Drink This. Don’t Ask Questions.

I don’t remember anybody in my family ever using the word potion. That would have sounded ridiculous. Potions belonged to witches with cauldrons, strange books and questionable personal hygiene. What we had were mothers and grandmothers standing in kitchens handing you a cup of something and saying, “Drink this.”

And you drank it. You could ask what was in it, but that was mostly a courtesy because the decision had already been made. Your throat hurt? Drink this. Stomach upset? Drink this. Couldn’t sleep? Something warm was coming. Congested? Somebody was boiling water and preparing to put your head under a towel like a hostage.

Nobody called any of this magic, which is funny because looking back, some of it was pretty damn close.

There was always somebody who knew things. She knew which tea settled your stomach, what to put on a sting, what smelled good simmering on the stove, what went into the bath when you felt lousy and which jar in the cupboard contained the thing that tasted absolutely terrible but was apparently going to save your life.

And somewhere much farther back, there was another woman doing essentially the same thing without indoor plumbing.

That’s the part that gets me. We picture the old potion maker standing dramatically over a cauldron while smoke curls around her and the full moon rises behind the cottage. I suspect the reality involved considerably more muttering about somebody leaving the damn door open.

She probably wasn’t thinking, Tonight I shall brew a potion.

She was thinking, Margaret has that cough again.

So she grabbed what she had. Maybe mint. Maybe thyme. Maybe honey. Maybe something growing outside the door that her mother had taught her to use because her mother learned it from her mother, and nobody bothered writing any of this down because everybody assumed Margaret would remember.

Margaret did not remember.

And this, I suspect, is how we lost half of human history.

But those old concoctions weren’t always about somebody being sick. People made teas, cordials, broths, infused wines, syrups and all sorts of things for celebrations, weddings, seasons, sleep, good fortune or simply because winter was miserable and something warm with honey made life considerably less offensive.

The ingredients themselves gathered stories too. Rosemary, cinnamon, apples, oranges, cloves, basil, mint, lavender and honey became tangled up with ideas about love, luck, abundance, peace, health, remembrance and blessing. Whether you believe the plant itself carries something, the intention matters, the prayer matters, or Grandma simply knew what tasted good together is entirely your business.

But once I started thinking about it, I realized something.

We’re still making potions.

Coffee may be the most obvious example. Please explain how grinding a bean, pouring hot water through it and consuming the resulting dark liquid specifically because you expect it to alter your mood, energy and ability to tolerate other humans is not potion making. We’ve simply rebranded it and bought expensive machines.

Then there’s honey and lemon when somebody’s throat hurts, ginger when the stomach gets pissy, chamomile before bed and whatever concoction the internet has currently convinced half the population will make us sleep eight hours, lose fifteen pounds and wake up looking like Jennifer Aniston.

We’re still standing over pots.

So naturally, now I want to make an actual potion.

Not medicine. I’m not curing anything, and nobody is going to wake up tomorrow with a third kidney because I got enthusiastic with the rosemary. I want something much simpler.

A good ju-ju potion.

I’d start pulling things out of the kitchen without turning it into some sacred recipe requiring seventeen ingredients harvested during a lunar eclipse. Apple. Orange. Cinnamon. A little rosemary because rosemary has apparently achieved full-time employment around here. Maybe cloves, ginger and honey.

Everything edible. Everything familiar. But each thing gets a job. The apples and oranges can bring abundance and happiness. Cinnamon gets prosperity and a little luck. Rosemary gets remembrance and blessing. Honey can sweeten whatever is headed our way. Ginger gets some fire because sometimes good things need a little shove.

Into the pot it all goes.

Then I’d stir it and pray over it.

Not because I think God is waiting for me to rotate a wooden spoon exactly seven times clockwise before He’ll consider my request. I just think there’s something powerful about stopping long enough to actually say what you’re hoping for.

Bless this house and the people in it. Bring us health and laughter. Bring good opportunities through the door and enough wisdom to recognize them when they arrive. Let this be a place where people feel safe, loved and welcome. And while I’m saying all of that, the entire house smells like oranges and cinnamon, which already feels like a fairly successful potion.

Eventually Jack will wander into the kitchen because something smells good. He’ll look into the pot, then at me, and ask what I’m making.

“A potion.”

There will be a pause.

“For what?”

“Good ju-ju.”

He’ll look into the pot again.

“Can I drink it?”

“Probably.”

This is why I love that man.

And maybe that’s really all a potion ever needed to be. Something made deliberately. Something ordinary given a little extra meaning.

Maybe the old women believed every herb carried its own special power. Maybe they were simply using what generations before them had taught them. Maybe they prayed while they stirred. Maybe some whispered words we’d call spells today. Maybe they didn’t bother separating any of it because food, prayer, plants, family, faith and all the mysterious things they believed about the world lived quite comfortably together in the same damn kitchen.

I actually like that better.

We’re the ones who became obsessed with putting everything into separate boxes. This is food. This is medicine. This is prayer. This is tradition. This is superstition. This is science. This is spiritual.

Meanwhile Grandma is standing there holding out a steaming cup and getting increasingly irritated that you haven’t taken it yet.

She doesn’t care what category you put it in.

Drink this. Don’t ask questions.