A January Reflection on Slow Suppers, Simple Living, and Beginning Again
Do we call it the larder or the pantry?
The fridge or cold storage?
Scroll down for the video.
It hardly matters, really — not when the deeper truth is this:
As long as it isn’t empty, it feels like home.
The year has turned. The lights are coming down. The ornaments are tucked away. The echo of holiday feasts still lingers in our kitchens. It also lingers in our wallets. The calendar has flipped, the house has grown quiet again, and suddenly a very old, very honest question rises up once more:
What’s for supper?
Not the Pinterest kind of supper.
Not the “company is coming” kind.
But the everyday kind.
The kind that keeps us fed, warm, and grounded.
January always seems to call us back to basics.
Back to soup pots that simmer slowly on the stove.
Back to bread heels tucked in the freezer.
Back to simple casseroles that don’t need fancy ingredients — only care.
It is the quiet work of making do.
Making warm.
Making grateful.
And in this quieter season, our cupboards begin to teach us something. They invite us to look again at what we already have. They remind us that nourishment is not only about what we buy. It is about what we remember to use. It is about what we are willing to stretch. It is also about what we are thankful to receive.
This is larder living.
This is slow food.
This is where thrift becomes a blessing and simplicity becomes a kind of prayer.
It is choosing the humble supper.
It is warming the same soup for the third night and finding that it somehow tastes better.
It is slicing the last onion with care.
It is setting the table even when no one is coming — because you are still worth a warm plate and a quiet moment.
There is holiness in this rhythm.
There is gentleness here.
There is a quiet kind of abundance that does not shout, but whispers,
You have enough. You are cared for. Begin again.
This winter, I am leaning into that whisper. I call it The 100 Mile Life. It is a gentle practice. We source our food, fibre, and daily needs from within roughly one hundred miles of home. Not as a rule. Not as pressure. But as a way of returning to what is nearby, what is seasonal, and what is enough.
It is about knowing where your carrots were grown.
Knowing who raised your eggs.
Knowing the hands that spun your wool.
And letting gratitude grow in the same soil as your supper.
In the quiet rhythm of winter evenings, we begin again. We do this with one humble meal. Then, with one open cupboard. Finally, with one warm pot at a time.
If your kitchen feels a little quieter this January, I invite you to step into this slower rhythm with me.
This week, choose one simple supper.
One meal made mostly from what you already have.
One local ingredient.
One candle lit on the table.
And as you stir the pot, whisper a simple prayer of thanks —
for what is enough,
for what is nearby,
and for the grace of beginning again.
You’re always welcome here in the warm light of the larder.
Let’s walk this slow, simple winter together.
The Grannie Doll January Blessing
May your soup pot be steady,
your bread be warm,
and your cupboards gently remind you:
you are cared for.
May your meals be simple,
your table be kind,
and your heart remember
that enough is holy.
May you find grace in leftovers,
joy in small portions,
and peace in the quiet work of beginning again.
And may your home —
whether larder or pantry,
fridge or cold storage —
always feel like a place of warmth, welcome, and rest.
Until we meet again at the table or by the rocking chair,
Grannie Doll
