​There’s something about this time of year when the air smells like leaves and spice, when light fades early and the veil grows thin, that stirs both memory and mischief.
It’s the season of sweetness and synergy, of stirring and storytelling.
And in my kitchen, it means one thing: barmbrack.
Not quite a cake and not quite a bread, barmbrack is a sweet Irish loaf baked with dried fruits, zests, and love. It’s hearty and fragrant—more solid than a sponge cake, yet softer and sweeter than a rustic loaf.
The making of barmbrack is an Irish Samhain tradition that still carries warmth into modern kitchens. Samhain, pronounced “Sow-in,” is the ancient festival that gave birth to what we now call Halloween.

When I bake my barmbrack, I think of intention—love, truth, connection.
Because this isn’t just a recipe; it’s a ritual.
Inside the dough, small charms are hidden and baked into the loaf.
Each carries a message from the unseen world, a kind of kitchen oracle.
Traditionally these included a coin for prosperity, a pea meaning no marriage that year, a ring for marriage certain, a stick for disputes ahead, and a piece of cloth for hardship or financial strain. Some later added religious medals, but I prefer the original symbols, because Halloween to me is about connection to our ancestors, not to any single god.
This is an earth-born ritual, a remembrance born of the hearth and the heart.


I think of barmbrack like charm casting, bone tossing, or tea leaf reading—divination at its most playful.
Every charm tucked inside carries both laughter and curiosity.
I’ve added my own touches through the years—a few extra trinkets, a bit of parchment-wrapped whimsy. Every slice becomes a message, every crumb an omen.
But the real magic isn’t in what’s hidden, it’s in how it’s made. It’s in the laughter as flour dusts the counter top, in the quiet moment when you stir and feel someone’s presence beside you—maybe a grandmother’s hand guiding your wrist, or an ancestor’s whisper saying, “Add a little more spice.” One year I added golden raisins because my Italian grandmother sent me that image from spirit. I’m not of Irish heritage, at least that I know of, but the soul doesn’t care about heritage lines—it cares about love lines.
I smiled every time a golden raisin rose to the surface, like her laughter breaking through the veil.

Baking this bread always marks the beginning of what I call the Quiet Season—the ancestor season.
The time when my tarot cards come out far more than usual, when I snuggle into solitude with mugs of black tea and candlelight, when the world outside slows and the spirit world draws close. It’s the season of comfort—of chicken stews simmering on the stove, pot roasts in the oven, and loaves cooling on the counter while the house smells like spice and memory.
When I bake this bread, I feel the shift—the great turning inward.
The laughter becomes softer, the magic deeper, the air filled with the scent of earth and home. Barmbrack is just the beginning. It’s a welcome to the ancestors, a nod to the coming cold, a whisper that says we’re ready.
This isn’t just one night of raised veils and flickering candles.
This is the opening of an entire season of connection, a long, slow conversation between the living and the departed, between body and spirit, between the seen and the unseen.
This is when I light the candles and set out the photos.
When I draw my Hearth & Home tarot spread and listen for the quiet messages in the cards.
When I journal more, bake more, pray more, and feel that deep ache of belonging—to something vast and unseen yet always close.

This is the time of year when sweetness takes on meaning.
When buttered toast and hot tea become small rituals of remembrance.
When I feel my ancestors beside me at the kitchen table, nodding in approval as I pour another cup.

Though barmbrack is called a Halloween bread, it becomes something more—a fruitcake for the darkening months, a companion to winter fires, a symbol of continuity.
It stretches beyond one holiday.
Each slice carries us deeper into the comfort of winter and the promise of spring that lies somewhere beneath it.
Every loaf I make feels like a bridge—between then and now, between me and those who came before, between the silence of the earth and the warmth of my own breath as I stir the dough.
So yes, this is about bread, but also about lineage.
About stories and spirits.
About finding sweetness in the dark months and remembering that the veil doesn’t lift for just one night; it stays open for a whole season of listening.

