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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.
There’s warmth, like blackberry pie cooling on a windowsill, like someone cooking pork over mesquite and telling stories that get better with every retelling. You catch the scent of redwood forest, deep, wet earth, old trees breathing. Someone nearby is grinding Ethiopian coffee, laughing. There’s a hint of white pepper in the air. Perhaps cloves. Perhaps memory.
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.
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She flows, ever so silkily across your tortured tongue, decadent as Uni, deftly topped with an unbroken quail egg yolk and freshly diced wasabi, as blistering as scallop ceviche marinating in fresh Fresno chilis, harvested forthwith from the briny calm crystal-clear waters of Santa Cruz Island southwest of Santa Barbara. Like diving bravely in from under sail, your only choice is to jump right in. Oh, and her perfume, yes, her perfume dazzles with dollops of honeydew melon, sprays of star jasmine, sashays of saltwater and fragrant Santolina flowers, cool and comforting like a chilled Crimson Sweet watermelon slice on a hot summer day.
