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Ugh, putting the lights on the tree: my most unfavorite holiday task.

Well, Yule is coming, and there's much to be done. So: would I rather light the tree or make the date paste?

(It wouldn't be Yule without date bars.)

I make the date paste.

OK: would I rather light the tree or vacuum the house?

I vacuum.

OK: would I rather light the tree or mop the kitchen floor?

I mop.

OK: would I rather light the tree or write out the cards?

I write out the cards.

So it goes. By not lighting the tree, I manage to get an entire day's worth of work out of myself.

In the end, having done everything else that needs to be done—it's too soon to start the baking—I put the lights on the bloody tree, just to get it over with.

Leaf through a catalogue or stroll down an aisle in your local retail giant, and you'll have no trouble whatsoever identifying the 2025 holiday season's Theme-of-the-Year.

It's the Year of the Magic Mushroom.

Redcaps. Fly Agarics. Amanita Muscaria.

Ornaments. Plush toys. Hats.

(Plush toys? Seriously?)

Hel-lo?

Um, folks: they're hallucinogenic.

Um, folks: they're potentially toxic.

Yes, they're eye-catching.

Yes, they're colorful.

Yes, they're considered a symbol of good luck throughout the German-speaking world. (Make of that what you will.)

Yes, reindeer eat them.

Yes, shamans eat them.

Yes, their hallucinogenic alkaloids concentrate in the urine of the user.

Ho, ho, ho.

Agarics: drug-of-choice of Old World shamans. They grow here in the New World, too.

Though I've heard rumors of redcap use in the medicine lodges of the Anishinabe, the fact is that the Americas are home to lots and lots of kinder, gentler hallucinogens, thank you very much.

No need for urine-drinking, either.

(I once heard an interviewee deny that he was a shaman on the grounds that he'd never taken amanita muscaria. No more have I, but then, I don't claim to be a shaman either, unless “warlock” is how you say “shaman” in Witch.)

The natural world, and informed, hands-on knowledge thereof, continues to recede ever farther in our cultural rear-view mirror.

Anoint your bed with this special charm:

Red cup or gothic goblet

“Well, maybe this is it,” I find myself thinking disconsolately: “the year without a Yule tree.”

It's my first time at an urban tree lot. Thoroughly disheartened, I wander the rows of overpriced green cones. Clearly, there's nothing here for me.

For years, we'd drive up North to the Fawn Lake tree farm. Twenty-three bucks and cut your own, no frills. Make your offering and take your pick.

But unshaven old Jake is retired now and so here I am, feeling like Charlie Brown. These trees have all been groomed to within an inch of their lives: perfect cones, Platonic ideals of “Yule tree”, branches so thick that I have to wonder: Where do you put the ornaments? Some have even—I can scarcely believe my eyes—been spray-painted green.

Not to mention the price. Ten bucks a foot, ye gods. $140 buys a lot of groceries.

Every year I remind myself: this is a choice. Every year I remind myself: it will still be Yule without it.

Every year I do it anyway. If this is what's on offer, though....

Then, out back by the dumpster, I finally find what I'm looking for.

One of the most frequent comments I hear about Minoan ceramics is how modern they look, how much they would be at home in any of our kitchens or dining rooms.

Most of us have an idea in our heads about what ancient pottery looks like. We've seen enough pictures of Greek and Roman cups, jars, and pots to know the vibe they have.

The ritual use of the sense of smell can include literally stopping to smell the roses. A pause on one's way, appreciating a flower, a whisper of "Hail Freya" as one sniffs, this is a ritual. Rituals do not have to be elaborate.

One can plant specific plants to honor particular god, or ancestor, or other being. If the nature of the plant includes fragrance, the smelling of the plant scent can be incorporated into ritual. I have a pink rose in my garden and when I smell it I honor Freya. Roses are usually Freya flowers but I also have one specific rose bush that is for Sigyn due to my personal experiences; see my "pranked by nature" post. 

“What's taters, precious, eh, what's taters?” asks Gollum.

“Po-ta-toes,” explains Sam. “The Gaffer's delight, and rare good ballast for an empty belly.”

(Along with tobacco, apparently—anachronistically—potatoes have somehow managed to make it over to Middle Earth from the Uttermost West. Go figure.)

They're in Ithilien, heading for Mordor along with Frodo and the Ring. Gollum has just snagged a couple of rabbits, which Sam is about to stew up with herbs. Herbs you can find in the wilderness; potatoes, alas, not so. His mention of the toothsome tubers was nostalgia, pure and simple.

(Maybe they'd come over with the men of Westernesse, after the fall of Númenor. After Gollum's time, anyway.)

Poor Gollum. Imagine: life without potatoes.