One frigid afternoon in late December, many years ago, my brother and I hopped on a train headed for Grand Central. Upon our arrival, we marveled briefly at the constellations and the narrow walkways between the high windows, before transferring to a downtown express. We couldn’t stifle our grins and the train couldn’t hurtle past the local stops fast enough. It wasn’t my first time in the city, nor my brother’s, but we were young teenagers and that initial independence is (as I’m sure we all remember) just an incredible rush. Besides, our destination was the annual holiday market at Union Square—a treasure trove for the two of us, armed with our summer earnings. We were eager to be enchanted by tinsel garlands and twinkling string lights, by fresh stroopwafels and hot mulled cider (neither of us could even begin to pass for 21).
This little adventure became an instant tradition for my brother and me, and our first stop was always the stall that sold that sweet, spiced cider, the warmth of which penetrated our mittens and made real again the magic of our childhood Christmases, on an otherwise unremarkable winter night.
My brother and I outgrew our teenage tradition—or perhaps we merely lost patience with the crowd. But I continue to herald in the holidays with a hot, spiced drink—more often than not, one I’ve mulled myself. Mulling wine, or cider, is easy, fun, and fast—and it satisfies a certain romantic sensibility of mine, a nostalgia that’s unique to the bleak mid-winter. All you need is a large pot, red wine or apple cider, a handful of spices that can be found at any grocery store, and a heat source. It takes half an hour and there’s hardly any clean up. Trust me; the last thing
I want to do on a cold winter’s night is deal with a sink full of dirty dishes.
Mulled wine is at once cozy and comforting, sophisticated and timeless. Whether you’re hosting a large holiday party, entertaining s few old friends, or watching Doctor Zhivago alone in bed with your phone set to Do Not Disturb, mulled wine makes the mundane magical. Mulled cider is equally delicious and atmospheric—and, absent alcohol, it boasts even greater versatility. On a cold Sunday morning, confronted by a stack of papers that need grading or a deadline that I haven’t yet met, a pot of mulled cider keeps my head clear while melting my stress away (besides, an empty mug is a good reminder to stretch my legs).
In the United States, most mulled wine/cider is spiced with some combination of cinnamon, cloves, and allspice; nutmeg, star anise, and cardamom often feature, but not always. Thin slices of orange (fresh or dried) and whole cinnamon sticks are flavorful and festive additions. There are countless recipes available to those interested in blending spices from scratch, but I prefer to purchase my mulling ingredients in a pre-apportioned mix—lest romanticism outweigh reason, and my wine turn out quite cloven…
My recommendation, after much research and deliberation, is the house blend at Sullivan Street Tea & Spice Company. It’s a classic mix of cloves, allspice, cinnamon chips, and dried orange peel. Organic and affordable, it’s also lively, warm, sweet but not too fruit-forward, and absent any bitterness. Along with your purchase, you’ll receive a straightforward set of instructions—although the Sullivan Street employees are as knowledgeable as they are friendly, and they have always answered my questions thoughtfully.
Choose your cinnamon carefully
The last time I visited the shop, I learned that there are at least two types of cinnamon sticks and one is better for mulling than the other! My love of cinnamon sticks is a large part of my preference for the Sullivan Street mulling spice mix. Most of the spice blends I’ve tried contain ground cinnamon; this isn’t wrong, but I find that cinnamon is more likely to overwhelm the other spices, and even the wine/cider, when it’s ground into a loose powder. Small chips disintegrate at a slower rate and therefore maintain the balance of spices, even when loose cinnamon sticks are introduced to the equation.
When it comes to mulling, there are no rules; rather, there are and have been so many that one might as well make up a few more. Mulling is an ancient method; its definition has varied across kitchens, cultures, and time. We have textual evidence of human consumption of hot, spiced spirits dating back to the Iron Age. In the tenth book of the Odyssey, Circe serves Odysseus’ men spiced wine sweetened with honey and laced with magical herbs to turn them all to swine. Later, Roman authors discussed wine ad nauseam; while most liked their wine watered down, some preferred it spiced and heated. Medieval kings and queens enjoyed mulled wine in the winter, as did anthropomorphic animals in medieval folktales (Reynard the Fox is a favorite). Spirits, fruit, and spices, somehow combined, are a piping hot staple of ice-cold winters all over the world—many recipes have survived history and remain available to us today.
I have no recipe of my own to contribute to this vast and storied collection, but I can offer some general advice:
If you’re mulling wine, don’t worry about the vintage. A cheap red will do wonderfully.
Don’t oversteep your spices! Avoid imbalance and bitterness by keeping your mulling spices contained: a small square of cheesecloth tied with kitchen twine (no blue dye, Bridget!) is my go-to, but a culinary bag or tea strainer will work, too. Remove the spices from the pot after roughly twenty minutes (you may wish to experiment with the exact timing of this).
The perennial exception to the above rule, at least in my mulling practice, is a handful of cinnamon sticks (and perhaps a few paper-thin slices of fruit). I toss these in when I remove the rest of the spices and serve them, sodden, with the mulled wine/cider. I love watching the tightly-wound cinnamon sticks unfurl in the bottom of my cup; they remind me of me, cozy and carefree.
Finally, please do yourself a favor and pre-rinse your mulling pot. Some amount of spice will escape even the most secure container, in slight but stubborn particulate form. The solution, fortunately, is quite simple! After I pour the final cup, I take a moment to toss out any leftover sticks and slices, give the pot a quick but thorough rinse to dredge up all settled particulates, and then leave it in the sink. I can enjoy those final sips all the more when I know that, come morning, I won’t have to soak, scrub, and repeat.
Outliving the holidays
I am no longer interested in suffering the slow-moving, tourist-laden crowds of the holiday market at Union Square, but I will be mulling cider and wine for myself, and my friends and family, all throughout the holiday season—and well into the new year. Because as much as I associate a steaming cup of mulled cider with a bustling holiday market, or a simmering pot of spiced wine with last-minute, late-night wrapping, I know that mulling will work its magic just as well on the quiet, grey days that inevitably follow our festivities—and that’s when I’ll need it the most. When my little Christmas tree is reduced to fragile kindling and the sun shines bright and unforgiving on the dirty slush that lines the streets, I’ll reach for my cinnamon sticks and arm myself with mulling mix. Spring will come again, someday. And in the meantime, what better way to muddle through than to mull all my troubles away?
Sullivan Street Tea & Spice Company, 208 Sullivan St, New York, NY. (212) 387-8702
