A moment ago I was priming my new humidors. One is fashioned of wood (cedar?), antiquely new, with a single chamber. There is an odd satisfaction in patiently daubing distilled water onto thirsty timber... not too little or it will later suck moisture from the air and thus make brittle the cigars. Not too much moisture, or the wood will warp and rot.
The second humidor is smaller and a far more digital-age affair; The walls are gunmetal coloured ceramic, the dividers plastic as well. The surfaces are padded with some silicate sponge that looks like it was developed by NASA. Here I have merely removed the sponges to soak the whole thing, and am (of my own devising) annointing the back ends of the cushions with just a dab of fairly neutral base oil, hinted with palm and oak.
The wooden humidor is for cigars. The ceramic/metal one is for the wonderful medical marijuana that my misadventures (and associated injuries) have earned me, courtesy of the great State of California.
As I went through the motions of preparing these reliquaries of vice and solace, I remembered... in an earlier time... imparting to all of you how the turning of wine bottles reminded me of tending to and appreciating Cracky pictures. Perhaps there is an analogy in the wood of a humidor as well?
Alas, for the moment I cannot find one. The closest I can come (the thought filled me with joy and longing) is the sequential images of offering Cracky a cigar from my box, then sharing the warm-death-pleasure of one with her.
After all this time together, my friends, I honestly do expect you to understand.