The Daily: 5 January 2026

Well, we’ve made it through another Midwinter holiday season. Tonight is Twelfth Night, the last night of Christmas and the long night before Epiphany, the festival of the Wise Men. This is the night when all the drummers show up, along with a veritable cacophony of birds; a party of lords, ladies and colorful others; and quite a few cows. I’m not sure I would be favorably impressed if an admirer sent me the list of things from that carol. There might be restraining orders by New Year’s Day.

Victorians did have odd predilections. Still… thirty lords a’leaping would be awkward no matter your tastes. Never mind all those swans and whatever they were swimming in.

Now twelve pear trees, with or without partridges, that might draw my favor.

I’m thinking about pear trees and other orchard-y things because I’ve decided that 2026 is the year that I address the jungle. I am unwilling to risk another summer of meningitis, probably would not survive it, actually. My aim this year is to eliminate breeding grounds, and this probably requires the taming of the jungle. I’ve talked it over with my neighbors, and it turns out that the covenant in my land title that requires leaving trees to screen the rather bleak backside of Main Street was only set in place to keep some future nutcase from selling and developing that quarter acre. (Not that I could see how that could happen, as vertical as the slope is, but then I’m not nearly as imaginative as an average developer…) So I have full blessing on cutting out what is not promoting health… and I can expand my orchard planting.

I would not benefit much from these newly planted trees because I won’t live long enough to see them come into full maturity. But someone undoubtedly will. A fruit tree planted today is the most beautiful gift we can give to the future. And in this case, it is a gift to myself as well, because it won’t be a scary mess over there, filled with pests and toxic thorns and the ever-present threat of limbs falling on the power lines at the bottom of the lot. Instead, in a few years, there will be flowering apples and peaches and pears under the few maples and butternuts that I choose to leave. I will also plant more hazelnuts and viburnums for the birds and wee beasties, though removing the blackthorn thickets will reduce cover for the groundhogs. So there will be less hogging in the veg garden. Now, I don’t know if my plan will be quite as much of a gift to the trees, but I can’t help but think that getting the brush out of there would make the remaining trees much happier. Further, I plan on dropping the dead wood that is mostly leaning on living trees and letting it rot in hugelkultur mounds, returning the nutrients to the soil. And everyone benefits from that.

But I’m also thinking about the orchard because this is the traditional day to go out and wassail your prize trees. We tend to think that the wassail bowl was made for humans — because isn’t everything about us? But the fact that it is a bowl, not a cup or mug, and usually one of gigantic proportions, should be a clue that maybe we’re not meant to be drinking from it. We can wish each other “good health” (wassail means “wæs hail“, “be in good health” or “be fortunate”) and raise a glass of cider (hard or not), but we’re not likely to want to share a communal vat.

The bowl is more of a libation vessel. People dipped their mugs into the bowl, but a good deal of it was poured out on the roots of the oldest or most productive fruit tree in the lord’s orchard. (And it almost always was a lord’s orchard. There weren’t many productive communal fruit plantations like I hope to build out of my jungle.) Usually there was a caroling parade to the manor house with many stops along the way. It was not uncommon to need to refill the bowl many times on the way to its final destination, so each house had their own wassail, warming on the hearth. What might have started out as a bowl of lamb’s wool might transform into mulled wine before the end of the night, with many admixtures of family favorite recipes along the way. I imagine the parade was rather high spirited by the time they rang the manor bell.

Perhaps because of this commotion, the lords tired of the tradition because the custom seems to have died out in the 18th century — or it could be that Enclosure meant that folks just weren’t inclined to toast an orchard that they neither owned nor worked. In any case, by the early 19th century, where there was still wassailing, it had turned into a farmhand drinking party with a great deal of noise and manly stomping about. The “libation” was guns fired into the branches more often than not.

I’ve never poured wassail on my fruit trees. I’ve a feeling that would draw ants even in the dead of winter. But I do take a glass of warmed cider or mulled wine out to my trees and drink a toast on Twelfth Night. I doubt the tree cares much, but it’s a lovely way to say a quiet thank you for the harvest and to wish for good fortune in the coming year.

Plus, there is always something interesting happening in the night skies in early January. Stars, snow, moon, meteorites. Sometimes I forget why I went out there.

The Victorians discovered wassailing and deemed it compellingly quaint. However, they don’t seem to have had very clear ideas on what it was. Like they did with many traditions from former times, they refashioned the entire thing into a children’s party. The wassail became submerged into a night of games and presents and perhaps literal tons of sugar. There may have been small amounts of alcohol in that bowl, but it wasn’t the grog of yesteryear. There was also no longer a parade to the orchard. The parties were contained in the parlor. There may have been mummers to entertain the crowd, but there was no caroling door to door through the whole town. By Victorian times, “town” was no longer a safe place where everyone knew everyone. For that matter, town was no longer a place with orchards.

So Twelfth Night has come down to us with all sorts of blended and confused traditions. The good thing about that is that you can pick your favorite bits out of the stew pot and just leave what you don’t like. In past years, I’ve put out knitted socks for la Befana and spent a quiet evening reading to my kids. I’ve gone to theatre and musical performances. I’ve hosted and attended various Twelfth Night parties, from all-adult (nominally) to all-munchkins. But even when that hoopla is going on I try to slip out into the night.

These days I lean toward chamomile-lavender tea, but the intent is still a warm salud to tree and stars and a good harvest. Tonight, I might take a pass on going all the way out to the pear trees. I’d need to hack a path through the ice and snow, and I’ve just had enough of that. Plus, it’s still deathly cold, well below 0°F, the kind of cold that sinks into your bones instantly and takes hours to banish. And this is a work-night, no time for shivers. So I’ll wish my young orchard trees a jolly wassail from the porch, or perhaps from the front window.

