There is absolutely nothing like sitting around the campfire, toasting marshmallows to the color of young strapping leather reflecting burnt orange zest flames over raspberry-red hot coals, deep and vibrant as rhubarb, forbidden as pomegranate, and dangerous as a freshly lit sulfur match in a storage room briming with gunpowder whilst the constellations zip around overhead in their infinite immortal dance. Oh, but the eyes have no choice; like a moth drawn to a tart cherry flame, or those demented enough to enjoy the subtleties of culantro sharp horror flicks, attention is drawn inescapably to the burnished brass tinder box, the magnesium bar tossed in a crystal-clear bowl of water, the rattlesnake buzzing beneath ginger garlic lemon toes. Just the tip of the orange creamsicle iceberg protrudes, hinting at the depth and power beneath, of taste bud altering Sichuan peppercorns, of gigantic Yellowstone mudpots of wild timur thrown generously into a hearty stew of bovine delights, with multi-colored carrots and Peruvian potatoes of course; then they shall be whipped by salted caramel and stuffed into the proverbial boar’s mouth like an apple plug stopping up the gluttonous engorgement of lion’s mane and green cardamom. Take from this as you will, but if nothing else, pop a pot of juniper and sink your nose firmly into the parchment pages of an old manuscript from a dusty and secluded library.

notes by clay selkirk, winemaker & all-around cowboy