Wind howls like a wounded coyote.

Outside.

Rain pelts down the tall window panels, but

Inside

steam rises from the twenty-quart pot.

Lemon zest kitchen walls comfort.

Flatware is wrapped in paper,

lined up on a red cloth covered card table,

like soldiers ready to do battle with

cubed melon and

orange tomatoes bursting

with the sweet smell of summer earth.

Lettuce ripped carefully so as not to bruise its tender fibers,

filled with warm pulled chicken.

Twelve women surround the pot,

rennet, cow’s milk, thermometer laid out like a surgeon’s tools

Watching, sipping

Grapes distilled, pressed, bottled,

nourishing their passion.

A quart-size vintage blue Mason Jar

is passed

to the woman on my right

heavy cream trapped

inside.

She wears a sly knowing smile, a watermelon themed apron and auburn curls that kiss the nape of her swan-like neck.

Shake, shake, shake.

Wrapped around the warmed glass

container.

My hands

a blanket of security.

Purpose.

The contents

a mess

of in between.

Almost.

Soft billowy heaven

ready to slather on fluffy buttermilk biscuits,

slip down nuggets of corn

on the cob,

scooped into a pastry bag.

Rose petals.

Starbursts.

Thick teardrops that look like Hershey’s Kisses.

I spin on a merry go round.

Cannonball into cool lake water.

The timer chirps

As the yeasty aroma breaks into applause.

The contents of the jar

Solid like the cherry wood cabinets

In my kitchen sanctuary.