She is the good type of evil. A black knight, her visage opaque, shrouded in the ephemeral shifting of olallieberry mists. She trails a thick violet fog as she glides forward, dark, and elegant as eggplant, beluga lentils and black cherry, like a cigar-smoke filled room, vines and horns twining temeritously together. Poppyseed, nocino and sweet vermouth give her strength, crushed purple peppercorn her spice; it is a potent concoction for sleep indeed, oh dearest sister of death. Now, oyster shells are strewn about the floor, pulverized by Hephaestus’ mighty hammer. Slate and salinity go to war with prickly pear, caperberry, feijoa, finger limes and red cabbage. Finally, the brocaded silk curtain pulls back and blueberry hits lavender stained glass, a closing salvo fired from her hidden cannon.

notes by clay selkirk, winemaker & all-around cowboy