Oh, that night was a spell in itself, stirring the jars with whispers of the past, not a recipe at all, and I still can’t remember if we ever measured the spices—s spoons always feel like a cage. I’d love to make that cinnamon‑spiced mulled apple potion, but I’m still hunting the old card that says “pour until the heart hums.” Why not wait till spring, then I can hand‑deliver the mason jar to your doorstep instead of texting you about it, because even the kettle is a bit suspicious these days.