In the darkness you inhale juniper and wet stone as you rush along the path. Trying to reassure yourself that it’s gone, you glance over your shoulder. The cabin comes into view and you are practically running now. A man opens the door as you duck inside taking refuge from the frigid night. A fire crackles and you notice steam rising from a pot of simmering mole. The old abode is worn and comforting. Notes of roasted plums, jerky, cherry pie and the cedar tobacco boxes fill the air. Hearing a crack something darts from view through the window. Has it been watching you?

The august sun sets over the hills just as the ferris wheel rises through the thick air to the top of the world. The scent of honeysuckle mixes with the freshly cracked walnuts you have been snacking on. As you descend groundward you smell sweet corn with butter, whipping cream, caraway seeds and gingersnaps. You unwrap your cinnamon toothpick and place it between your teeth before closing your eyes and taking it all in.

Huffing along the cobblestone street, you see your breath in front of you and rub your mittened hands together. There’s a warm glow in every window but you tighten your coat around you and press onward. A door swings open and along with the raucous merriment, scents of eggnog, orange spice cake, freshly whipped cream, dried pineapple, lemon zest and hints of chartreuse spill out into the street. A red-cheeked stranger pats you on the back and guides you inside. He grabs a ramekin from one of the dessert trays being passed and hands it to you. It is filled with lemon curd and thyme and topped with a honeysuckle blossom. You remove your mittens and guzzle a warm caramely liquid from a mug.

White Rhone Blend

Could this be the way, or should you have turned left at that last hedge? You’re lost. Looking up at the towering cedar overhead - the lodestar, you take a quick swig of raspberry liqueur and breath in the scent of sage knowing it must be close. You retrace your steps and begin to think that nothing in the maze looks familiar when something catches your eye. The door, how could you have missed it? It creaks open and memories of your youth and this clandestine place rebound - dried peppercorns, clove, figs, wild blueberries. Sitting knee to knee as cool stream water spatters onto nearby stones to share stolen chocolates from a chalky paper she carried in her apron pocket.

Rounding the corner a cabin came into view. A man resting in the window. Impossible! You are 100 miles from the trail and trying to get lost. The man is drinking Turkish coffee, whittling and plucking cherries and chocolates from a bowl. He invites you in for supper. You're awestruck as he produces sopressata, fig preserves and blueberry compote cooked in chargrilled shells. This is the North Slope, and none of this should be happening.

Bright fresh notes of rhubarb & pomegranate. Young violets, tri-tip tartare & grilled sourdough. Hint of cherry chapstick with a juicy palate and lively finish.

blueberry shrub, wet tombstone, Australian black licorice, allspice, sandalwood, freshly opened strawberry jam jar, tilled soil, cherry chews, Bar-B-Que brush and espresso ice cream.

You are slicing through the rainforest with a machete, cracking open bright citrus, unripe pineapples, watercress scented leaves and pepper plant, when you suddenly find yourself at the base of an immense, spring fed waterfall. The slate sides of the cliff are coated in dewy moss, it is cool, clean and expansive. The 2015 Groundwork Grenache Blanc is your portal to this place, it captures the characteristic balance of refreshment and density of which only Grenache Blanc is capable.

strawberry, watermelon jolly rancher, sweet basil, orange push up pop, white gummy bear, lemon sorbet with sliced strawberry and basil, wax lips

Peach skin, night blooming jasmine, lemon & lime blossoms, homemade vanilla marshmallow, wet moss, honeycomb goats cheese, lemon pith, lemon spritz,

Smelling the 2016 Les Jeunes transports you to grandmother’s garden on a warm late spring day - can of cherry 7up in your hand. As you run from the back porch in search of the best hiding spot you pass a blooming bush of sterling silver roses and smile because you know they are her favorite. Further back you hop over the mint in the herb garden and tiptoe all the way to the fence where a patch of youthfully white wild strawberries are beginning to grow. She finds you as she always does but pulls a strawberry blow pop from her pocket. The perfect consolation.

It was the most dangerous game of the year. Storm clouds, distant lightning, a construction zone and surrounded by grandmotherly homes. Why they chose this lot to play in you’ll never know. As the storm grew, the scents from the neighborhood settled in: plum pies, petrichor, cracked Mr. Sketch black markers, sidewalk chalk, grilled blood sausage, bent iron bar, lilac bush, cherry kirsch glazed apple. You were at bat, distracted by the slip of rain when the ball struck and rang.

The cannonball was heavy. It took all your effort to load it into this iron muzzle. All there is to do now is take aim over the blackberry bushes, cinnamon trees, the fields of drying oolong and hopefully make impact on the wall of the fruit cellar. The crumpled marble mixes with the smashed jars of cherry preserves, clove spiced strawberries and cured meats. The bounty is now for you and your kin. Let the Saturnalia begin!

The vibration of hooves pounding on the earth makes you realize the time. Your dusty bottle of sarsaparilla soda starts to shake. You grab it and take one last draw before walking out of the saloon. Tin containers on a shelf labeled with things like clove, nutmeg and black tea catch your eye as you saunter past the general store. The clerk isn’t looking so you grab a handful of nuts from a barrel and put them in you pocket for later. Patting your horse as you near, you’re entertained by the scent of the new saddle. Before riding off, you tip your hat to the children playing at the ice cream shoppe and smirk at their fudge and whipped cream smeared grins.

She lost her leather sandal. The one with the gold key stashed in the sole. Here you were rooting quietly in the brush behind a the prince's quilted picnic. The nobles passing plates of rare hamburgers, smoked berries, chocolate dusted blueberry ice cream, cherry rugelch, and drams of birch beer. How hungry you are, how thirsty, but the key must be found. Digging under a pepper tree you catch the glint of gold, and return to the royal road.

The fire cracks and his gaze follows the twirling smoke upward. Through the twisted juniper overhead there is a glimpse starlight in the indigo sky. Scents of confectionary blue fruit, cinnamon graham cracker, fennel, smoked meat, dark chocolate and plum hang in the air. Turning the spice covered rabbit on the spit he bites off a piece of venison jerky and follows it with a big gulp of cola from the molded glass bottle in his weathered hand. It took nearly the whole day to ascend to this spot, but it was worth it.

It had to be here somewhere. Taking one last shovel full of earth, you strike the ancient coffee tin. The heavy summer air was doused with cedar, berry flesh and distant fire as you open the box to reveal the perfectly preserved treats from the dream: black pepper crusted blackberry, chocolate flowers, chai bark and strawberry crayons. You kiss the ground, knowing the ordeal would be rewarded.