21
" He always planted at a new moon and picked when the moon was full. He had a lunar chart in his greenhouse, each day marked in a dozen different inks; brown for potatoes, yellow for parsnips, orange for carrots. Watering too was done to an astrological schedule, as was the pruning and positioning of trees. And the garden thrived on this eccentric treatment, growing strong, luxuriant rows of cabbages and turnips, carrots which were sweet and succulent and mysteriously free of slugs, trees whose branches fairly touched the ground under the weight of apples, pears, plums, cherries. Brightly colored Oriental-looking signs taped to tree branches supposedly kept the birds from eating the fruit. Astrological symbols- painstakingly constructed from pieces of broken pottery and colored glass set into the gravel path- lined the garden beds. "
― Joanne Harris , Blackberry Wine
22
" Joe himself remained the same as ever, picking his early fruit and laying it out in crates, making jam from windfalls, pointing out wild herbs and picking them when the moon was full, collecting bilberries from the moors and blackberries from the railway banking, preparing chutney from his tomatoes, piccalilli from his cauliflowers, lavender bags for sleeplessness, wintergreen for rapid healing, hot peppers and rosemary in oil and pickled onions for the winter. And, of course, there was the wine. Throughout all that summer Jay smelled wine brewing, fermenting, aging. All kinds of wine: beet root, pea pod, raspberry, elderflower, rose hip, jackapple, plum, parsnip, ginger, blackberry. The house was a distillery, with pans of fruit boiling on the stove, demijohns of wine waiting on the kitchen floor to be decanted into bottles, muslins drying on the clothesline for straining the fruit, sieves, buckets, bottles, funnels, laid out in neat rows ready for use. "
― Joanne Harris , Blackberry Wine
24
" Joe had always pretended indifference to flowers. He preferred fruit trees, herbs and vegetables, things to be picked and harvested, stored, dried, pickled, bottled, pulped, made into wine. But there were always flowers in his garden all thee same. Planted as if on an afterthought: dahlias, poppies, lavender, hollyhocks. Roses twined among the tomatoes. Sweet peas among the bean poles. Part of it was camouflage, of course. Part of it a lure for bees. But the truth was that Joe liked flowers, and was reluctant even to pull weeds.
Jay would not have seen the rose garden if he had not known where to look. The wall against which the roses had once been trained had been partly knocked down, leaving an irregular section of brick about fifteen feet long. Greenery had shot up it, almost reaching the top, creating a dense thicket in which he hardly recognized the roses themselves. With the shears he clipped a few briars free and revealed a single large red rose almost touching the ground.
"Old rose," remarked Joe, peering closer. "Best kind for cookin'. You should try makin' some rose petal jam. Champion."
Jay wielded the shears again, pulling the tendrils away from the bush. He could see more rosebuds now, tight and green away from the sun. The scent from the open flower was light and earthy. "
― Joanne Harris , Blackberry Wine
26
" Виното говори. Всички го знаят. Огледайте се наоколо. Попитайте оракула на ъгъла на улицата; неканения гост на сватбеното тържество; блажения безумец. То говори. Говори като вентрилок. Има милион гласове. Развързва езика, извежда на бял свят тайни, които никога не сте искали да споделите, тайни, които дори не сте знаели. То крещи, декламира, шепне. Разказва за велики дела, блестящи планове, трагични любовни истории и ужасяващи предателства. Пищи от смях. Тихо се подсммихва под мустак. Плаче пред собственото си отражение. Връща ни към отдавна отминали лета и най-грижливо забравени спомени. Всяка бутилка носи полъха на други времена, други места, всяко едно - от най-простото "Либфраумилх" до високомерното "Вьов Клико" от 1945 година - малко чудо. Всекидневна магия, както го наричаше Джо. Трансформиране на основна материя в свят от мечти. Лаическа алхимия. "
― Joanne Harris , Blackberry Wine
31
" He pulled out stiff starched sheets, yellowed at the creases, each sheet embroidered with an elaborate medallion in which the letters D.F. twined above a garland of roses; some woman's trousseau from a hundred- two hundred- years back. There were other treasures too: sandalwood boxes of handkerchiefs, copper saucepans dulled with verdigris, an old radio from before the war, he guessed, its casing cracked to reveal tubes as big as doorknobs. Best of all was a huge old spice chest of rough black oak, some of its drawers still labeled in faded brown ink: Cannelle, Poivre Rouge, Lavande, Menthe Verte. The long-empty compartments were still fragrant with the scents of those spices, some dusted with a residue which colored his fingertips with cinnamon and ginger and paprika and turmeric. "
― Joanne Harris , Blackberry Wine
