A SLOW START
On wintering, bravery, resolutions, and soup (plus my favorite things to watch, read and learn in January)
To cross the ocean, you must first have the courage to lose sight of the shore.
- André Gide
Hello Friends!
Happy New Year. There’s an unspoken rule that you’re not supposed to wish people Happy New Year after a certain date; like white pants after Labor Day, I don’t abide.
I hope this letter finds you on the other side of a deeply restful holiday! I had intended to write you the first post of the new year on January 1, a bonus recipe to bake with your beloveds in your last moments of togetherness. But when I sat down and opened my inbox, I found it so flooded with notes, resolution posts, and New Year’s sales that my head was immediately spinning.
We do not have to do this, my heart told me. We do not have to start the year with hustle.
So here we are, day ten.
Day ten of the New Year feels like a perfect day to say Thank you! Thank you, dear readers, for being here! To my first readers: thank you for your loyalty and devotion—for coming back for over two years and sharing my work with the people you love. To my paying subscribers: thank you for your pledge of support. It may seem small, but it is enormously meaningful to my family and me. And to all my readers: thank you for choosing me — for your time, comments, and generosity in allowing me into your inbox each week to commune and share time. I know there is a lot of noise out there, and it is deeply significant that you choose to tap into this small shared world with me each week.
On that first day of 2024, I closed this letter and let the days pass—a slow entry, processing the ebb and flow. There was the joy of the fulfilling holiday with my family, deep in love and nourishment, long stretches talking over big meals and legs draped over one another fireside in giant cousin piles (it was hard to leave). The relief of the long drive back to New York and our beds and routine, where we make the rules. The thrill of a New Year’s Eve party (we hosted) so simple and satisfying I was floating for days.
On the first days of the new year, I whistled through party cleanup, nibbling leftover cheeses, slivers of bundt cake, and piles of popcorn as the Christmas music played on. As with every new year, it’s instinctive to declare: This is my year! I love the brisk air and the promise of snow. I’m clear-headed and ambitious. I will finish my new book proposal in the first week! I will get enormously fit!
But then reality hits; the sun slips behind the clouds, my husband returns to the city, and the children return to school, leaving me alone in a house without people—or merriment.
Winter, for me, comes with extreme bursts of energy and joy, often followed by deep and necessary dormancy. It is fresh fallen snow and clean slates— a long ski day followed by a fireside dinner with friends. It is the season of saunas, puzzles, and big pots of soup—the first big winter hike crunching through powder and your children making angels in the snow.
But it is also the season of hiccups. The second snowfall that takes all day to plow out of, kids with runny noses, and—as happened just minutes ago—emails from the school reporting an early release for freezing rain (didn’t they just go back!?).
The hiccups can get to me. I wish I could say I am above them, totally zen—Yoda. But I am merely human, so maybe winter is not the best time to ace a 30-day healthy eating streak or renew my decade-long goal to master French.
Humans would not be humans if we didn’t try to usurp the hiccups: Last night, I made a salad of massaged kale, shaved apples, and celery—with a garlicky, mustardy vinaigrette with equal parts preserved lemon liquid and olive oil that we all wanted to drink. It was bracing and refreshing—our next new beginning. But we overshot bedtime by a landslide and woke up with a headache. The cycle begins again.
Many wise people have declared that winter isn’t the best time for making resolutions. If we follow the rhythms of nature, winter is for hibernation. A quieting. A retreat from people and places, from all activity (there are beautiful books and newsletters related to this topic if you need support for this kind of wintering).
I’m not one for hibernation—but maybe a better idea for some of us is to start slow. This morning, I texted a dear friend to join me for an early snow walk. She does not have little people living in her home yet, so she can often sleep later than me; when I got no response, I was tempted to sit it out.
Go Anyway. The still, small voice inside me said. Keep moving. Slow, steady steps through 10 inches of snow. Put on the podcast. Come home. Stretch. Make tea. Write.
Up top, I include a quote I saw on the wall of my daughter’s Jr. High school just this weekend (cliche, sure–but maybe we can get inspired in a middle school bathroom at any age). The exact quote is: “You can never cross the ocean until you have the courage to lose sight of the shore,” which mirrors Christopher Columbus's words from eons before. I like this version even better—my 2024 rewrite, which I will post on my office wall:
'You can’t cross the ocean until you dare to lose sight of the shore.'
