L’Almanach
Winter 2025-2026
We entered winter quietly. Without a precise date, without any announcement. Simply because, one morning, the silence lingered longer than usual. This time, between an ending and a beginning, is among the most beautiful of the year. Winter settles fully, while the new year still asks for nothing. Time slows. Edges soften.
It is a moment to breathe, to look back without dwelling, and to let what comes next arrive at its own pace. Nothing is written yet, and that is precisely what makes these days feel so open. This Winter Almanach opens here. In this particular stillness, where things begin quietly, before they are noticed.
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It is best read while listening.
There is a kind of winter that does not speak loudly. A winter that cannot be explained, only felt. The sharp cold that takes your breath away. The almost intimidating silence of the mountains, their still summits reminding us how small we are in the presence of nature. Fresh snow softening every sound. Wind slipping through old wooden windows. The gentle fog forming on the glass as night settles in. This playlist was born from those images.
Here, the slow swirl of falling snow. The faint scrape of skates on ice. A distant glow, seen from outside. The quiet movement of a candle flame in an otherwise silent room. The clear cold of the outdoors, and the contained warmth of being inside. Always, the contrast. These are pieces meant for stillness. Music that invites you to slow down, to truly listen, to accept the silence between the notes. Some are soft, others more austere, almost solemn. All of them carry a sense of humility, toward winter, toward time, toward something greater than ourselves.
I chose them the way one chooses a landscape to contemplate for a long while.
To accompany winter days, snowy evenings, and those moments spent looking out the window, thinking of nothing at all. These are the sounds of winter as I love it:
cold, majestic, silent, and deeply calming. To be listened to slowly. The same way one enters winter.
Les Phénomènes Célestes
These pages do not tell what will happen.
They offer a way of moving through the year.
Aries
2026 begins quietly. Something steadies. There is no longer a need to move in order to prove anything. This year invites a slower form of building, grounded in loyalty to what feels true. Courage changes its expression: it becomes silent, yet deeply reliable. By year’s end, the path is recognisable, without explanation.
Taurus
Things are placed differently. 2026 suggests that security does not always come from what remains unchanged. There is room to loosen the grip slightly, without losing grounding. Choices feel more conscious, steps more embodied. Nothing needs to be rushed. What takes shape this year is meant to last.
Gemini
The air begins to circulate again. Ideas arrive, others drift away. Perspectives shift without disorientation. In 2026, thought becomes freer, more intuitive, more alive. Not everything requires organisation. Some things are understood only through movement. The natural rhythm proves more coherent than it first appears.
Cancer
The year feels like a home gently rebalanced. What soothes is kept; what weighs down is released. Protection is redefined: less burden, more discernment. As the months pass, something settles. Life feels more inhabitable, more one’s own.
Leo
Light returns, without effort. 2026 asks very little beyond presence. From summer onward, joy becomes clearer, simpler. There is no need to occupy space; presence is enough. The year offers a reminder: radiance is most beautiful when unforced.
Virgo
Less is done, but better. 2026 allows for loosening without disorder. Structure remains, tempered with greater kindness. Some things are completed without perfection, and that is sufficient. By the end of the year, there is a quiet satisfaction. Nothing excessive. Simply the sense of having respected one’s own pace.
Libra
Balance becomes clearer. Adjustment gives way to choice. Certain relationships find their shape; others fall away naturally. Speech gains clarity, without hardness. In 2026, elegance takes the form of calm, deliberate decisions.
Scorpio
What remains is essential. This year asks for few words, but great sincerity. What lacks depth is released, without regret. Movement continues, guided by a new lucidity. 2026 brings restraint, and with it, freedom.
Sagittarius
Movement turns inward. Exploration continues, now guided by discernment. Some answers arrive slowly, which is precisely what gives them weight. The year suggests that freedom is not always found in momentum, but sometimes in precision.
Capricorn
Simplicity takes hold. In 2026, structures are lightened without being weakened. What can be reorganised is. Ambition remains, but it breathes more easily. By the close of the year, something precious has been gained: space.
Aquarius
Progress is made quietly, yet ahead of its time. Intuitions find more receptive ground. Ideas connect, paths open, often unnoticed. The year confirms something essential: seeing differently is a direction.
Pisces
A page turns, gently. Clarity grows without diminishing sensitivity. Energy is placed more carefully. In 2026, it becomes clear that dreams can be anchored without being harmed. That understanding lingers.
