We were so smitten in the tasty buds by the fruit butters and marmalades produced by the nearby E. Waldo Ward Company that we resolved to bless their open-to-the-public gift shop with our presence. Waldo Ward’s website yielded the exact address and Googlemap slipped us a trustworthy chart, so off we flew.
But… but, what is this? When we arrived at the given Sierra Madre address, all we saw was an ordinary, albeit mountainous, suburban street (click to enlarge):
How now? Where is it? We had expected to behold a gaily festooned gift store. Instead we gazed with trepidation upon this forbidding dirt road; made not less forbidding by a weather-beaten Sign of Doom:
Ignoring the “armed response” signs — villagers with pitchforks, no doubt — we crunched cautiously up the gravel path. A bend in the road revealed this clandestine world of fruit preservation — as though J.M. Smucker were a Bond villain:
But the gift shop? Where could it be hidden in this secluded mountain-top complex?
Ah! A clew!
And another! And another! And another!
At last! A streetlamp banner marks the spot! But what treasures lie within?
By thunder! It’s old Edwin Waldo Ward himself! There he is having a good laugh at our anxious wanderings. Laugh away, kindly spirit, the prize is worth the struggle. Yums Almighty! Just look at our plunder:
Hoo-hah! Hand me that crispy Italian loaf and stand back.
But you don’t have to travel to the mist-shrouded mountain village of Sierra Madre to wrap your eager mitts around these rare delights. E. Waldo Ward is happy — more than happy — deliriously happy — crazy goofy blubbering incoherently happy — to ship their zesty jellies, jams, preservers, marmalades, chutneys, pickles and stuffed olives wherever magic delivery swans are welcome.