Ah, the most wild tale I’ve ever heard is that of the Moonlit Grove and the Ember Stew. It began in a forgotten village where the villagers claimed that at the stroke of midnight, the night air itself tasted of cinnamon and wild berries. They’d gather under the silvered branches of the ancient cedar, stir a pot of broth made from roots that glowed faintly, and sprinkle a pinch of crushed moonstones—just enough to give the dish a subtle, starry sparkle. The story says the stew was whispered into the recipe by an old woman who claimed the forest spirits fed her, and that whoever tasted it would remember the night they first saw their own reflection in a still pond. It’s a recipe, yes, but it’s also a secret that reminds us that even the simplest midnight snack can carry a whisper of forgotten lore.