My feet are tired

My back hurts.

My hands don't work very well, having deconstructed at least 40 cardboard boxes today.

And I have a freakin' bandaid wrapped around the tip of my wedding ring finger, making it very difficult to type coherently. (Note: This is an issue completely unrelated to the spice trade. . . an unfortunate misdirection of a kitchen knife a few days back. But still... this bandaid.)

Today, along with 2 co-workers, I helped 164 people buy spices and herbs (well, in journalistic accuracy, probably 162, because 2 people came back, having forgotten something they needed) at my  spice shop hobby job.

I am semi-prostrate/semi-paralyzed on the living room floor. . . and smiling.

Because September 30 may be the most magical day in the world and history of spices and herbs. It is the day that seems to give us all permission to let go of summer's light, ethereal, instant meals of fresh produce and protein and start thinking of fall (and winter) -- of the things we make, consume, store and hoard that are rich and savory, family and tribal, traditional, enduring, filling, all dependent on a redolent pathway of spices and herbs that keeps us sane during the shadowed days and nights of winter kitchens.

Customers today were making caraway cookies from an 1850s hand-written recipe. . . 15 pounds of sausage. . . watermelon-pickled zucchini. . . homemade mustards. . . limoncello. . . caramelized-onion gravy. . . pots of chili and platters of enchiladas. . . roasted-tomato sauces. . . pies (apple pies!). . . hot chocolate. . . pot roasts. . .  secret-family-recipe soups,  stews and goulashes. . . stuffed peppers and cabbages. . . and, oh so many oven-roasted autumn gifts: onions, potatoes, sweet potatoes, beets, carrots. The energy of cooking in fall/winter is dynamic - sometimes a comfy blanket, sometimes something that wakes us up from the sleepiness of meatloaf.

Tonight. I'm temporarily paralyzed. But already thinking about making my own mustard. And split pea soup. Picked up the ham bone today.