It might be a glass of wine.
Or a piece of bread or a tortilla or an apple.
Or a cup of water (I’m in high-plains Colorado and water is sacred here, even if it comes out of a tap).
Once outside, I speak my thanks aloud, first and foremost. If I don’t say Thanks for what’s going right, why should the Goddess bother sending more? Then – sometimes – I add requests.
Somewhere in the midst of this, I pour out some liquid, scatter my grain-stuffs. This isn’t because I think the Goddess, the gods – or the divine source, or the Higher Power, or by-whatever-name – are literally hungry or thirsty. That’s physical-world stuff.
My offerings are a form of honoring, and an exchange of energy. Offerings and libations – the liquid portion of these offerings – have an ancient tradition worldwide. I think of offerings as a symbolic giving-back of what’s been given to me.
That’s why I use the good stuff. Offerings can’t be some moldy bread I might fling out for the squirrels, or a bottle of cheap vino I keep just to pour on the ground but won’t drink myself. As per an old adage about not cooking with any wine you wouldn’t care to drink, what’s getting “cooked” here are my goals, my plans, my life. This is worthy of good ingredients.
Offerings and libations needn’t be a fancy-supplies-laden practice. They don’t need to be scheduled in advance. This can be a spontaneous practice, fairly casual and brief, because what really happens here is between you and the deities you’re addressing. And when that happens, life-shifts happen, too.