Confidence oozes from his every pore, eyes cold as blue steel, demeanor gritty as asphalt. The liquor hits him like a torrential winter storm of sarsaparilla, boysenberry, and pomegranate, like cognac sipped neat, as he rests his feet on old Ford truck mats laid down to dry beneath the eves of an open porch way out in the Adelaide. Rolling a fresh cylinder of tobacco between his competent callused fingers, he chews distractedly on black licorice, mint leaves, and purple basil, thinking about all the work not getting done, but the precipitation is critical. Without it, there would be no watermelon radishes, no carnival carrots, no parsley, cilantro, or jalapeños. Rain is the life-bringer, the progenitor of boundless possibilities, like Jack’s magic beans, connecting us to worlds of wonder, realms distinct and separate, exotic as Dominican trinitario cacao, wood-apple Sri Lankan limonia acidissima, hand plucked Chinese white tea leaves and a big bite of dry-cured coppa raided expeditiously from a stuffed Italian larder.

notes by clay selkirk, winemaker & all-around cowboy