Mots & Atmosphères
In winter, days draw to a close earlier, and with them comes a permission: the permission to read at length. Evenings stretch, the fire settles into its own rhythm, and books once again become places of refuge. Lettres de mon moulin (Alphonse Daudet) reads like a familiar voice carried through the room, warm and alive, one story at a time, perfect for evenings when all one wants is to be gently told a tale. Madame Bovary (Gustave Flaubert) invites a slower, almost hypnotic immersion: a novel to inhabit over time, shaped by waiting, longing, and those inner seasons that feel particularly close in winter.
With Le Père Goriot (Honoré de Balzac), the pleasure of the great novel unfolds fully: a house filled with lives, passions, and dramas, in which one gladly disappears for several evenings in a row. Les Trois Mousquetaires (Alexandre Dumas) brings the sheer joy of storytelling: adventure, friendship, momentum, a reading that warms and reminds us that winter, too, is made for pleasure and movement. Finally, Histoire de ma vie (George Sand) accompanies the season with generosity and breadth, a vast and inhabited book to be opened like a wide landscape and lingered in.
Together, these books are companions for firelit nights and long evenings, chosen for the simple pleasure of being carried away by great stories, when time, at last, seems to belong to us.
Goûts de Saison
In January, the table becomes simpler. It no longer tries to impress. It nourishes, it warms, it sustains. These are the months of roots and winter vegetables, those that have learned to wait beneath the soil: beets, carrots, turnips, parsnips, crosnes, Jerusalem artichokes, celeriac, potatoes. Around them gathers the whole family of cabbages: green cabbage, red cabbage, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, sturdy, honest, deeply seasonal. Leeks, endives, lamb’s lettuce, and spinach remind us that green still exists, even in the heart of winter. Squash and pumpkin linger from autumn, resting quietly in a corner of the kitchen like reserves of softness.
When it comes to fruit, winter does not seek abundance, but light. Lemons, clementines, mandarins, and oranges bring a sharp, almost solar freshness. Winter pears and apples continue to ripen slowly, wrapped in the silence of cellars. And then there are fruits from elsewhere: pineapple, banana, mango, papaya, lychee, passion fruit, welcomed sparingly, like a distant note, never dominant.
In January, certain ingredients naturally come to the fore. Bergamot, rare and precious, illuminates the season with its singular fragrance. Brussels sprouts, long misunderstood, finally find their place when prepared with simplicity. Winter pears, fleshy and discreet, quietly establish themselves as the fruit of the moment.
And yet, even in the heart of winter, something still blooms. Hellebores, often called Christmas roses, open in the coldest weeks of the year, in shades of white, green, and deep purplish tones. Winter heather punctuates gardens with vivid touches, almost joyful, even beneath snow. Camellias offer their full, silent blossoms, as if slightly out of season. Cyclamen, modest and resilient, endure the cold without ever seeking abundance.
More discreet still, snowdrops pierce frozen ground at the very end of winter, sometimes before the season has fully passed. Winter jasmine, with its yellow and sometimes fragrant flowers, reminds us that scent does not belong to spring alone. And then there is mahonia, unexpected and striking, whose clusters of yellow blooms illuminate the darker months like a promise quietly kept.
These winter flowers simply prove that the season is not empty, only more restrained. Like winter tables, they exist through constancy, sobriety, and that discreet ability to bring life where one thought there was none left.
Snow-Light Savoy Cake
This is not a sponge cake, nor a genoise. It is something lighter, more elusive. The Snow-Light Savoy Cake is an old mountain cake, born from a desire to capture air rather than richness. Made almost entirely of eggs and starch, it rises gently in the oven, pale and silent, until it becomes something close to a baked mousse. Barely sweet, delicately scented with lemon and orange blossom, its crumb is fine, white, and fleeting, like fresh snow pressed between the fingers. A cake of altitude and quiet, meant to be enjoyed slowly with tea, in the softened hours of a winter afternoon.
Ingredients
(For a 9–10 inch / 22–24 cm pan)
6 large eggs, at room temperature
½ cup + 2 tbsp. granulated white sugar (120 g)
½ cup + 1 tbsp. potato starch or cornstarch (75 g)
Finely grated zest of 1 organic lemon
1 teaspoon orange blossom water
A small pinch of fine salt
Butter and granulated sugar, for preparing the pan
Preparation
Prepare the pan first. Butter it generously, then coat it lightly with granulated sugar rather than flour, tapping out the excess. This traditional method helps the cake rise evenly while keeping its pale, ivory color. Preheat the oven to 295°F (145°C), convection / fan-assisted. This cake requires a gentle, patient heat; it should dry slowly rather than brown.
