Amberleaf Harvest Festival

Appledance’s Guide to Culinary Excellence Entry V · Amberleaf Harvest Festival: A Feast of First Fruits

By Delilah Appledance, Eth Dreythna’s Wandering Hearthkeeper

La-la-la… As the seventh month, our beloved Month of the Harvest paints Eth Dreythna in amber and gold, the city hums with anticipatory delight. Amberleaf Harvest Festival, our grand agricultural rite, has kicked off before dawn’s first glow, and already I can smell roasting pumpkins and hear the clink of cornucopia baskets against wagon wheels.

Long ago, the founders of Eth Dreythna knelt amid famine’s shadow, praying for even a taste of mercy. Legend holds that The Empress herself guided them to hidden orchards, and so began our festival of first fruits. To this day, we honour that miracle by gathering the season’s inaugural fruits before any blade of the sickle dares to swing.

At dawn, the First-Fruits Votarys, barefoot and crowned with woven-sheaf garlands, treads through dew-damp fields, cornucopia basket heavy with blessings. She chants the Empress’s harvest hymn, voice soft over rippling barley, while I stand by the altar grove sprinkling water across pressed-flower offerings. My youngest, Miri, likes to hide behind my skirts, wide-eyed at the votary’s silvered pollen shining on her brow.

By midday, Market Square transforms into a tapestry of stalls: farmers display braids of wheat and piles of Moonroot, vintners pour amber mead, and bakers like me ladle out steaming bowls of Amberleaf Honeyed Pumpkin Stew. Its sweet-savoury broth, thick with roasted squash and a swirl of cardamom-kissed cream, is the festival’s heart and every spoonful tastes of our city’s gratitude.

As twilight drapes lanterns across the cobblestones, torchbearers circle the central bonfire. The High Harvest Priestess, veiled in gold-threaded robes, leads a procession of farmers, bakers, and children of the grove, each bearing a garlanded sheaf. They crown the Harvest Monarch with quince blossoms and amber leaves, and the square erupts in cheers that mingle with the crackle of embers.

Every component of this celebration echoes our devotion to the Empress and to one another. It’s more than tradition; it’s a reminder that every loaf I bake, every pot I stir, began with that first sacred seed.

When the final ember dims and the lanterns wink out, I gather pressed amber leaves for my journal’s margin and tuck a bit of festival dust into my flour bag, so that even my morning dough carries a hint of autumn’s blessing. Tra-la… May your own hearth be ever warmed by the first fruits you share.

~ Mrs. A