals a structure and a character that the lushness of summer conceals. The bones of the garden, as experienced plantspeople always say. November shows you what they meant.

The bones are the permanent and semi-permanent elements — the hedges and the trees, the arching stems of winter-fruiting shrubs, the silhouette of an ornamental grass against a pale sky, the path materials and the walls and the way the garden is divided and ordered. A garden with beautiful bones looks extraordinary in November in the way that a garden without them never quite does, regardless of how spectacular its June border may be. November is, in this sense, the honest month: it shows you what the garden actually is when the flowers aren't carrying it.

In the Northern Hemisphere, November is the time to look at the garden with winter eyes and make notes about what's missing. Where is the garden uninteresting right now? Where is there no structure, no bark color, no berry, no seed head, nothing that catches the low light or holds the eye? These are the gaps to address, and addressing them means planting for winter interest rather than summer flower — a different category entirely, and a less crowded one.

The plants that earn their place specifically in November and the months that follow are worth knowing well. Cornus alba and Cornus sanguinea — the ornamental dogwoods — are grown almost entirely for the vivid red, orange, or yellow stems that glow against grey November skies; cut them hard in early spring and they produce the most brilliant young stems the following winter. Betula (birch) trees offer peeling white or copper-colored bark that is most visible once the leaves have fallen. Hamamelis (witch hazel) begins to open its spidery, frost-hardy flowers in November and continues through February — the scent, faintly sweet and spicy, is one of the winter garden's true gifts. Sarcococca (sweet box), a small evergreen shrub with tiny white flowers that appear in November and December, produces a fragrance disproportionate to its size, sweet and vanilla-like, that drifts on cold air in a way that feels almost impossible.

For the kitchen garden in November: in Zones 6 through 9, hardy greens — kale, chard, spinach, arugula, mâche — continue producing through the month and often into December under a layer of horticultural fleece or a simple cloche. These are the greens of genuine cold-weather flavor — kale and chard that have been touched by frost have a sweetness that their summer counterparts don't, because the plant converts starches to sugars as a form of antifreeze. November kale is better than July kale. This is not negotiable.

Root vegetables still in the ground in November — parsnips, carrots, celeriac, leeks — are similarly at their best after the first frosts, which do the same starch-to-sugar conversion in the root that they do in the leaf. Leave them in the ground until you need them if your soil doesn't freeze solid; the earth is the best storage available and the flavor improves as the weeks pass.

The other November garden practice worth establishing is the records habit: spending twenty minutes at the end of the season writing down what grew well, what failed, what surprised you, what you wish you'd planted more of and what you'd leave out next time. These notes, kept in a simple notebook or even a notes app with dated entries, are the accumulated wisdom of the gardener's own garden specifically — not generalizable to anyone else's garden, and more useful than any book or website because they're yours. The garden forgets everything between seasons. You have to remember for it.

Permalink

Not the sachet kind, not the kind that uses the cheapest bottle available, not the kind that boils until everything interesting has evaporated. Proper mulled wine is a specific thing: a red wine with enough body to carry warm spices, heated gently to just below a simmer, sweetened with restraint, and served in a thick-walled glass while still steaming. It takes twenty minutes and is one of the most deeply satisfying drinks of the year. Use a wine you would actually drink cold — the spices enhance rather than rescue.

Serves 6–8   ·   25 minutes

INGREDIENTS

• 1 bottle (750ml) full-bodied red wine — Malbec, Zinfandel, Grenache, or a rustic Italian red

• 250ml (1 cup) fresh-pressed apple juice or cranberry juice

• 3 cinnamon sticks

• 8 whole cloves

• 4 star anise

• 6 cardamom pods, lightly crushed

• 1 vanilla bean, split, or 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

• 1 large orange, sliced into rounds

• 1 lemon, zest peeled in strips

• 3–4 tablespoons raw honey or maple syrup, to taste

• 60ml (2 oz) brandy or aged rum, optional

• Fresh orange slices and cinnamon sticks, to garnish

METHOD

1.  Combine the wine, apple or cranberry juice, all the spices, orange slices, and lemon zest in a large saucepan. Heat over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until steaming and deeply fragrant — about 15 minutes. The surface should tremble, never bubble. A boiling mulled wine is a ruined mulled wine.

2.  Taste and add honey or maple syrup one tablespoon at a time, stirring until dissolved. The sweetness should balance the wine's tannins and the spice's warmth without making the drink sugary.

3.  If adding brandy or rum, stir it in off the heat to preserve the alcohol and the spirit's aromatic character.

4.  Strain through a fine-mesh sieve into a heatproof pitcher or ladle directly from the pot into thick-walled glasses or mugs. Garnish each with a fresh orange slice and a cinnamon stick. The glasses should be warm — rinse them with hot water first if they've been sitting in a cold kitchen.

Permalink

This is the Tuscan tradition in its most honest form — beans cooked slowly with good olive oil, dark greens, and rosemary until they become something rich and deeply satisfying. It is the kind of dish that requires almost nothing and produces something that tastes like it required everything. Fully plant-based as written. If you eat meat, a parmesan rind added to the braise or pancetta rendered at the start are both magnificent additions that don't change the fundamental nature of the dish.

Serves 4–6   ·   1 hour 15 minutes (or 30 minutes with canned beans)

INGREDIENTS

• 500g (2½ cups) dried cannellini or borlotti beans, soaked overnight and drained — or 3 cans (400g / 15oz each), drained and rinsed

• 120ml (½ cup) very good extra virgin olive oil, plus more for finishing

• 6 cloves garlic, thinly sliced

• 3 sprigs fresh rosemary

• 1 dried chili or a generous pinch of chili flakes

• 1 large bunch cavolo nero (Tuscan kale), about 400g / 14oz, stems removed, leaves roughly torn

• 500ml (2 cups) good vegetable stock or water

• Zest and juice of half a lemon

• Kosher salt and freshly cracked black pepper

• To serve: thick slices of grilled or toasted sourdough, more olive oil

• Optional: a parmesan rind added to the braise; 100g pancetta, diced and rendered before the garlic

METHOD

1.  If using dried beans: drain the soaked beans and cover generously with fresh cold water in a large pot. Bring to a boil, skim any foam, then simmer for 45–60 minutes until just tender but not mushy. Salt the water generously in the last 10 minutes of cooking — salting earlier toughens the skins. Drain, reserving the cooking liquid.

2.  Heat the olive oil in a wide, heavy pot or Dutch oven over medium-low heat. Add the sliced garlic, rosemary sprigs, and dried chili. Cook very gently, stirring occasionally, for 8–10 minutes — the garlic should turn pale gold and fragrant but never brown. This slow-cooked garlic is the foundation of the entire dish.

3.  Add the torn cavolo nero leaves to the pot in handfuls — they will seem like too much but will wilt down dramatically. Stir to coat in the oil and cook for 5 minutes until wilted and beginning to turn tender.

4.  Add the drained beans and the stock or water (use bean cooking liquid if you have it — it adds body and flavor). If using a parmesan rind, add it now. Bring to a gentle simmer and cook uncovered for 20–25 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the liquid has reduced and thickened and the beans are completely tender. The texture should be somewhere between a thick soup and a stew — creamy and self-saucing.

5.  Remove the rosemary sprigs and parmesan rind if used. Stir in the lemon zest and juice. Taste and season generously with salt and plenty of cracked black pepper.

6.  Serve in deep bowls over or alongside thick slices of grilled sourdough, with a genuinely generous pour of your best olive oil over each bowl. This dish lives or dies on the quality of the olive oil.

Permalink