Verdure - Sold Out

Cucumber & Herb Cider

Verdure cider is made using estate grown apples, cucumbers, lemongrass & thyme.

8.5% ABV, 500 ml

Summer might be waning, but that doesn't mean you have to say goodbye for good (or well, you know, until it rolls around again next year). Good news for you! Verdure cucumber and herb cider is back, so you can drink in summer's verdant, garden fresh deliciousness well after the vines have wilted and the leaves have started to fall.

With an inspired combination of cucumber, lemongrass, and thyme, Verdure boasts a seriously refreshing flavor and easy-drinking light body. Aged for twelve months in neutral oak and made from our signature Gravenstein apples, this cider is nuanced and balanced in both flavor and character. Crafted in accordance with our low-intervention techniques and inspired by the verdant abundance of our farm, Verdure offers a unique taste of summer in any season.

Product Highlights

  • Flavors of citrus, herbs, and cucumber.
  • Light-medium body.
  • Made of Gravenstein apples, which is a unique heirloom apple variety that originated in the 17th century, as well as cucumbers, lemongrass, and thyme. 
  • All source apples used in our products are grown, picked, crushed, and pressed by us. The cucumber and herbs in this product were also grown on our family farm at the base of Mt. Pisgah in Eugene, OR.
  • Wild-fermented.
  • Completely dry flavor with zero residual sugar.
  • Unfiltered, unpasteurized, produced and bottled with little intervention.
  • Bottle conditioning with no forced carbonation.

Verdure Lore

We love stories and believe they should surround us. That's why we created Evenfall lore: short fictions to pair with each of our products. Enjoy!

She could remember a time when things were different. Not vividly in the sense that most would think of; the memories weren’t really memories in the traditional sense, rather the remembrance was more like a sixth sense, a collection of bright color, warmth and satisfied feelings that glowed and pulsed like a distant lighthouse beam at the edges of her consciousness. In fact, the memories were so indistinct and distant that looking around herself and considering the stark contrast with her current surroundings, it was easy to become convinced that the memories weren’t memories at all, but the residue of those particular kind of pleasant dreams that begin fading immediately upon waking and are nothing more than an impression within a few moments’ time.

And yet, she knew her remembrance to be true. Consider the picnic blanket on which she sat; it was not always so shabby, its colors not always such a dull monochrome, saturated through with layers of grey dust, its edges not always so tattered and frayed. The dirt beneath — a drab, dusty brown rather than the rich russet of fertile soil — had once played host to the electric greens of grass and moss and the deeper hues of clover. The vines on the trellis now dried up and whispy were once strong and vigorous and flush with voluptuous leaves. The whole of the garden, in fact, was once a symphony of color, alive not only with verdant flora, but with the buzzing, twittering, rustling of those creatures which make such places their home. Now, all was silence.

After some time, she was interrupted in her contemplation of the garden’s sad state by a familiar and welcome sight. Iridescent green and blue flashed in her peripheral vision. She turned her head with delight and a dear friend came into view.

“Oh please tell me another story, dear hummingbird,” the girl entreated. While she had known him for only a week or so, she had become accustomed to his daily visits and now looked forward to them impatiently. She did not know where the hummingbird had suddenly appeared from nor why, but as the sole other living specimen in her barren garden, his presence and fascinating stories were gratefully received.

The hummingbird danced and flitted before her and then settled in to hover next to her ear to reply: “I have something better than a story for you today, my friend,” said he. “It pains me to see the desolation of your surroundings. I do not know why this place has been so cursed, but I have entreated upon my friends to help.”

With that, he darted away and not understanding his meaning, the girl was distressed. “Wait!” She beseeched him, but before she could protest further, she was stunned to silence by a nearly noiseless hum overhead. She watched as hundreds — thousands — of hummingbirds descended upon the garden. They spun and circled everywhere she looked like a swarm of oversized bees. Before her eyes, leaves unfurled, flowers budded and bloomed, grasses and weeds and creeper tendrils rose out of the formerly bare ground. Astonished, she leapt up and swept the picnic blanket into her arms. There on the spot she had just been sitting, a thick, spongy carpet of moss flourished and sprang up between her bare toes. Her heart soared and she beamed as she took it all in. Whirring with the whispered wing beats of the darting, flitting hummingbirds, the garden came alive — really alive — for the first time in her memory.