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.

Outside the tempest raged and ravaged the ship's hull, thunder crashed shaking their very bones, bodies trembling, legs aching from bracing against the sea’s wrath. It could have been hours, days, minutes but felt like an eternity. Exhaustion was heavy, slumping down atop the cedar chest, everything was slick, wet, the leather bindings dark, brine thick on the air. Sailors gnawed and gnashed either cloves or tobacco to keep alert, the sharp, earthy scents mixing as they shouted quips and orders to one another. The storm settled and the ship no longer thrashed, the clanking of pots and pans predominated the night as Cook stewed dried figs, brandy and spices, stomachs rumbled reminiscent of the previous thunder.  

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.  

It was a striking rust red sunset wrapping the evening sky in a fire like blanket above the granite peaks, reflecting off the alpine lake, nightfall creeping closer. Smooth cashmere cloth rested on my shoulders, slipping slightly as I leaned forward to devour the most scrumptious black cherry crème brulee I had ever seen, garnished with fragrant fresh mint and tart blackberries and more bright sour cherries. Sitting in front of the cedar cabin, that had stood for generations, I took a bite and melted body and soul into that scene of peace and content, with a warming sip of bourbon passing my lips. Indulgent was an understatement.

Late September, chill, crisp evening air snapped against their cheeks as they approached the Mirabell Garden in Salzburg. The scent of roses scintillated the sense the Baroque layout clean and tidy, everything in its place, not the way nature intended. Nature does not intend, nature is wild, vibrant, and untamable, that was the feeling that was missing in the neat and ordered rows. But life was wild, unhinged, and surprising. Halfway around the world there was so much to notice; architecture, art, food, and libations never experienced. Pungent clove, ripe blackberries, earthy tobacco, fresh roasted coffee beans, bitter orange, chewy, complex, and utterly delectable. Schnapps, winter punch, a roaring beech fire encompassing and deterring the cold, creating a place of reflection after a day traversing the city, taking, and cherishing the days encounters.

New Release...description coming soon.

Sweet, sharp, vibrant, rich spices assaulted their senses as the strolled the dusty aisles of the outdoor market, early morning was warm but not yet unmanageable, vendors beckoning clients closer. Making the most of what the city had to offer, the architecture smooth tan buildings an endless maze to lose themselves amongst, clean linens strung between drying in the sun. Little open cafés lined the square, rickety wooden tables and chairs filled to bursting with locals catching up on the daily news and perhaps a little gossip enjoyed a hot chai to start their day, newspaper crinkling whispers in the barely-there breeze.

Achoo, freshly ground black pepper, the sharp spice tingling his nose and awakening his lust for the roasting leg of lamb turning ever so slowly over the open flames. A ring of river stones encasing the fire, tall grass rustling, crickets chirping, small birds singing, bleating sheep, and stamping hooves of a steady stead, were his only company. Dusk was approaching, the canvas tent now erected for the night, the sunset dazzling, leaning back against the worn leather saddle, still warm from the days ride. The earthy aroma, bringing about a vision of a raspberry red dress flying in the wind, sweet tobacco smoke, a night of laughter, mischievous smiles, and horse races along the open landscape. Snapping out of it as the fire cracked and hissed, he gave the meat another slow turn, steeling himself to another solitary month out in the wide open countryside with the herd.

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.