By November, and the Thanksgiving preparations begin with the particular intensity of a woman who is cooking for three but cooking for the tradition, and the tradition requires the full menu regardless of the number, because the number is not the point. The point is the food. The point is the covenant.
James will come. Elise will come. Carrie will not — Fukuoka is too far for a four-day weekend, and the distance is the first Thanksgiving distance, the first holiday where Carrie's absence is not a pandemic restriction but a life choice, and the life choice is Japan, and Japan does not celebrate Thanksgiving, and the not-celebrating is the distance made cultural.
I received a fourth rejection. And then, on Wednesday, I received a phone call. A phone call, not a letter, not an email, but a phone call from an editor at a small press in Charleston — Lowcountry Press, a publisher I had submitted to three weeks ago — who said: "I read your manuscript on the plane to Atlanta. I couldn't stop reading. I want to talk."
I want to talk. Four words. The four words that change a manuscript into a book, a writer into an author, a dream into a plan. I want to talk. I sat at the desk and I held the phone and I said, "I'd love to talk," and the voice was steady, and the steadiness was the practice — the twenty-nine years of library meetings and budget presentations and professional composure that did not prepare me for this but that gave me the tools to appear prepared.
I have not told anyone yet. Not Robert. Not Carrie. Not James. The not-telling is the savoring — the private moment between the phone call and the world, the moment where the dream is still just mine, before it becomes shared, before it becomes real. The moment is the kitchen at midnight, the woman standing alone with a phone in her hand and a manuscript on the desk and the possibility that the book about her mother's cooking might actually exist in the world.
I made Mama's she-crab soup. I made it at midnight, alone, standing at the stove, and I wept while I stirred, and the weeping was the joy.
After I wiped my eyes and set the soup pot to simmer, I needed something to hold — something warm between my palms while I stood at the counter and let the phone call settle into my bones. I made this spiced apple tea the way Mama would have, slow and fragrant, the cinnamon and cloves filling the kitchen with the smell of every November I’ve ever known. It is the kind of drink you make when the joy is too large to sleep through and too precious to share just yet.
Spiced Apple Tea
Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 15 minutes | Total Time: 20 minutes | Servings: 4
Ingredients
- 4 cups water
- 2 cups apple cider
- 2 black tea bags
- 2 cinnamon sticks
- 4 whole cloves
- 2 whole allspice berries
- 1 star anise
- 2 tablespoons honey
- 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
- Thin apple slices, for garnish
Instructions
- Heat the cider mixture. In a medium saucepan, combine the water, apple cider, cinnamon sticks, cloves, allspice berries, and star anise. Bring to a gentle boil over medium heat, then reduce to a simmer for 10 minutes to let the spices bloom.
- Steep the tea. Remove the saucepan from heat and add the tea bags. Let steep for 3 to 5 minutes, depending on how strong you like your tea.
- Strain and sweeten. Remove the tea bags and strain the liquid through a fine-mesh sieve to catch the whole spices. Stir in the honey and lemon juice until the honey dissolves.
- Serve warm. Pour into mugs and garnish each with a thin apple slice and a cinnamon stick if desired. Serve immediately.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 90 | Protein: 0g | Fat: 0g | Carbs: 23g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 10mg