It wasn’t planned, researched, or even properly thought through. It started the way many small habits do—on a quiet evening when the fridge was nearly empty and the idea of cooking anything elaborate felt impossible. I had eggs. That was it. No real plan, no inspiration, just the basic need to make something warm and edible. That’s when I remembered mugwort. It wasn’t something I grew up using often, but my grandmother mentioned it in passing years ago—usually in the context of simple broths or teas when someone in the family felt run down or restless. Back then, I filed...
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