Sturm Burn

A still smooth beginning. Polished, not to a shine, but to a grey wholeness. Deceptive motion within the placid sameness, or sameness within the motion. Low hanging fruit, juicy and nutritive drops into and onto the impenetrable surface which grows pitted, complex, cross hatched. Simple flatness gives way to an interplay of light and shadow that is anything but simple. What begins as a disc mutes into a shape that can not be plotted with simple trig.
A pink epic sky. Blue above, pink ahead, but no way of telling what is cloud and what is clarity. Stripes of one in the other and the other in one pose, waiting for the drinker to define them, but glide continuously out of reach at the same speed as the tongue. The sky is a map of Europe, peninsulas sticking out in every direction. It doesn’t taste the way Europe ever looked in school. A rise of lies my teacher taught me.
There is no horizon line. There is no periscope sticking up with one huge blinking eye looking out. Pure warp and weft of growth to peak to the holy coolth afterwards. The calm of a scape that has known storms, just not recently. Small white shapes pop up between wave and wave, cloud and cloud, wave and sky, sky and cloud, the grape and the yeast, the bakery and the town, the june and the porridge, the salt and the sea. They are strange. They are disconcerting, to say the least, but they give the wine its distinct character. It is uniquer than one would think from the humble origins, the proud hills, the forgotten citizens. As unique as possible, there is a wild interplay of glacier and deep empty space.
Nothing is ever empty. Nothing is ever over. Nothing is ever too late.
Nothing is ever too late, but it can be hard to remember the point sometimes. Swells of dark fruit rise up blocking out the pink and blue sky. Little by little. The taste of the sound of crashing. The taste of the smell of home cooking. Seared sea scallops, live sea scallops, and a fishing trawler dragging undersea mountains of to-be-shelled sea scallops.
It’s honest work and doesn’t pay much, but there’s no better feeling than returning to a warm home and homemaker afterwards. A soft bed, a soft chair, a soft dog. A small house full of light and music. Full of the smells of love and food. That’s why he does it. That’s why he brings the close to a close, the finish to a finish, the savor to a savor. For you, for you, and always for you.

Varietals: June, porridge
Food Pairing: Fresh rosemary by the bunch