Spices once sparked wars, paved trade routes, built fortunes. Even now, a whiff through the perforated plastic lid evokes distant lands, terrible plunder, sacks of gold.
Which might explain the spice-rack back bench. What modern kitchen lacks an ancient tin of paprika, aged nub of nutmeg or dust-crusted container of cumin? Few. The herb and spice stash _ though faded to flavorless _ serves up respect.
And commands restraint _ even after resupply. Like the picture frame or flower girl, the herb sprinkle is tasked with enhancing _ not upstaging _ the main event.
So when a dish flouts the rules, it's a thrill.
Consider pesto salad. Not salad garnished with a sprig of basil, thyme or parsley. But salad compiled from basil, thyme and parsley. Nothing but the good stuff, in abundance.
The approach might strike the cook as lavish, indulgent, wanton. Leaving a lot to relish.
