Almost a week later, I still have purple stains under my finger nails and my back still spasms a bit if I stand just so. It’s simple math, really — take a 6’3″ out-of-shape guy, make him bend over a sorting table for five hours and you’re virtually guaranteed these sorts of short-term annoyances. But, standing at that table, hands cold and sticky with sweet cabernet franc juice and pulp, plucking green stems (and a little rot here and there) from the belt, talking about everything from the latest presidential debate to school lunches to harvesting chickens, with a group…