Finalgirl

Delicate, waxy, powdery, almost soapy violets, sweetened by gourmand elements and dusted with a very dry, bitter cacao. The bay leaf is a nice touch and makes this stand out from other violet gourmands I’ve tried. It’s being pulled in a lot of different directions but manages to stay grounded. I find myself really captivated by this one.

A Harry Clarke ink illustration of a boreal forest, the sky full of stars and glowing nocturnal eyes. A vast ink-black sky with such cold, effervescent air as to feel slightly haunted. A bog witch with dirty fingernails tempting you inside with a piece of chocolate cake. An exhumed grave slowly filling with rain.

A midday nap in a barn loft. Hay bales toasted by sunrays peeking through the slats. The knees of your pants stained with sweet dry grasses. Lavender and honey sing gentle lullabies to the wind. Soon you’ll need to get up and finish your chores, but the hay is so soft and warm. One day you’ll look back on this memory as if it were a dream.

A Southern Gothic fever dream conjured by the ghost of Flannery O’Connor herself. Vice and virtue, fire and brimstone. Tobacco stained fingers, acrid bonfire smoke, hot coals and dust. A dead tree struck by lightning. A sermon soaked in bourbon, spoken in manic tongues. Imminent rapture, any day now, any day now. Amen.

Dried tobacco leaves and tins of basil and clove. A honeycomb with bees still attached. Metal tools and tack on the wall, freshly waxed. Workbenches aged with dust and cigarette ash. Curtains that haven’t been replaced since who knows when. Rusted train tracks that lead to places unheard of. A walk from the pantry to the barn, ushered by screaming cicadas and haunted coos of doves.