I encourage you to read the recipe below and bake it with your ancestors here and passed.  
Add to it the ingredients you love, the charms you offer, and the magic you are.  
Make many loaves to share with family and friends, grab a deck of tarot and and cherish this time of connection.
And when you bake, may your bread rise with laughter, your tea steep in peace, and your kitchen glow with the warmth of those who still love you from beyond the seen world.
May your tarot cards speak clearly, your ancestors whisper kindly, and your heart remember—this is not the end of the light, but the beginning of the listening.

And if you feel that same call to settle into your soul as I do, this is the perfect time to do it.
Book a tarot reading, pour yourself a cup of tea, and sit with the magic of this quiet season.
This is where reflection deepens, where the stories of your ancestors meet the story of your own becoming, and where every crumb, every card, and every breath reminds you: love never ends.


Traditional Barmbrack Recipe
​The Day Before
1 ¾ cups (8.75 oz / 248 g) raisins
1 ¾ cups (8.75 oz / 248 g) sultanas
Zest of 1 large lemon
Zest of 1 large orange
1 cup (8 oz / 227 g) dark brown sugar
2 cups (16 fl oz / 500 ml) hot, strong black tea
In a medium bowl, combine the raisins, sultanas, zests, and sugar.
Pour the hot tea over and stir to combine.
Cover with cling wrap and let it sit overnight at room temperature.
The Next Day
3½ cups (15 oz / 426 g) all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon mixed spice or pumpkin pie spice
2 eggs, beaten
Preheat oven to 325°F (170°C). Butter and line a deep 9-inch cake pan.
In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, and spice.
Stir in the fruit mixture and beaten eggs, alternating between the two, until no dry streaks remain.
At this point, tuck your chosen charm — wrapped in parchment — into the batter.
Pour into the prepared pan and bake for 80–90 minutes, or until golden and springy.
Cool in the pan for 20 minutes, then turn out to finish cooling on a wire rack.
Slice and serve with butter and a hot cup of tea.
Barmbrack keeps well in an airtight container for up to four days, or can be frozen for four weeks. It’s also delicious toasted.

A Blessing for the Baker
May your bread rise with laughter.
May your kitchen fill with the voices of those you love — both near and unseen.
And may every golden raisin you find remind you:
even in the turning of the year,
sweetness endures.

​If this story resonates with you and you feel called to explore your own Star Soul—or to connect with loved ones in Spirit—I invite you to reach out.
My name is Jennifer Belanger, Intuitive Practitioner and Medium.
You can learn more or schedule a session at www.energytouchintuition.com.
Every session is an invitation to remember that where love exists, nothing is ever truly lost.

​“Serving clients from Western Massachusetts and the Berkshires, the Capital Region of New York, Southern Vermont, and worldwide via virtual sessions.”

​

When I was a child, December was a world of light.
I grew up in Adams, Massachusetts—a town folded between mountains and memory, where winter came early and the stars always felt close.
My grandparents lived on Park Street, right in the center of town, in a towering house that seemed to watch over everything.
It was a tall, three-story home with a wide front porch and an attic that whispered with the hum of old winters.
Downstairs, my grandfather ran his TV and radio repair shop.
He was the one people came to when their picture tubes went dark or their radios fell silent.
The smell of solder and warm wires drifted through the floorboards, mixing with the scent of my grandmother’s pies and pine.

It was the 1960s, and back then the town dressed itself in light.
In the week before Thanksgiving, workers would climb ladders to hang great strands of bulbs from one side of Park Street to the other.
Not dainty garlands or soft ribbons, but grand, glowing bridges of color—magnificent ropes of red, green, gold, and white that arched across the street like celestial banners.
And on Thanksgiving, at my grandparents home, where we would gather for a feast of gratitude,  we would wait with excitement to see the lights turned on.
When the switch was flipped, the whole world changed.
From our big front windows, we’d watch the lights come alive—one string, then another, until the entire street shimmered like a river of stars.
At the end of the road stood the enormous Christmas tree, crowned with a bright, blazing star that felt almost alive.
We’d press our faces to the cold glass, the laughter of cousins and uncles and aunts spilling through the house, and the scent of turkey and cloves heavy in the air.
I remember the warmth of it, the hum of belonging, and something deeper that stirred quietly in my chest—something I didn’t have words for then.
It wasn’t just joy. It wasn’t just family. It was truth.Connection.
A sense of the eternal standing right there in the glow of ordinary life.

