Pot Liquor
A short story written on my 45 minute bus ride to work. I hope you enjoy.
~ Carma <3
The moone shone bright enough for the prey to come out in safety. Illuminated strikingly, it shone entirely, creating a cushion for those most vulnerable.
In the full moone, she kneeled at the alter ready to hold the properties it kindly offered. Incense with the smell of musk nudged the noses of her sleeping ancestors. Her photos of them on the mantle placed perfectly to enshrine whose attention she wished to hold. All of these are tools to communicate with those never seen and only felt, but none can break the barrier between the realm of the past and present.
That can only be done with a single elixir.
She prepared her witches brew in the days prior. The first she spent preparing. Snapping beans, washing greens, making clean.
The next day she let them stew. Melding many ingredients, offerings to the ancestors.
Swine serves as a symbol for mistaking human knowledge for spiritual correctness. Her forebears saw her humble incorporation and accepted her willingness to learn.
Onions and garlic. Sturdy roots forged only through the endurance of a cold winter. The longer the better. This informed her ancestors of her dedicated to the process of principle through hardship.
A selection of herbs and spices only she could concoct. A showcase of creativity and innovation, warmth and flavor. They would recognize her open heart, soul, and mind.
Red wine vinegar, her reminder to those before that in all of their experience, what is ripe can quickly turn sour. Even still she will use it in doses. Her discretion turns unnecessary pungency into just the right impact.
Lastly, a pinch of salt and a dash of sugar. Never one without the other. Her ancestors have taught her balance. What is sweetness without salt to extract it?
Once brewed to the ancestor’s approval they touch her shoulder. It is ready to consume. she basks in her enjoyment of the dish, digging up each savory scrap.
But she is not done…it is not until the next day when she pulls her pot from the fridge and strains the liquid gold of its leftover solid impurities, that she is left with the elixir.
For it is through this Pot Liquor, completely familiarized with itself through the cool congealing and reheating process, that she can yield the power of intention curated through the libation.
A tradition of care.
A tradition without waste.
A tradition of obtaining dense nutrients to prepare her for what is to come.
Ladled in a drinking apparatus, in that moment her novelty mug is a chalice. As she guzzles the liquid, streams overflow from either corner of her smile. She is transported to the sacred space in which her ancestors join her.
Her most recent ancestor reaches out for her hand, grabs it and says, “thank you darlin’, I knew you would come find us.”
Thank you so much for reading this. It is the first time I’ve ever seriously written a piece of fiction and I enjoyed it so much. It is deeply emotional and depict more than I could’ve in a non-fictive way. If you enjoyed it subscribe! Look out for paid pieces to come as well. x
A Tradition without WASTE. Sho nuff.