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The sharp sweet flavor of damson is perhaps the best and most uniquely memorable thing that I can vouch for about Christmas in the ancient kingdom of Britain. The tart fruit juice making the ethanol of cheap vodka a theory rather than a shared profile. A long drive down a dark lane between tall trees to a white house on a bend with a family and a tradition and a bottle of purple fruit stuffed liquid that speaks volumes about the food history of a tiny island. Damson. I think one day I will name a dog that, a white dog with shaggy ears. A perfect sort of companion for walks under wet boughs and along the bright green lanes of Ireland in june.

Oh Ireland. The sister kidney to the dark and dreary lands of my nightmares. A summer sister, younger of age and older of soul with a bright tarnished sort of flavor. The sour apple juice flavor of cider gone warm in the palm of your hand while the shades of tragedy are mapped across a sky too perfectly blue to even both taking a photograph of. The filters will break the perfect harmony. And the reality cannot consider approaching the majesty of adobe’s finest saturday night suite.

A crumble meant to be wet at the bottom, a sort of designed half mistake. Is that what comes of growing past prime, of withering on the vine intentionally. Of contracting, the noble rot. Is there a flavor better than the sugary rotten slick of thickened juice in a berry gone to grey in the vines? I suppose it would depend on which sister were in your bed that night.