Beneath copious strands of cured sausages dangling from hand hewn rafters, the butcher, deftly ducking between and ever so gently brushing against the soft feijoa colored mold blanketing their skeins, is dusted in sal de championes like a plump mascarpone stuffed profiterole, decadent as Dominican mocha indulgently paired with pan dulce, as he goes about his business wrapping a final order of smoked bacon in parchment for an anxiously awaiting customer. With the day soon coming to a close, waking dreams intrude, of hiking in the hills and fields through aromatic blossoms of violet and delicate mulberry flowers, betwixt fresh tarweed and broken birch branches, as he seeks solitude and solace in the warming chili pepper embrace of the earth and cool cucumber dill waters of the mountain streams and pools. Finally, as the blood orange sun begins to set, he returns to the task at hand, deftly locking and baring the door against the coming Oaxacan cocoa and nocino night. Before departing he pauses, squinting his eyes as he looks out into the gloom, his hunger growing, cunning as a crocodile lingering in the papyrus patiently awaiting its next meal, he slithers down the path in search hearty grub, and ultimately the familiar comfort of hearth and home.

notes by clay selkirk, winemaker & all-around cowboy