Dried Mugwort and the Evening Foot Basin
The herb seller tied dried mugwort with red cotton thread before placing it in my market bag. She pressed the bundle flat so the brittle leaves would not scatter among the vegetables.
A bundle tied at the herb stall
The seller lifted several grey-green stems from a deep basket and shook away the loose dust. Her fingers knew where the bundle would bend without breaking. The red thread went around it twice, and the knot sat near the cut stems rather than the leaves.
At home I keep the bundle away from the damp sink. Its smell reaches the cupboard before the door is fully open. When a basin is prepared, the towel and low stool are placed first, leaving a clear path from the kitchen.
The basin is a piece of furniture
Ginger and Sichuan peppercorn appear in other winter basins, yet the human work around them is nearly identical. A family member tests the floor, turns the stool toward the room, and sets dry slippers where they can be reached.
Moxa uses the same plant in a form that requires an ash bowl and open window. The foot basin remains a water object: heavy when carried in, awkward when carried out, and always followed by a floor cloth.
Thread saved for the next bundle
I untie the red cotton without cutting it and wind it around two fingers. The herb seller does the same at her counter, keeping short lengths in a tin beside the scale.
After the basin is emptied, the stool dries on its side. A few mugwort leaves caught at the rim are brushed into the kitchen strainer.