A cocktail cube of California abundance, built around the blossom of Missouri’s redbud—and its betrayal to its own. The redbud grows across the Middle East— Shajarat Yahudha, the Judas Tree. These cubes carry the potency of symbolic remorse and the richness of openness. Missouri, a state that briefly held some of my herbal roots, clings to a scarcity mindset—practical on the surface, quietly chipping away at collective well-being. A place where fear can masquerade as tradition, where sweetness hides consequence. A Judas kiss. A gesture that looks like care but slows progress. These cubes hold the flavor of that contradiction. The duality of people. The freedom of openness and California. Redbuds bloom early and unguarded—delicate, floral, spring pea flavor. Then the spice hits: sharp, bitter, layered—like truth. Like history. Consequence dressed in perfume. My herbal roots bridge it all: mint, chamomile, wild sage, aniseed. They soften the sharp, connect red to blue, hold space between what was and what could be. These cubes are me—rooted in herb gardens across the Middle East, Missouri, and California. They are what happens when you choose to awaken instead of retreat. They’re my ode to California—and my unapologetic rebuke of Missouri. Smash into bourbon with a drip of rosewater. Try an Arabic Mojito. Sweeten mint tea exotically. For fucks sake—just try something new.