Years later, I would learn its name.
The Star Soul. 
​The upper soul. The higher self.
The divine bird perched upon the unseen branches of the World Tree, seeing the expanse of our lifetimes all at once.
It was there even then, perched above the lights, whispering through the laughter, reminding me that the feeling I had—of being part of something so vast, so achingly beautiful—wasn’t imagination.
It was remembrance.

Thanksgiving ran into Christmas, a month of glorious lights, music,shopping, and festivites throught my small town, and the feeling of connection would fill me as much as the candy straws my grandmother always had near the front door during this season.
​
For many years, my grandmother’s tree was topped with a star, and it shone through the front window like a beacon.
But one year, she replaced it with an angel.
I remember asking her why, and she said softly, “Because the angels live with the stars.
The stars and the angels are one.”
I never forgot that.
The angel she once placed upon her tree now sits atop mine, glowing quietly through the seasons. Every time I lift it into place, I think of her words and how deeply true they are.
The stars and the angels are one.
The heavens and the soul are one.
The child I was and the woman I am—they are one.

We don’t see the lights crossing Park Street anymore.
The banners of glory are gone, and the tree still stands each year, but the magic feels quieter now. The laughter has softened.
The gatherings have changed.
And sometimes I think that what we’ve lost isn’t just tradition—it’s a kind of soul light, a connection to wonder itself.
But the Star Soul never leaves us.
It is the shimmer that still flickers in our hearts when we look up at the night sky.
It is the light that knows us through every lifetime.
It is the same pulse that mediums touch when they call upon the guidance that loves unconditionally—the voice that says, You are never alone.
You are of the stars.

In my adult years, I have come to understand what that childhood wonder was truly showing me.
It was never only about the lights, or the tree, or even the family gathered close—it was about the language of the soul calling me home.
As I grew and my path as a medium unfolded, I came to see that what I had felt in those earliest moments was not outside of me at all.
It was the Star Soul itself—my own higher self—reaching through time, reminding me that love is eternal, that spirit is never lost, and that nothing, not even death, can extinguish the shimmer of connection.

The Blood Soul roots us in lineage.
It carries the pulse of those who came before—their joys, their wounds, their stories written into our very veins.
The Bone Soul grounds us in form, in the living memory of the earth itself, in the endurance of those who built and broke and built again.
But the Star Soul… the Star Soul lifts us beyond it all.
It is where forgiveness is born.
It is where love expands past the limits of grief and time.
It is where we remember that we are multidimensional, ever-becoming, ever-rising beings—that like the stars, we do not die.
We shimmer across lifetimes, carrying our wisdom forward, crossing the veil again and again in the name of growth, compassion, and divine reunion.

As a medium, I feel this every time Spirit speaks.
The Star Soul allows me to hear not only the words of those who have passed, but the echo of their higher understanding—their evolution, their peace, their love.
It is the bridge between the worlds, the part of us that remains alight no matter what endings come.
Nothing is ever promised in one lifetime.
That is the grace of the Star Soul.
We return again and again, guided by that eternal light, learning, forgiving, remembering.
And in every moment of connection—every whisper from Spirit, every message of love—we are reminded that we have never truly left the heavens. We have only come here to remember them.

May your Star Soul shine bright through every shadow.
May your Bone Soul anchor you to the wisdom of those who walked before.
May your Blood Soul remind you that love, once born, never dies.
I am of blood.
I am of bone.
I am of stars.
We are one in three—roots, branches, and tree.
​May this always be.

If this story resonates with you and you feel called to explore your own Star Soul—or to connect with loved ones in Spirit—I invite you to reach out.
My name is Jennifer Belanger, Intuitive Practitioner and Medium.
You can learn more or schedule a session at www.energytouchintuition.com.
Every session is an invitation to remember that where love exists, nothing is ever truly lost.

​“Serving clients from Western Massachusetts and the Berkshires, the Capital Region of New York, Southern Vermont, and worldwide via virtual sessions.”