Working with the Seasons: There's Always Something Beginning

There is a common idea that seasonal cooking moves in neat chapters of abundance, followed by quiet.

But there is always something beginning.

Even now, in December, when the garden feels subdued and the light has thinned, the rhubarb is already pushing through. Tight, pink shoots — impatient beneath the soil. It isn’t ready yet, but it’s there: a reminder that the next season is already underway.

There is a simple pleasure in lifting the lid of the forcer, peering into the dark, and finding growth where you might not expect it — rhubarb pushing upward, pale and determined, deprived of light yet full of promise.

Seasonal cooking is less about reacting to what is plentiful, and more about noticing what is quietly arriving.

Noticing what’s happening now

Working with the seasons teaches you to look closely.

What fruit is just coming in?
What is finishing?
What will be ready if you wait a little longer?

This way of cooking asks for a longer view. You begin to cook with one eye on today, and the other on what is a few weeks, or months, ahead.

In winter, citrus takes centre stage. Lemons, oranges, clementines, blood oranges. Bright fruit at a time when colour feels precious. 

Citrus holds well. It responds beautifully to time.

The quiet beginnings of spring

As winter loosens its grip, choice begins to widen.

Spring doesn’t arrive with fanfare. It starts tentatively: forced rhubarb, the first hints of berries, an increasing light that changes how food feels.

Part of seasonal cooking is knowing when to wait — letting fruit develop fully before committing it to the pan.

Looking ahead while staying present

What surprises people most about cooking with the seasons is how you begin to live slightly ahead of yourself, without rushing.

In autumn, you’re already thinking about winter citrus.
In winter, you start to notice the rhubarb stirring.
In spring, you sense what summer might bring.

Seasonal cooking becomes a practice of awareness — a way of staying present while quietly preparing for what’s next.

There is always something happening now. Something beginning. Something worth noticing.

And when you cook this way — guided by attention rather than abundance alone — food starts to feel calmer, more grounded, and more connected to the passing of time.

If this felt like your kind of pace, you may enjoy Notes from the Jam Kitchen — seasonal notes and small observations, written in step with the year.

Joining includes The Five Principles of French Jam Making, a 10-page downloadable PDF.