Jon Parmentier and a wonderful handmade sachet filled with Maine Christmas tree balsam that just transported me and, yeah verily, led me astray to strong drink. (YO HO, I hear the pirates sing).
When I was growing up my parents found the resources to haul all of us up to Cape Cod each summer for a week. The cheeky Hyannisport address might impress some but we stayed in a cold water, knotty pine cabin. I did wave at the Presidential yacht as it motored by one day on it's way back to Hyannis next door.
We slept in wooden bunks that were just the size of a small man's coffin and I loved every minute we were there. One of my prized possessions was a little calico cat that was stuffed with balsam needles. To this day, the scent of seacoast pines does me way better than Calgon.
I couldn't sleep last night; fretful with small mother-worries, so I went downstairs and poured myself four fingers of some Pacific coast grape's blood and drank it down like medicine all the while trying hard to taste the wonderment promised on the artsy label when all I could find was red kerosene.
So I lay awake in the dark, mildly drunk, with my Ipod in my ears and the little balsam sachet balanced over my wakeful third eye, until about 4am.
Now the house is redolent with sausage and peppers and noisy with men working on machines and I'm getting sleepy and must nap because I have to work at 3:45. Kefaya! Tonight I will start picking scraps for those envelopes.