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.

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.

Grenache 78.8%/ Petite Sirah 21.2%

Cigar smoke curls and careens around the gas lamps dimly illuminating the mahogany paneled elite members only club, as a glossy burgundy Packard V12 Victoria pulls to a stop at the well distinguished carved marble entrance. A small iron key is required to enter and a pedigree that dates back at least 200 years, to say you would be snubbed for less would be the understatement of the century. Collar and coattails stiff and starched, he searches for an unoccupied deep leather pin-tucked barrel chair to sink into and discuss the deal of a lifetime he plans to swindle his way across town. In a crystal bowl sits a pyramid of ripe juicy strawberries, dusted with cacao that was imported from South America by the club’s board president. He smooths his thick black mustache, carefully picks an unassuming book from the library stacked floor to ceiling and contemplates which of his various targets to sway first. The family fortune sunk into a now dying railroad company, options have become limited to keep up the facade of a well to do gentleman.  

Mirthless meandering marauders, eagerly escalating excitement encompassing the encampment, ruthlessly raging against ragged ramparts, loudly leveraging laden leviathans with legendary and lethal levity, obliterating obstacles and obstinance overwhelming and outwitting the oodles of oafs, taunting tenacious tactics to turnover tutelage of the town.

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 wind whips and whistles through the swaying lodgepole pine trees scattered along the rugged landscape, coals still smolder red in the fire pit ready for another log, ash scatters and sparks fly. Rich coffee pulled from the saddle pack perks up my weary senses, giving a warmth to my body and mind before the first sip touches my lips. Hands stained by tart raspberries collected meticulously out of the wild unruly brambles that grow along the fresh cool spring. The earthy bright scent lingers in the cool Pacific Northwest air. Fresh elk backstrap pounded and ready to grill, my mouth waters in anticipation as the Szechwan peppercorns crack and scatter over the meat. I look about for the sack of matsutake foraged in the early morning mist, their spicy aromatic odor tingling my nose as I open the bag and set about achieving the meal I have labored toward since my eyes squinted open at the break of day.

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.

Her father always told her, ‘girls don’t sweat, they perspire’. With the sun beating down and the air sticky with humidity, her eyes rolled at the memory of the ever-repeated phase, it was too hot to think how to describe the way her body was reacting to this otherworldly location. The markets were busy and bustling with people, goods, sounds and smells. Oh! the smells were tantalizing. The excitement was palpable as she and her brother sat down at a stall for seafood pho and Bahn mi sandwiches. Across the aisle fresh goods were stacked in woven baskets and along tables; Meyer lemons, finger limes, cumquats, lemon basil, mint, lemon grass, oregano, thyme and many other unknow fruits, vegetables and herbs. Their tummies satiated, the next leg of their journey planned, it was time for a nap in the air-conditioned room, before venturing out after sunset in the pursuit of their next great meal.

Description coming soon.....