something's calling me

I'm sensing slight restlessness. What's going on here? My taste buds are requesting, more urgently now, that I go down to the kitchen. There, in the small fridge, is a chunky jar that sounds like a maraca when I pick it up. Filled with gorgeous cashews that I roasted with a tiny sprinkling of olive oil and liberal dousings of tamari. The darker they are, the more delicious.