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This black charred cedar dark and lavender sea salt cacao mysterious beauty, the color of antique amethyst rings set in silver upon the gnarled fingers of the collector of beasties & faeries and he who cavorts to the wild whisper of the flora vinifera of the Adelaide: El Paso de Robles dry-farmed roots, stretching deep, deep down, in search of precious life-giving water, held tight in rock, yet made available through laborious extraction, pulled to the surface like Persephone slowly wending her way back to the world of the living.
Appellation
Adelaida District
Ancient customs, joyous incantations, and unbridled mirth ignite the soul, a myriad of celestial sparks dancing in the encroaching twilight. Then, the feast. A veritable banquet of taro, succulent slow-roasted pork and the refreshing tang of Kokoda with its notes of coconut and lime. This earthly bounty is further heightened by a cornucopia of nature's most abundantly ripe, exotic jewels: the blush of pink pineapple, the sweet mystery of lychee, the citrus burst of kumquats, the lushness of guava, and the sun-drenched sweetness of mango.
Take yourself on a whimsical journey of the mind, to the Mediterranean coast and its relaxing umbrella shaded cafés. Ancient olive trees offer additional ambiance as you slowly sip on your early evening vermouth apéritif. You are in no rush to pay the tab nor to leave. While you relax, you notice the cool breeze, bringing with it the sounds of friendship, familiarity and commerce from the open-air market just around the corner, along with the smells of fresh cut watermelon, blood orange, feta, kalamatas and strawberries, of course of course. This life is captivating as pomegranate incense wafting from an open door, as the first bite of a red delicious apple, or edible flowers over homemade vanilla bean ice cream.
There’s a trace of woodsmoke in the beams, English lavender from long-gone wash days, cardamom folded into sweet bread baked for innumerable gatherings. You stir a pot of chickpeas with the back of a wooden spoon. The broth is fragrant, alive with a fresh bouquet garni: bay, thyme, parsley, and a little rosemary, echoing what’s come before. The scent rises gently, mixing with the older perfumes the cottage never quite let go of. It feels like a conversation across time.
Moroccan mint and cherry cola-colored petticoats coalesce, swishing softly as they sing their siren song along cobblestone streets smooth as the individual drupelets of a raspberry, or the taste buds dotting the surface of your tongue, interspersed with tantalizing turquoise suits and heady hibiscus handkerchiefs chasing diligently after, offering chartreuse and mezcal lime elixirs, intended to lure astray with their promise of a fantastic Faustian bargain.
