I made a delicious thing today. Juiced Concord grapes poured into tall shot glasses, frozen till slushy and granita like, and then eaten with long, thin spoons to get to all that tannic, purple grape essence. I love Concord grapes, they're my favorite kind. In fact, the only kind of grape I eat out of hand. All other varieties, I prefer roasted with a little sherry vinegar and eaten with serrano ham. But Concords. Their spiky tannins put up just enough resistance to make the simple act of snacking just a little complicated. I love the extreme contrast between skin and flesh. A slippery and surprising unmasking. Today, I smeared the skin and pulp remnants from my juicer cup all over my hands as I was washing the machine out. My hands were stained a dramatic, romantic violet. I could see so much in that wash of color: dark flowers, somber drapes, the swish of a silky veil, a stained lip.
Concords juiced in this way could serve as a dramatic foil to a swirl of mascarpone, or a plop of sweet clotted cream, chased with buttery shortbread. All this imbibed while lounging on a purple divan, of course, or resting languid around a dark wood table with antique candelabra sputtering inconsistent light, Dead Can Dance's lament as background. So goth, so hot!