RCG-I Seasonal Salon

Mulled Wine

‘Tis the season for mulled wine. The sweet fragrance of the spices on the stove greeted my visitors the other day and warmed them after their chilly ride: cinnamon, cloves, cardamon, bits of citrus peel. I used to add yerba maté to my mulled wine, creating a South American version of an Irish coffee, its stimulants and sedatives nicely balanced. But that day, we had just wine and spices, which we drank cheerily, laughing in the companionship of the solstice season.

Winter is a season for mulling. The word is ancient, going back to Old English myl, meaning anything reduced to fine particles. There are other obsolete meanings for the word, including sheep’s lips and a Scottish headland, but in its continuing usage mull refers to a process of disintegration, whereby something is reduced into its constituent parts. Grinding, pulverizing, cutting, crushing—all these actions are part of the process of mulling, which in turn comes to mean the process of grinding spices for mulled wine.

Mulled wine probably began as a way of disguising flaws in wine, of making bad wine into something palatable and even tasty. In the past, that was the main use for spices and herbs: to hide off-flavors. We take for granted the fresh taste of our food today, what with refrigeration and other preservation methods. But our forebears had to contend with the seasons, eating what was fresh during the summer and sustaining themselves on less-than-fresh foods thereafter. Wine, like any living food, changes with time, and frugal householders wouldn’t want to throw away nourishing wine just because it had become too strong or tannic to make for easy drinking. Thus references to mulled wine go back at least to medieval times, with the spiced concoction often warmed by being stirred with an iron poker that had been resting in the fire.

There are hundreds of recipes for mulled wine, but recipes aren’t really necessary. Just take some spices, wrap them in cheesecloth, and simmer (be careful not to boil!) in red wine. Add sugar or honey if you wish. Dilute with orange juice, tea or an herbal tissane, or just hot water. Serve in a mug rather than a wine glass. Drink and laugh and tell stories.

But if winter is a season for mulling, don’t stop at wine. One of the great metaphors for deep thought is to say that you are “mulling over something.” This relatively new substitute for “ponder” has become a common verb that has detached itself from its original roots. If “mulling wine” means adding pulverized spices because “mull” means to crush, thinking of “mulling something over” as meaning adding ingredients and heating misses the point.

To really ponder, we need to mull: to smash our usual ways of thinking about something, to break our prejudices and predispositions down to their constituent parts. We don’t need to add heat, which could drive us into exaggerations and misunderstandings, and we certainly don’t need to add inflamatory spices in the form of others’ opinions and demands. ‘Tis the season for mulling, for quietly pondering our lives and what we’re doing with them. In the midst of the bustle and hum of solstice, may we all find the time for such mulling.