Apricots Almonds
Leeks vinaigrette
gentle flavoured grains
sweet fresh rice.

almond blossom tea
green and black
the cathedral inside the fig trees
leaves like large hands
blush striped
and blue black purple figs
ripe and heavy
the heft of grapefruit
tangerine oil, when peel is pulled back
scent of lemon in my hands
eucalyptus honey
bay laurel leaves, definitive green
juniper berries and pinecones
their nuts burrowed deep inside
Quince perfumes house at dusk
leave me wandering
in oily night blooming jasmine.

One crushed cardamon pod at the bottom of inky thick coffee
hot and dark
four
crisp
doughnut
fritters
shiny with ferocious oil
browning, expanding
caramel buttery salty
chocolate melting
like paint on cheek insides
a woman's face against mine
like peaches
or green almond husk
plums with reds and purples
mixed inks
flesh and skin
sour and sweet
love affair with citrus.
the dream of bergamot
one shot of Royal Mandarin juice
limes and kumquats
whole and wagon wheel shapes
quarters, eighths, whole.

Crunchy Hot toast
Crab apple, autumn scented
pears picked once
cold, green, ready.
A Comice's fair complexion
bruised by insults uttered
Walnuts and dried fruit compotes
fireplace warmth
mittens and woolen scarves.

the cherry that protects its stone
and one tiny almond lives within it.
bees who sex flowers to fruit

Thick Arms on Mango Trees
pulp and juice to my elbow
avocados underfoot
i'll take green or ripe guavas
challenging loud seeds between uncertain teeth
lychees in porcupine skin
k'nippes camouflaged in their own canopy.

Demure berries
the most delicate of all
needing sun but not heat
rain but not downpour
bees not birds
fingers but not hands
o raspberry, where art thou?
ripe blackberry?
bloody forearms
mosquitoes in ears, on sweaty neck
blue-purple stains every which way
the pleasure is grand
but fleeting -
Strawberry soup
smooth and seedless
exquisite small strawberries
crawling on the ground to find you -
Summer drunks me with berries promise.

Clamming in Long Island with my Grandfather
they spit and pee and pull you down
The immense strength of mollusk
Seagulls repeatedly dropping from great heights
smashing open tightly sealed lips
our roof a beach
the ground outside the door, white
My mother feeding me the salty sea
raw clams
taste memory
connected to swimming in ocean alive
sand sharks against shins
schools of fish turning in unison
inquisitive little fishes nibbling toes
learning to drive boats first
salted eyelashes and brows
smoked gold fish for lunch.

lox and bagels
gefilte fish
and what does that fish look like?
Scales stuck to my clothes like sequins
guts on the dock
birds at its wooden edge, eager.
Flounder is flat
the swordfish above my bed is very blue
lobster was always delicious
steamers and their liquor
hot roiling boiling steamy sea
chewy, soft, gritty, sweet.

My love for you
as delicious as
all this.

-- March 2001

April is Poetry Month.
For more poems by Shuna Lydon, check in with Eggbeater through this link all month.

The invitation from Tim "Blind Muscat" Patterson was a two-part, April Fool's proposition. First, we'd get to help him bottle a batch of ros&#233, a mongrel mix of this year's Malbec, Syrah, Cabernet Franc, and Zinfandel. Then, there'd be the festive unbottling of the selfsame wine. What better way to celebrate Subterranean Cellars' acquisition of water and electricity? The expansion of the patio and the recent arrival of a BBQ rig were additional excuses for an all-day drink-and-eat-fest.

Though far from a wine expert, I knew I'd be there when I read the menu's magic words: pulled pork.

The newly equipped premises of Subterranean Cellars, with a peek back to the just-assembled patio table.

A barrel of Mourvedre sits patiently in the laundry room.

On Sunday morning a crew of bottlers arrived early. Long before gospel hymns swelled from the church across the street, all the bottles were filled, corked, capped, and labeled.

Out on the driveway, three cases of wine receive corks the old-fashioned way.

With corks securely in place, the bottles then head to the kitchen's high-tech steaming device for capping.

In the dining room, those with sharp eyes and steady hands affix the labels.

"Scheming Beagle" has its own cult following.

A few bottles are removed from the production line. Roughy keeps watch over them as they chill.

Through the day, we enjoyed barrel samples of the Malbec and Cabernet Franc, some Riesling, and Roger Campbell's amazing Mourvedre-in-Progress. A taste each of the 2006 Port and the heady Zort (Zinfandel Port) pretty much put me over the top, so I sat in the kitchen alone with the potato salad until I felt myself again. Overstuffed and inebriated, the official photographer of the event managed to miss documenting much that was worth remembering: the fat, glistening shrimp hot off the grill; the gorgeous salad of watermelon radish and sunchokes; plates upon plates of deviled eggs; and the pulled pork in all its tender glory.

Blind Muscat leads us in a toast to sunshine and wine.

A well-laid buffet never requires guests to put down their drinks.

Guests were as well-mixed as the grape varietals. Color theorists traded cookie techniques with psychologists, Pilates instructors held forth on root vegetables, and investment experts shared pie with graying revolutionaries. Yes, we were in Berkeley.

Driving back across the bridge, I remembered why I settled here in the Bay Area. There are other places for enjoying food, from the hawker stalls of Singapore to the routiers of Provence. New York has its fine service, and New Orleans its exuberance. What ties me to Northern California, though, are how much people here like to cook, always experimenting with ingredients and techniques in their own kitchens, and how generous people are in welcoming new friends to their homes and tables.

Finding good food is easy. Finding food shared with an open heart is true treasure.