What image comes up in your mind when you hear the phrase, “Medicine-Making”?  Is it of a sterile laboratory filled with humans running around in white coats? Or is it of a group of folks gathered around a communal space sharing knowledge passed down from their forebears, laughing, helping each other get their hands dirty?

I don’t know about you, but I see a group of women* (young and old alike) in that communal space. Somebody’s kitchen perhaps. I see medicinal plants drying from the rafters. I can smell the medicines. I see glass jars, vials, bottles. I see stains on tables, counter tops and the floor. I see young girls making medicines. I smile.  It is a world that holds – for me – untold mysteries, a promise of discoveries. An intimate face to face with Nature’s gifts.

I putter around in my kitchen. All the time.  My kitchen is in disarray. Or so it seems. Bowls with fresh produce on the floor. Every square inch of my counter tops taken. Jars of veggies in various stages of fermentation on top of my refrigerator. As if an extension of my fridge. Glass bottles line my dining table where  2 gallon glass containers of kombucha brewing jostle for precious space.  Some days the state of my kitchen drives me absolutely crazy. I vow to scale down and take a break. And the next morning I come home with bags of fresh veggies that I can’t cram into my refrigerator.

(to be continued)

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