Fosgladh
Your hands smell like honey and rosemary. There's flour under your fingernails—ancient and ordinary as breathing. The pork roasts in the oven and the whole house fills with the smell of apples breaking down, sugar caramelizing, fat rendering into something golden.
This is the third day of Yule. The sun barely clears the horizon. You're still here. Your chosen family is coming over in three hours and you're making a feast for bodies that have survived things the darkness knows intimately. Trans bodies. Queer bodies. Bodies that have been told they're too much or not enough, that they're wrong at the root.
But here you are. Peeling parsnips. The knife in your hand is sharp and you're careful. You've earned your careful.
"At Midwinter, we feed the light that refuses to die."
— Celtic Druid teaching
This is about cooking, yes. But it's also about what happens when you claim the right to feast in a body they said shouldn't exist. When you season and baste and brown and serve sustenance to people who know what it means to be hungry for more than food.
What They Told Us About Holiday Meals
The Hallmark Version
The commercials show families—always the same configuration, always cisgender, always smiling with teeth too white to have ever bitten into something real. The table is perfect. Nobody's uncle says something that makes your stomach drop. Nobody's crying in the bathroom. Everyone belongs without question.
They sell us the idea that holiday feasting is about tradition—as if tradition didn't exclude most of us by design.
"Gather your family around the table for a traditional holiday meal."
— Every mainstream cooking magazine, every December
But whose tradition? Whose family?
They want us to believe that sacred feasting happens in houses where everyone was welcomed from birth. Where your pronouns were never a debate. Where your partnerships were celebrated, not tolerated. Where you didn't have to become someone else to earn a seat.
The sanitized version erases what we know:
That sometimes chosen family is the only family that sees you.
That sometimes the most sacred feast is the one you make for people who survived the same long night you did.
What the Midwinter Actually Teaches
The Dirt Truth About Feeding Each Other
The druids knew something about the third day of Yule that didn't make it into the Pinterest boards. They understood that midwinter feasting isn't about abundance—it's about defiance.
You're making food in the darkest part of the year. The sun gave you three hours of weak light and you said: Not enough? Watch me make something anyway.
Stand at your counter. Feel the weight of the pork loin in your hands—four pounds of flesh that will become nourishment. There's something about handling meat that grounds you in your animal self. You've heard people say bodies are temples. Fuck that. Bodies are bodies. They're hungry. They ache. They want.
The apples go into the pan with the pork. You've cored them but left them rough—no perfect slices here. They'll break down in the heat. They'll become soft. This is what cooking teaches: that breaking down isn't the same as breaking.
The butter melts in the pot for the colcannon. Two tablespoons, then another two. You learned early that you could be good if you took up less space, ate less, wanted less. Every meal cooked with actual fat is a small revolution.
"The land gives what it gives. Our work is to receive without shame."
— Traditional teaching from the Colloquy of the Two Sages
Peel the potatoes. Your hands remember this—the satisfying resistance of the peeler, the wet thunk of each peeled potato hitting the pot. This is body knowledge. Transition taught you that: how knowledge lives in hands and hips and the way you breathe when you're doing something true.
The cabbage or kale gets chopped rough. Nothing precious. You're making colcannon, which is peasant food, which is to say: food made by people who knew that survival isn't pretty, it's just necessary. Fold the greens into the mashed potatoes. Watch the white become streaked with dark green. Watch it become more than it was.
The honey drips slow from the spoon over the carrots and parsnips. Root vegetables. Things that grew in the dark, underground, where no one could see them becoming. You know about that.
What Nobody Says About Feasting While Trans
The Shit That Complicates Everything
Here's what the recipe blogs don't mention:
Some of us can't go home for the holidays because home is where we learned we were wrong. Some of us are making this feast for three people—the only three who knew us before and still know us now. Some of us are cooking in kitchens we couldn't have afforded five years ago because transition costs money that cisgender people never have to factor into their budgets: legal fees, medical fees, the fees of becoming legible to a world that wants your paperwork to match your bones.
You're making bread. Honey and herb oat bread. Your hands work the dough and you think about how many trans people don't make it to the feasting. How many of our dead loved honey too. Loved fresh bread. Loved gathering.
