The vast cathedral sits empty this morning, as the light from the ruby stained-glass windows warms the woman through her thick wool coat. She looks for some solace from the bitter, unsympathetic fall breeze. The organ is a thing of pure beauty with its tall, intricately carved pipes reaching almost to the curved, tiled ceiling above. Its antiquity and its strength booming from within, the musical sounds transcending the silence and solitude of one’s own thoughts. The woman reaches into her coat pocket, encircling the chocolate treat she protects for her dearest, whom she has not seen in thirteen long years.

DESSERT STYLE ZINFANDEL BARREL AGED FOR 15 YEARS.

New Release

Her favorite time of year harvest is approaching, the Montmorency cherries hang bright red from the branches, their juice tart and tangy and very much threatened by the children and birds. It is uncertain who poses the greater hazard to the fruit.  Like thieves they run about with juice dripping from their chins, sticky little hands reach greedily into the branches, the bravest and most reckless of the bunch climbing high off the ground. SNAP! The branch gives under his weight and down he crashes, limbs sprawled across the grass, cherries peppering his body as they are shaken loose, and a mouth full of rich dark earth is all he is left with for his trouble. She smiles from the open kitchen window but does not let out the laugh held back behind her clenched teeth, maybe this will teach him not to steal from the neighbor’s tree, but she doubts the lesson will last much past the faded embarrassment from the fall. Boys will be boys after all.

Mr. Warm Paws with a bold, brazen disposition ready at all times for an adventure in the pickup truck. Strong conformation, eyes that warm your heart and a smile, although missing a few teeth, is infectious and comforting. Barreling down the dirt drive, dust flying in his wake, you are greeted by paw pounding excitement and the earthy scent of sweet sage brush, similar to the way the canyon smells on hot day in late summer. As we enter the halved wine barrel garden along the terraced hill, he sniffs at the various plants; sweet strawberries, ripening bell peppers, cherries hanging heaving on the tree and the juicy plums just turning from green to a rich burnished purple with the promise of stained lips.  

Description coming soon.....

The whiskey barrels, now empty thudded against one another hollowly as the wagon creaked and trundled down the barren dusty road. Dusk was upon them and soon the light would be scant but the danger was still strong and not worth the risk of stopping to ease their tired bones. Their faces were sweat streaked and smeared with cedar smoke, dust, and the days trials. Arlo was suffering from a toothache and chewing on cloves to settle the pain as best he could, eyes sharp he scanned the surrounding woods, they felt ever watchful and ominously closer as the deep purple night drew nearer. The men’s hands were stained from blackberries discovered before their meeting earlier in the day, the tart and sweet taste was only a memory now as their stomachs rumbled with fear and hunger.

New Release...description coming soon.

Her lips looked like the tart sour red cherries, that taste so good, so juicy right out of the basket, while wandering up and down the stalls on a warm summer evening at the downtown Farmer’s Market, we came together but would pursue our own priorities. I could smell the tikka masala simmering, street corn, artichoke, steaks grilling and churros turning, as smoke wafted through the air from the neighboring oak wood metal barbeques hitched to the back of the catering trucks. Deep dark red roses were for sale, advertised on neon signs clipped to white five-gallon buckets, your standard addition that you see at most hardware stores. I bought three dozen for forty-five dollars, I was late and jogged to our meeting point under the tall pepper tree, heavy with pink berries, back behind the old mission.

Pretty pretty Paisley, pretty as you please. Her lips as bright as cranberries, she does not get weak at the knees. Tough as nails our Paisley, with strength and opportunity of youth. Quick of wit, low on wisdom, always ready with the truth. The wood stove smelling of sage brush, releases a light wisp of smoke. She settles in for the evening, surrounded by her folk. Warmth of heart and body, cozy as can be. She reflects upon the stars and considers no one as lucky as she.

New Release--Description pending.

New Release--Description pending.

The pineapple upside down cake was absolutely glorious and there was no way I was putting it out at the start of this picnic. The batter was creamed butter, vanilla crumb magic that covered soft yellow rings of the juiciest fruit, dotted with cherries for tradition. No extra decoration required for this beauty; it is downright irresistible. The picnic starting to wind down it was time to bring out this show stopper. As most in the crowd were leaning back foundered by the day’s delights, my cake was safe from being totally devoured by the masses of family. That leftover slice, tomorrow as the sun just peaks over the hills, is all that will get me through those first few hazy hours of the day.

Deep in the woods far beyond the lake's edge there resided a lonely girl, who dreamed of far away lands and unfathomable beauty. Left to herself, she cultivated a verdant garden, boasting of luscious orchards of tart lemon, sweet apples, and ripe juicy apricots. She loved to work with her hands in the dirt, her hair constantly falling loose from her long golden braid, but no one was around to worry or remark on her appearance. Life was peaceful, pleasant and when she felt alone, she listened to the sounds of the birds in the trees and the swishing grass in the wind for company. Tonight, she would have a treat of caramelized apricots with sheep’s milk cheese and crusty brown bread, the earthy creamy sweetness made her salivate in anticipation.

Honeysuckle’s sweet fragrance swam through the humid afternoon breeze, lending relief and a soft caress to the peak of the day. The season changing and orange blossoms blooming on the trees all up and down the canyon. Linen cloths hanging upon the line between large sycamore trees the light dancing and winking as the laundry swayed. Golden, citrine beams beautiful and pure across the worn plank table, scuffed and scratched from years of family use, Meyer lemons roasting in the oven, milk boiling on the stove for fresh ricotta, mouthwatering aromas that is what made the house a home, the feeling these scents, tastes and memories brought about was almost too overwhelming to step through the door. A glass of wine poured and a gesture to the well-loved leather chair, senses settling, a sigh of content, feet up glass in hand dripping with perspiration. The first sip, bright, quenching, and smooth.

Gracefully sashaying down the stone path lined and often covered by climbing jasmine vines, the sent was intoxicating and lively. Summer was upon them, the heat lifting from the stones through the soles of their feet, laughter echoed on the breeze and wrapped tightly around their hearts. Nothing could beat the freedom felt by a day of leisure soaking in the brine glittering pools, munching on tart plums, lying back in the sand after a long day in the sun, to watch the stars come out, one by one and telling stories of days past but never forgotten.