There are few things on this planet as peaceful as walking in a New England forest after a snowstorm. The sound deadening blanket covering the earth creates a blissful silence and is the perfect tonic for an overly noisy world. The welcomed hush is broken only by the gentle rustle of leaves stubbornly clinging to a few outlying trees.

Most deciduous trees drop their leaves as soon as the color fades in Autumn. But a few, like white oak and beech trees, are “marcescent” and hold on to their dead leaves through the winter. Researchers have yet to agree on why these trees do this. Some theorize that marcescent leaves provide a fresh layer of mulch in the spring when the trees need it most. Some think the retained leaves offer shelter for birds, which in turn fertilize the ground below them. Some think the unappetizingly dead leaves help protect the tasty new buds from being eaten by browsing herbivores. I’ve often thought that the leaves were just left there for me to enjoy, like muted wind chimes on a wintry day.

Curiously though, and perhaps revealingly so, is that the majority of marcescent leaves are within twenty feet of the ground. A white oak tree which might be eighty feet tall, will only retain the leaves on its lower branches. If the purpose of marcescence is to provide a layer of mulch, or shelter for the birds, surely retaining the upper leaves would be useful as well.

The fact that the only leaves retained are ones within reach of passing herbivores lends credence to the theory that it’s a form of protection from grazing. To discourage our contemporary white-tailed deer, the twenty-foot cut off point is definitely overkill, but oak and beech trees evolved for millions of years in the company of giant sloths and mastodons. In fact, back when beavers were the size of bears (about 10,000 years ago), your average run of the mill herbivore could easily have grazed from the gutters of a two-story home.

The only things that kept those super-sized grazers from consuming the entire planet were the equally impressive hypercarnivores that hunted them. Despite today’s allure, I seriously doubt I’d find my meandering wintertime stroll so relaxing if I had to share the forest with saber tooth tigers, American cheetahs, and dire wolves. Perhaps the true purpose of the marcescent leaves is to serve as a reminder that though the modern world might seem loud and at times stressful, at least I can aspire to be something more than just an appetizer in the food chain of life.

Our friends with culinary ties to the South made their annual pilgrimage to buy smoked pork jowl from our farm last week. The jowl is traditionally cooked with collard greens, black-eyed-peas and served with cornbread. All of which are believed to bring good luck and prosperity in the New Year. The meal served either at midnight, or on New Year’s Day, has many iterations across the South and very specific ingredients and traditions surrounding each variation. I can’t keep track of them all but the gist of it is that the black-eyed-peas are considered a “lowly food” and eating them shows humility - which in turn will be recognized and rewarded by God.

The color of the collard greens symbolizes money, and the color of the cornbread symbolizes gold.

Hogs represent prosperity, because historically, if you owned a hog, your family would have plenty of food for the winter. Also, because pigs can’t turn their heads to look over their shoulder, they symbolize a “forward looking” nature which is perfect for the start of a new year, and of progress towards one’s goals.

Out of curiosity I ask everyone who purchases our jowl how they cook it and how they celebrate the New Year. Everyone seems very happily committed and amused by their family’s interpretation of the tradition.

Some make “Hoppin Johns” with black-eyed-peas, greens, rice, and pork.

Some use kale, or cabbage instead of collard greens.

Some use smoked ham hocks instead of jowl bacon.

Some put pennies in the dish - some put a penny under the dish.

Some swear the coin must be silver and placed inside the pot – or not.

Most use black-eyed-peas, but some substitute red peas, lentils, or cow peas.

Some are very committed to the exact number of peas that must be eaten. Too many or too few can bring bad luck – or good luck, depending on who you ask.

Anne’s and my own New Year’s Day tradition is much less complicated. We drive to Hammonasset Beach and watch as the sun rises over the ocean. This year standing at the edge of our world, we watched the tide come in and the sun come up. Surrounded by magic, filled with awe, and overwhelmed with gratitude, I tried to count all my blessings. If happiness has a monetary value, I’m as prosperous as anyone I’ve ever known. In this coming year, there isn’t a lot more I would wish for myself but if I thought it would result in a kinder,saner planet, I’d happily eat my body weight in black-eyed-peas.

I always thought my mom’s tradition of putting an orange in the bottom of everyone’s stocking was a waste of perfectly usable stocking space, and I told her so every Christmas. She explained that growing up oranges were a special treat, and as a child, one of the magical joys of Christmas. As a kid I found that hard to believe, but it makes sense to me now. In an era before refrigeration and mass transportation, everyone ate locally. You knew your farmer, and you ate what was in season, and I can certainly imagine how exciting something as exotic as an orange, grown in a faraway place by total strangers would be to a small child. I’ll likely never know the thrill of such “exotic” food, as now everything is shipped everywhere and available any time of year. Probably the closest I could come to that kind of culinary thrill is tasting something that is just absurdly expensive.

On one of the first Christmases that I spent away from home, my mom sent me a small package, labeled very clearly “not to be opened until Christmas morning”. I should have known what it was, but it was small enough, and light enough, that I didn’t think about it, I just stuck it in the bottom of my backpack as a friend and I headed out to hike the Kalalau Trail on the Na Pali coast of Kauai.

The hike was strenuous but the views and the beach at the end of that hike were absolutely stunning. A mile of pristine sandy beach nestled between the ocean and the cliffs of the Kalalau Valley. The place was completely deserted except for a couple we could see setting up their tent at the far end of the beach.

It was a surreal spot for a New Englander to spend Christmas eve. I fell asleep on the beach, under the stars, to the sound of a 300-foot waterfall thundering into the ocean below.

I awoke, just before dawn on Christmas morning, when the unnerving sound of waves coming in way too close and way too fast, pierced my consciousness. We quickly moved to the elevated safety of the dunes and waited for sunrise.

As the sun came up, we could see that the couple down the beach had not been so lucky. They lost everything to that rogue wave. It had swept them away while they were zipped up and sound asleep inside their tent. They managed to get out of their tent and swim to shore but lost everything they had brought with them. They were completely traumatized, but very happy to be alive.

The four of us walked the beach trying to retrieve anything we could find in the roiling surf. We recovered a tent pole, a hiking boot, and a couple random things, but there was actually very little the ocean was willing to give up. At some point we stopped looking, sat down, and with a deep sense of gratitude for just being alive, we wished each other a Merry Christmas...

We eventually left the couple there on the beach - shoe-less, and still wearing their wet pajamas- promising to contact the park ranger as soon as we got back to our car, so that a helicopter would be sent in to air lift them out. Before we left, though, I opened the package from my mom. My “Christmas Orange” looked pathetic, alone in that box, with no stocking, wrapping paper, or gifts to keep it company - but split four ways, that orange tasted every bit as exotic, as my mom had always claimed them to be

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