The Yule tradition is about celebrating light's return.
But what about the bodies who didn't make it to see another Yule?
"Honor the dead by living with intention. Feed the living like it's holy work."
— Modern druid teaching, author unknown
There's also this: You're cooking pork. Some of your chosen family is Jewish. Some is Muslim. Some is vegetarian. The "traditional Celtic feast" assumes a homogeneity that never actually existed. Your table will have substitutions. Alternatives. Work-arounds. It's more honest that way.
Three questions to sit with while the bread bakes:
What does it mean to claim "tradition" when most traditions were built to exclude you?
How do you feast without erasing the hunger—literal and metaphorical—that shaped you?
What do we owe the ones who didn't survive to see another Midwinter?
Let those sit. There's no resolving them. Just living with them.
How to Actually Make This Feast
Practical Magic for Bodies That Need Feeding
This isn't metaphor anymore. This is instruction.
You're going to feed people who need feeding. Here's how.
MAIN DISH: Honey-Glazed Roast Pork with Apples
You will need:
4 lbs pork loin (or a plant-based roast if you need that)
2 tbsp honey (local if possible—supporting the bees who'll outlive us)
2 tbsp whole-grain mustard
3 apples, cored and sliced (leave the skins on, life's too short)
2 tbsp olive oil
1 tbsp fresh rosemary, chopped (or dried if that's what you have)
Salt and pepper to taste
Timing: Start this 90 minutes before you want to eat. The waiting is part of the ritual.
The steps:
Preheat your oven to 375°F (190°C). The heat building is the first act of transformation. Your kitchen will get warm. Your body will relax in ways you didn't know you were tense.
Rub the pork loin with olive oil, salt, pepper, and rosemary. Your hands on the meat. This is intimate work. This is how you say I care enough to feed you well. The rosemary smells like winter forests. Like the herbs the druids would have burned.
Mix honey and mustard in a small bowl. Watch the gold and the yellow-brown swirl together. Brush half over the pork. The sweetness and the sharp. You contain multitudes too.
Place the pork in a roasting pan and surround it with apple slices. The apples will cook down, become soft, absorb the fat and juice. They're supporting actors that make everything better. Like good chosen family.
Roast for 1 hour, basting with the remaining honey-mustard mixture halfway through. The basting is attention. The basting is care. Let rest for 10 minutes before slicing. Everything needs time to settle into what it's become.
Between now and when it's done, you'll make the sides. Your kitchen will smell like a place where people are loved.
SIDE DISH: Colcannon (Mashed Potatoes with Cabbage or Kale)
You will need:
2 lbs potatoes, peeled and chopped
1/2 head of cabbage or 3 cups kale, chopped
1/2 cup milk or cream (or oat milk if you need dairy-free)
4 tbsp butter (or vegan butter)
Salt and pepper to taste
The steps:
Boil the potatoes until tender, about 15–20 minutes. The water boils and you remember that transformation often requires heat, pressure, time. You're not the person you were 15 years ago. Thank fuck.
While potatoes cook, sauté cabbage or kale in 2 tbsp of butter until tender. The green things wilt and darken and become themselves more fully. You understand.
Drain the potatoes and mash them with milk, remaining butter, salt, and pepper. This is where your shoulder gets involved. The mashing is violence that becomes nourishment. Not everything that breaks you is bad.
Fold in the sautéed cabbage or kale and serve warm. The folding is gentle. You've learned when to push and when to fold. Both are necessary.
VEGETABLE DISH: Honey-Roasted Carrots and Parsnips
You will need:
4 large carrots, peeled and cut into sticks
4 large parsnips, peeled and cut into sticks
3 tbsp honey
2 tbsp olive oil
1 tsp thyme
Salt and pepper to taste
The steps:
Preheat your oven to 400°F (200°C). Hotter for the root vegetables. They need more to break down their defenses.
Toss carrots and parsnips with honey, olive oil, thyme, salt, and pepper. Your hands sticky with honey. The roots slick with oil. This is sensory. This is real.
Spread on a baking sheet in a single layer and roast for 25–30 minutes, stirring halfway through, until caramelized and tender. The edges will brown, almost burn. The sugars caramelize. What looked pale becomes golden, deep, complex. You know about that kind of transformation.
