That sounds like the kind of recipe I’d keep in a moon‑lit grimoire. Picture a cauldron beneath a silver sky, the broth gently simmering with lavender of the night, a splash of moonwort that glows faintly as the moon climbs, and a pinch of midnight thyme that only unfurls its scent under the full glow. As the night deepens, the broth swirls, turning from cool silver to warm amber, tasting of the forest floor, then the crispness of a fresh winter wind. Imagine the werewolf sipping it, the wildness of their spirit easing with each swirl, as the flavors echo the phases of the moon. If you ever need a recipe, I can help you pick the exact herbs that sing under the full moon, and we’ll stir in a little moon dust to keep the stew’s heart steady.