And when winter becomes a bit less ferocious, I’ll get the chain saw out of the garage and start dropping the dead wood and preparing the ground for more trees. An orchard for the future.

Twelfth Night is also the traditional night to take down all the Yule decorations. I’m not sure how this works, actually. If you celebrate this night as 12th Night, then you will want Yuletide sparkle about. For the kiddies who are expecting a visit from Grandfather Frost, La Befana or the Three Kings tonight, tomorrow is when presents miraculously arrive. And tomorrow is Epiphany, a festival of lights. If you put up a tree and hang it with lights, tomorrow is when it shines most brightly in the winter darkness.

Besides, tonight is a party, not time to clean…

Some people pack up the holidays before Boxing Day is over. There is a forlorn tree already abandoned by the trash bins out behind my house. The box stores have long since put away the clearance winter goods and have Valentine’s Day hearts strung where snowflakes and tinsel so lately hung. And it is considered extremely unlucky to leave up greens after 12th Night.

But I ignore all of that.

Well, I understand the greens. If you hung live evergreens on the mantle on St Andrew’s Day in preparation for Advent, those needles are a fire hazard now. Not that you have an open fire in your hearth, if there is a hearth at all. But I’ve seen dry fir needles start to smolder just hanging over the heating vent.

But I don’t hang evergreens where they will ignite. Most of my live greens are outdoors. And this year there is very little even of that because it is so expensive these days. (I have spent the last few weeks wondering if this is the last year I’m going to be able to afford newly bought decorations like light strands and garland…) So, there are no safety concerns in leaving up the lights. To the contrary, taking them down makes it so suddenly dark here in the evening that I’m liable to trip or bang my shins against the things I can’t see. For me, it’s more of a safety concern to box up Midwinter before the sun starts setting a little later. I’d prefer to leave them up until February when there is still twilight when I get home from work.

But I don’t do that either. I have a workable compromise. Shortly after Midwinter’s Eve, usually on the weekend afterwards, I will do a change-over, putting away the reds and golds and strictly December things and making everything winter white and silver, with green and blue accents. The lights stay up. The trees are still lit. There is still a wreath on the front door. But Christmas is over.

At some point after Epiphany, I will tire of the trees as well and take them down. But most of the lights will remain and more candles will come out for Candlemas. I often leave the wreath on the door until it’s time to hang up a Brigid’s Cross some time in late January. And I have some snow people in my back porch entryway. (I have a January birthday and people will give January babies snowmen, I’ve found… so I have an inadvertent collection.) These stay out as long as there is snow — or until I am sick of snow. (Which seems to be happening earlier and earlier as I get older… In fact, if it didn’t snow for the rest of the winter, I don’t think I’d mind this year… I’ve had it…)

I’m not the only Vermonter who lets the light of Midwinter linger. Most people who put up outdoor lights don’t take them down until it’s well and truly spring, don’t even turn them off until at least Valentine’s Day. The pretty house up the road from mine that has huge picture windows framing a beautiful tree strung with white lights will leave that tree in the window until March. There are running jokes about the red-bowed wreath that will hang on the door until its needles fall off. And there are gnomes and cardinals and other Yuletide-themed critters out all year long in many homes. (In fact, now that I think about it, my mom is the same way… though she doesn’t decorate with nearly the enthusiasm she showed when I was a kid.)

We’ve passed Midwinter. The sun is starting to shift, moving north after its long solstice pause. Today, day length is over nine hours again in Vermont. The last latest sunrise comes tomorrow, and sunset is nearly a luxurious 4:30pm. But we’re nowhere near done with the darkness, and I feel that our bodies need the extra light more in January than in December. We’re starting to wake up, starting to shake ourselves out of the lethargy. Hard to do when it’s full dark before dinner… So I don’t mind inviting a little bad luck by bucking tradition and leaving up the holiday décor well past 12th Night.

And as I said… tonight is a party. I have no intention of putting stuff away after work. And I doubt anyone else will be either. So…

Hál wes þú! And a bright Epiphany on the morrow! 

Lamb’s Wool for Wassailing

Here is my recipe for Lamb’s Wool. I don’t often make it these days, though I discovered an un-warmed version in a New Hampshire pub. They called it a Snake Bite and dispensed with the “wooly” bits, but it was still a bit too delicious for my own good. In any case, here’s the recipe I remember.

Ingredients

1 quart true ale (hoppy beer)
1 pint hard cider
4 large apples
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 tsp orange flower water (or 1/4 cup fresh orange juice)
a tea strainer or coffee-filter sachet filled with:
     2 tsp cinnamon
     1 tsp allspice
     1/2 tsp ginger
     1/4 tsp cloves

Instructions

Wash and core the apples, but don’t peel them.

Bake the apples in a 325°F oven for about 45 minutes until the fruit is very soft.

Let cool a bit then press the apples through a strainer or food mill, separating skin from pulp. Discard the skins.

Warm the ale and cider with the spices, orange and vanilla. Don’t boil the liquid as this burns off the alcohol and makes the mixture too bitter.

Fluff up the apple pulp to make it frothy (“wooly”) and add to the warmed liquid.

Serve immediately.

You may want to add sugar. I prefer mine a bit bitter.

You might also add a few apples of some small, tart variety — crabapples or cider apples are good. Remove the cores but leave the skin on. Float the fruit in the frothy pulp. This is mostly for visual effect, but the tart fruit will add to the flavor. I’ve also seen cored apple slices and sliced oranges still in their peels floated in the warm liquid. I tend to think that this is more work than necessary, but if you go in for presentation it makes a delectable wassail bowl.

©Elizabeth Anker 2026