Marie Monde, Mange et Mode

By Marie Monde

Winter is not the season of new harvests.

It’s the season of foods that waited.

In Virginia, that truth shows up quietly—often underfoot. Black walnuts fall in autumn, heavy and unmissable, then linger. They wait through cold nights and shifting light, asking for patience before they’re ready to be used.

I wasn’t looking for them. I had stepped outside for a brief pause between obligations, the kind of moment meant only to steady your breath. But there they were—dark, textured, unmistakably present. Black walnuts have a weight to them, both literal and felt. They thud when they fall. Their husks stain your hands. They ask to be noticed.

Holding one felt less like discovery and more like recognition.

Virginia winter tables have never been about what’s new. They’re built on what endured—foods harvested earlier and carried forward with care. Black walnuts belong to that lineage. They’re not delicate or convenient. They require time, curing, effort. And maybe that’s why they feel so grounding now.

Virginia, Winter, and the Quiet Work of Endurance

By winter, the leaves here have mostly let go. The spectacle of fall has passed, leaving behind structure—branches, bark, the architecture of what remains.

There’s something instructive in that. Trees don’t rush their transitions. They release when it’s time, then rest without apology. The work of endurance is quieter than the work of change, but no less meaningful.

This is the season I’m learning to pay attention to that distinction.

Grounding in What Holds

When life feels full—or fragmented—I return to simple, physical things:

• Walking outside, even briefly, until the rhythm of my steps steadies my thoughts
• Touching the earth, or something shaped by it
• Cooking food that asks for attention, not speed

Cooking, especially in winter, is an act of presence. Chopping, stirring, waiting—these small motions anchor me back into my body. They remind me that care doesn’t need to be dramatic to be real.

Winter doesn’t reward urgency. It rewards patience.

A Note on Black Walnuts

Black walnuts are a fall harvest food traditionally preserved and eaten through winter. Indigenous communities across this region used the nut, husk, shell, and wood—for nourishment, medicine, dyes, and tools—carrying nothing forward without purpose.

Their flavor is bold, earthy, unmistakable. They’re not meant to disappear into a dish. Like winter itself, they insist on being felt.

What This Season Asks

Winter in Virginia has taught me that not every beginning needs to announce itself. Some returns are quiet. Some values resurface not because we searched for them, but because they waited patiently until we were ready to notice.

So if this season feels heavy—or slow, or unresolved—consider that you may not be behind. You may simply be in the part of the cycle that endures.

Touch something from the earth. Cook something that takes its time. Let what waited meet you where you are.

This felt like the right place to begin again.

Copy-Protection / Authorship Note:

All photos, writing, structure, and original creative content in this post are the intellectual property of the author, Marie. Reproduction or distribution without permission is prohibited. Please credit appropriately if quoting or referencing. Photos are not to be reproduced.