I Dream A Lot, In Colour And

Wine Talks; Ask Anyone. The Oracle At The Street Corner; The Uninvited Guest At The Wedding Feast; The Holy Fool. It Ventriloquizes. It Has A Million Voices. It Unleashes The Tongue, Teasing Out Secrets You Never Meant To Tell, Secrets You Never Even Knew. It Shouts, Rants, Whispers. It Speaks Of Great Plans, Tragic Loves, And Terrible Betrayals. It Screams With Laughter. It Chuckles Softly To Itself. It Weeps In Front Of Its Own Reflection. It Revives Summers Long Past And Memories Best Forgotten. Every Bottle A Whiff Of Other Times, Other Places, Everyone...a Humble Miracle

Drunkeness, She Told Us In A Rare Moment Of Confidence, Is A Sin Against The Fruit, The Tree, The Wine Itself. Wine, Distilled And Nurtured From Bud Into Fruit; It Deserves Reverance. Joy. Gentleness. (page 194.)

I Am Not At All A Chocoholic. I Would Rather Eat Anchovy Toast.

Guilleaume Left La Praline With A Small Bag Of Florentines In His Pocket; Before He Had Turned The Corner Of Avenue Des Francs Bourgeois I Saw Him Stoop To Offer One To The Dog. A Pat, A Bark, A Wagging Of The Short Stubby Tail. As I Said, Some People Never Have To Think About Giving.

I Carried Recipes In My Head Like Maps.