My Cardboard Balcony

Pistachio Butterflies by Belinda Roddie Salted, roasted, dried crystalline wings served in a shallow glass bowl. Crispy and flavorful, hot and playful, delicate and fleeting, the kind of taste you feel guilty about once the prism dies in your mouth.

There was a barrel full of very dark, very rich wine in the cellar. The smell was pretty damn palpable. I couldn't walk by without getting a whiff of what seemed like a mix of elderberries and orange pulp. Very fruity and very tangy. I could almost taste it on my tongue just by inhaling. My oldest cousin, who owned the vineyard, told me that it was a very special wine. His grandfather had made it for years, but he never bothered to sell it. It just sat there. Bewitching those who caught the odor.