A Table Built by Many Hands

The week felt like it had its own pulse. Not fast. Not slow. Just steady, the way it gets right before a holiday when everyone is half working and half thinking about the side dishes they promised to bring. Someone joked that the building smelled like determination mixed with oregano. Another person admitted they had reached the part of November where coffee counts as emotional support. Familiar territory. 

Gratitude came up during a break in the blending room. Bassma said the season always makes her look at the work with softer eyes. Jason nodded while rubbing the sleep from his face because the morning arrived earlier than he wanted. Brandy laughed that this is the time of year when everyone pretends they’re not dreading the relative who overshares at the dinner table. The mood was honest and strangely comforting.

We started with the growers. People who wake up before the sun has opinions. People who read the soil the way musicians read sheet music. They stay patient when the weather tries its best to ruin everything. They coax herbs into becoming their best selves long before we ever see them. Kai talks about them with the kind of respect usually saved for legends. In truth, they are. 

The production crew came next. The ones who move through the warehouse like a seasoned orchestra even when they’re tired enough to consider napping inside a pallet of peppermint. You can hear them laughing between batches, trading stories, finding a way to keep the place alive through long stretches. They give every herb its dignity, even on the days when no one can remember where they put the good scissors. 

Then came the customers. The tea brewers. The small shops where someone hand writes labels at midnight. The herbalists who treat plants as though they can sense every intention. They turn simple ingredients into something that feels close to magic. They write emails that make us grin, shake our heads, or forward them to each other because they’re too good not to share. They’re part of the story more than they realize. 

Thanksgiving always circles back to the table. The one where everyone pretends not to notice the cousin arriving with the dish no one trusts. The one where families negotiate seating arrangements like a diplomacy exercise. The one where someone burns something and someone else swears they followed the recipe. Yet even with the chaos, the table holds. Every year it holds. 

So here we are. Grateful for the land. Grateful for the growers who carry wisdom in their hands. Grateful for the teams who keep this place moving even when eyelids are heavy. Grateful for the people who brew, blend, cook, sip, and create with the plants we send into the world. 

And grateful for the small, imperfect, hilarious, heartfelt pieces that remind us why we gather at all. 

From all of us at Starwest, may your holiday be full of good food, real laughter, and only a manageable amount of family drama.