BREAD: Honey and Herb Oat Bread
You will need:
2 cups rolled oats
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour (or gluten-free blend)
1/4 cup honey
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
2 tbsp fresh thyme or rosemary, chopped (or 1 tsp dried)
1 1/2 cups buttermilk (or milk with 1 tbsp vinegar/lemon juice)
3 tbsp melted butter
Optional: 1/4 cup raisins or dried cranberries
The steps:
Preheat your oven to 375°F (190°C). Grease and line a loaf pan with parchment paper. You're making a vessel for nourishment.
In a large bowl, mix oats, flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and herbs. Dry ingredients first. The foundation.
In a separate bowl, whisk buttermilk, honey, and melted butter. Pour into the dry ingredients and mix until just combined. Don't overmix. Some things don't need to be perfect to be good. Fold in raisins or cranberries, if using.
Pour the batter into the prepared loaf pan. Smooth the top and sprinkle with a few extra oats for garnish. The aesthetics matter when you've been told you're not aesthetic enough.
Bake for 40–50 minutes or until the top is golden brown and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. The waiting is the hardest part. But you've waited before. You know how.
Let cool slightly before slicing. Serve warm with butter. The steam rising from fresh bread is prayer without words.
"To break bread together is to acknowledge: we need each other to survive."
— Modern Celtic proverb
Variations for different circumstances:
If you're broke: Can't afford pork loin? Chicken thighs. Can't afford chicken? Lentil loaf works. The point isn't the protein, it's the gathering.
If you're alone this year: Make the bread at minimum. The smell of it baking is company.
If you're still learning to cook: Start with the colcannon. Potatoes forgive almost everything.
If you're working with trauma around food: Make whatever feels safe. Even if it's just the roasted carrots. Something golden and sweet is enough.
What This Builds Over Time
The Long Magic of Feeding Each Other
The first time you make this meal, it might feel performative. Look at me, doing Yule things. Being witchy. Being Celtic. Being something.
But do it again next year. And the year after.
Watch what happens.
You start to recognize the rhythm: the third day of Yule means your kitchen smells like rosemary and honey. Your chosen family knows to show up. Someone always brings wine or cider now without being asked. Someone else brings the cranberries you forgot.
The ritual sediments into your body.
Your hands remember how to peel parsnips even when your mind is elsewhere. You know the colcannon is done by texture, not recipe. You can tell when the bread's ready by smell.
This is what practice does: it makes magic muscle memory.
"We become who we are through repetition of small sacred acts."
— Thich Nhat Hanh (Buddhist, but the druids would agree)
What changes isn't just the cooking. It's your relationship to:
Nourishment itself: You stop seeing food as enemy or reward and start seeing it as partnership with your animal body.
Chosen family: The people who show up for year three, year five, year ten—they're not chosen anymore, they're bone.
Your own legitimacy: The first time you host Yule dinner, you might feel like an impostor. By the fifth time, you are the keeper of this tradition. You made it real by doing it.
The dark season: Winter stops being something to survive and becomes something that makes space for this kind of gathering, this kind of light-making.
One image, sharp:
You're slicing the bread—year six now—and someone says "This is my favorite meal of the year." Not because it's fancy. Because it's yours. Because you made a space where their trans body, their queer love, their complicated family situation, their survival—all of it is welcome at the table.
That's the magic. Not in the recipe. In the repetition.
The Return
You're standing at the counter again. The feast is made. It's cooling, resting, waiting. Your people will be here soon.
The kitchen is a mess—flour on the counter, dishes piled in the sink, the floor sticky with honey drips you'll clean up later. Or tomorrow. Or next week.
But the smell. Gods, the smell.
It smells like you meant it. Like you put your body into the work of feeding other bodies. Like you took the darkest day and said: Here. Eat. You deserve to be fed well.
The third day of Yule isn't about the sun returning yet. It's still dark. It'll stay dark for weeks.
But you made light anyway. In the oven. On the stove. In the bread rising and the butter melting and the honey dripping gold.
"The light returns because we keep feeding it, even when we can't see it yet."
— Celtic wisdom for dark times
You're here. You're feeding your people. That's the whole tradition right there.