Separate the eggs, placing the yolks in a large bowl and the whites in a perfectly clean one. Add the sugar to the yolks and whisk at room temperature for 8 to 10 minutes, until the mixture becomes very pale, thick, and mousse-like. The volume should nearly triple. When you lift the whisk, the batter should fall in a ribbon that remains visible on the surface for a couple of seconds. This ribbon is essential: it forms the airy foundation of the cake. Gently whisk in the lemon zest and orange blossom water, just enough to perfume the batter without deflating it.
Add the pinch of salt to the egg whites and beat them until very firm but still glossy. They should hold a sharp peak without appearing dry.
Begin combining the mixtures by folding one third of the whites into the yolk base to loosen it. Add the remaining whites in two additions, folding carefully with a spatula, lifting the batter from the bottom and turning it over itself. Once the mixture is almost homogeneous, sift the starch over the batter and incorporate it delicately, using broad, gentle movements. Avoid stirring.
Pour the batter into the prepared pan without tapping or smoothing aggressively. Place it immediately in the oven and bake for 45 to 60 minutes, depending on your oven and pan. The cake should rise slowly, remain very pale, and feel set but light to the touch. If the top shows signs of coloring too early, lay a sheet of parchment loosely over it.
When the cake is done, turn off the oven and leave the door slightly ajar for a few minutes. Remove the cake and allow it to rest in the pan for about 10 minutes before unmolding onto a rack to cool completely.
Parfums & Lumières
These are fragrances and flames chosen to accompany the long evenings, the softened mornings, the hours that belong only to winter.
Rituels
A Recipe for the Year Ahead…
Serves one year.
To be prepared slowly, without rush.
Ingredients
A generous base of consistency
Two spoons of curiosity, kept intact
A pinch of discipline, never bitter
A handful of beautiful habits, repeated daily
One cup of patience, well-aged
A few long walks, preferably without purpose
Several books left open on the nightstand
A measured dose of solitude, balanced with chosen company
A touch of audacity, added late, almost unnoticed
Elegance, folded in rather than displayed
Joy, not forced, allowed to appear on its own
Mystery, to taste (never explained)
Preparation
Begin early, before the year becomes noisy.
Lay the foundation with consistency. Not intensity, not urgency, just presence, day after day.
Incorporate curiosity gently. Let it wander. Do not rush it; it bruises easily.
Add discipline in small quantities. Stir until it supports the structure without taking over the flavor.
Fold in your beautiful habits one by one: writing, dressing, cooking, observing. These are what give the recipe its depth.
Let patience rest. Do not disturb. Time will do the work.
Halfway through the year, introduce solitude. Taste. Adjust with carefully chosen encounters.
Towards the end, add audacity, sparingly. It should surprise, not overwhelm.
Finish with elegance. Never as garnish. It must be part of the texture.
Serve warm, imperfect, and unfinished.
Note from Léonce
This recipe improves with time.
It does not perform well when rushed.
It cannot be compared.
And it is never the same twice.
Bonne année.
À propos de L’Almanach
Once, every household kept an almanac: a book of seasons and stars, of harvests, customs, and passing days. My grandmother always had hers, the Almanach Savoyard: filled with lunar cycles, village fêtes, forgotten trades, songs, and stories.
Here, I reimagine that tradition for today. L’Almanach is a seasonal compendium, a quiet collection of inspirations, readings, flavors, exhibitions, words, and celestial notes. Each edition appears with the rhythm of the year, like a volume in a library of seasons. Some things are practical, like fruits and flowers of the moment. Others are poetic: a poem by candlelight, a painting, a French word to savor. And always, a sense of time passing, the beauty of what is now, and will never return.
To leaf through L’Almanach is to follow the thread of the seasons: autumn into winter, winter into spring, spring into summer. Each page, a fragment of a larger whole, a Maison of time, collected slowly, to be revisited whenever you wish.
Épilogue
As for me, I will leave you here, with these winter pages, hoping they have warmed something along the way; the heart, the mind, or simply the passing of time. Winter is not a season to be rushed. It asks us to wait, to settle, to listen. And yet, even within the silence, something is already preparing itself.
I know that other seasons call to me more readily. I am drawn to the return of light, to longer days, to the first signs of movement beneath the surface. Spring will come in its own time, and we will have space to celebrate it together. Until then, I wish you beautiful winter days, calm, inhabited, and alive. And I look forward to meeting you again in the next Almanach.
Léonce.