The truth is, I’ve been wanting to cross an ocean for several years, but I haven’t been brave enough to let go of what I’ve always known. It isn’t the time to push off yet, but I know deep inside me that a journey is near.
Maybe winter is not the best time for making resolutions, nor for total hibernation, either. What if, instead, we see winter as an offering—a lovely window for nourishing us all for our What’s Next?
Whatever winter is for any of us, I’m setting an intention that here in this space, it will be a season of delicious, soulful preparation—even if we don’t know for exactly what yet. I am committed to loving my people and everyone I come in contact with well, including all of you, even in some small way. And when that solstice hits in the spring, maybe I—and perhaps you—will be ready to push off.
I’m leaving you with some recipes, movies, books, and podcasts ripe for wintering below. But first, some housekeeping:
In 2024, my third year on Substack, the pacing of my newsletter will change slightly. I have sent over 110 letters—about one per week for two years. Over 70% of my newsletters are accessible to all readers (aka, free) when they go out (they automatically go behind a paywall in the archive after six months). These letters require lots of work, writing, and research, and when recipes are involved, they require recipe ideation, testing, and photography—all costly endeavors (As they say, cheap journalism isn’t good, and good journalism isn’t cheap!)
To show my paid subscribers/supporters how much value your pledge has and to recoup the investment in my time moving forward, there will be a clearer line between paid and free subscription tiers this year. So, as you’re considering where to put your dollars and whether to renew your subscription, here’s what this year will look like:
PAID SUBSCRIBERS
For less than the cost of a latte each week, paid subscribers get ALL THE EXTRAS: insider access to me and two decades of culinary knowledge, advance notice on events and classes, plus all my content, articles, recipes, and more. Paid subscribers receive:
+ One extra article each month
+ Full access to all curated travel guides
+ Full access to all recipes, and recipe archives
+ Full access to all Q + As, workshops, and advance notice on events
+ Subscriber only discount codes for 1:1 calls with me
+ Subscriber only sales on custom tabletop products from our workshop
Paid subscribers get a deeply personal experience, plus tons of goodies I don’t share anywhere else. It’s a conversation that I hope feels like a nourishing visit to my kitchen table each week.
FREE SUBSCRIBERS
Free subscribers will get an article from me 2 x each month to enjoy at your own pace. You also get previews on paid subscriber posts (recipes, travelogues, and essays), so you can upgrade anytime.
If you’re able, this is a perfect time to upgrade to support my work. I’m offering a one-time only 30% discount for anyone who wants to pledge their support today for the year, a discount I won’t be able to offer again until next year.
I’ll follow up soon with a recipe post I think you will love—one that’s prime for nourishing in all ways. But first, I wanted to give you all a moment to join in what I know will be a rich year full of inspiring conversations, recipes, and insider travel guides to parts of Europe and the Hudson Valley you might not find elsewhere.
In the meantime, below are my favorites for January wayfinding: the books, movies, and meals that inspire both nourishing and fire-lighting for me, year after year—including stories of individuals committed to loving hard into their people, their missions, and their wonder for life.
My kids’ arrival home from school is imminent. I warm a bowl of polenta and sprinkle it with Parmesan, scoop a portion of kimchi into my favorite small bowl, and light the advent candles one more time—just for me.
This will be our year, we say. And why not?
Xx
Sarah
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8 DELICIOUS WINTER SOUPS:
Creamy Cauliflower Soup with Crispy Chickpeas
White Bean Soup with Croutons and Kale Pesto (from
)Spicy Squash Soup with Dill, Radish and Avocado
7 INSPIRING NEW YEAR’S READS:
Untamed by Glennon Doyle
The Way of Integrity by Martha Beck
Big Magic by
12 MOTIVATING MOVIES/DOCUMENTARIES:
4 DEEP DIVE SKILLS TO LEARN:
Photos by Christopher Testani and Harrison Lubin. Styling by Sarah Copeland.
Wintering. This fills me with warmth. I’ve always been a believer that winter is for rest, so that when the solstice comes in March, I am rejuvenated and ready to set sail. xo
yes yes yes to a year of "why nots"! xo