It is not difficult to wax poetic about the harvest of 2023.

Here at Musea in Sonoma, we often need to take a moment to pause to realize the incredible offerings of these people and this place. The harvest is in! All the fruit has been picked. The wine is fermenting. The pickles have been pickled and the canning jars, I am happy to report are complete. It was a rather hot and steamy canning session this year.

Rituals abound here @ Musea. Beauty is never far away.

Rituals. Rituals and invocations, and a simple noticing of relationship with earth, plants, and sky. A place and a people. So many things, so many intricacies to notice and tend to. One of the most joyous things that we have at our intentional table is an acknowledgment of this land that we steward. With gentle care, it yields flowers, oranges, lemons, pluots, apricots, plums, pears, and walnuts, as well as beautiful, full, ripe grapes. All of these things give generously, abundantly, and frequently to us. What a gift of life, this place.

The red iron oxide, present from the beginning of this planet, is infused into our very blood and equally obvious in the crimson leaves as they turn. They are respecting that which is theirs to do. To grow, to yield, and then to decay, only to be transfigured and reformed into tiny shoots of probability when the sun returns.

What does it really mean to harvest? Does it mean simply to gather in that what you have sewed? Or is it a larger concept? At the Intentional Table, harvest is not about being rewarded for the effort, because sometimes no effort is required. It's truly a gift. It's an artifact of sacred reciprocity between stewards and stewarded. Its tempo and measure are in balance with our commitment to notice, act, and respect. My father once told me that "in order to master nature, you must agree to be mastered by it. This is the how in the lands of McCloud, currently under our care and tender hands, that we proceed with our life.

Will you tear the bread with your hands? Do you taste the hand-churned butter? The salt of the breadmaker's sweat?

There is an old joke that I learned when I lived in the Philippines. They have a sort of national bread that they call Pan de sal. Which simply means bread with salt. But the joke is when you ask, "Why is this bread so delicious?" the answer is always "Pawis ng pandecero", which translates as 'the sweat of the bread maker'. This takes on greater meaning when you realize that there, in the small hours of the day, the long rolls of bread are slapped across the back and shoulders of the cooks, to stretch the dough and activate the gluten. Yes, right across their naked backs. I have seen it myself on a night walk through the village.

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Our abundant harvest, 'abbondanza' in Italian, gives us so many of the things that we will need to survive the winter, remaining in relationship with the land until the spring promises repetition of revelry in the spring.

There is so much more to this harvest and food. It's also about collecting in of energy. Not really a retraction or retreat, but more like a maturation. It's a rite of passage or a completing ritual, and no one knows how to do a ritual better than my wife.

You may ask yourself, "does she dress this way every day?" Well, yes, pretty much every day. The muse is a restless soul.

In the same way that I share these thoughts with you, I also feel your energy and you sharing your thoughts with me. I'd be lovely if you could leave a comment, words, or thoughts. Perhaps a small poem in the comments. What is it that harvest means to you? Well, there are plenty of jars of marinara sauce, relish, chowchow, and herbs and spices put up here at Musea. Perhaps you'd like to come by and sit for a while and enjoy a glass of wine. I will put on some pan de sal!

Chef foraging at Wild Water Creek, lands of the Miwok, stewarded by McClouds

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