The early evening crowd at a whiskey bar in Brooklyn can be very unique. Today it was me at one end and a poet with his 4-week-old strapped to his chest at the other. If I had a 4-week-old strapped to my chest, I can imagine how a glass of whiskey would hit the spot. I had my biggest tasting challenge today – two aged bourbons. While the other days, I have chosen whiskies that were distinct from each other, today, I had two traditional bourbons and it was a little bit like sitting down with twins. I really had to try to tell them apart and delighted in each little mole and freckle. They were both well balanced and not either particularly syrupy or necessarily very spicy. As an added bonus, I was handed a couple of sips of an Irish whiskey called Greenore, which made for a tasty little detour. It occurred to me how different life would be if I spent as much time savoring other moments as I have each ounce of whiskey. To be fully present, listening to each flavor and feeling every drop. I think there’s a saying that you shouldn’t look for life’s answers at the bottom of a glass, but now I’m not so sure. I seem to be becoming quite a firm subscriber to the Tao of whiskey. Now to meet the twins: Elijah Craig Small Batch 12 and Evan Williams Single Barrel. And a very distant Irish cousin, Greenore. The morning of my wedding, I found myself seated on the bathroom floor of my hotel room filling flasks with whiskey in the semi-darkness. Brides get married with a variety of secrets to hide. Mine was a backpack full of glasses with our names and wedding date etched on them in the closet with matching flasks that I was now trying to carefully fill without spilling or making much noise to get it all packed before my soon-to-be-husband woke up. If all went well, I wanted to give a surprise whiskey toast after the ceremony. If all did not go well, we would want the whiskey anyway. We had planned a Yosemite wedding for October in the beautiful afternoon autumn light. The government had other plans for us, however. They had closed the national parks as part of the government shutdown, and we had been relocated outside the park. All of our desperate tweeting for them to reopen the government had yet to work, so we had no choice but to sneak a wedding into Yosemite. This bag was featured on the GQ website last week, and I have to admit, it's classier than wrapping those bottles in plastic bags and sticking them in your purse. Plus there is room for two? That's just thinking ahead for a nice beach picnic. I'm not sure what I would use the tonic and limes for, but the extra space could fit some nice crackers and cheese instead. Maybe a little chocolate... _Sean Hotchkiss gave this description on the website: Michael Williams of A Continuous Lean, and Bushmills Irish Whiskey have collaborated on a canvas tote that is packing something special for tailgaters and anyone else looking for a portable party. The bag, unveiled last Wednesday to a downtown crowd gathered at Billy Reid's Bond Street shop, has two sheaths designated for 750ml bottles of Bushmills, and enough space to tuck away some tonic and limes. At $20, this is probably the best deal on a Made-in-the-USA tote going. All proceeds head to The Red Cross Disaster Relief Fund. "Always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite and furthermore always carry a small snake." -W.C. Fields I’m a big believer in flasks. It’s like taking water to the desert – sometimes you have to bring your own when there is none to be found. My grandpa’s drink of choice was Scotch on the rocks. It went with the smell of his pipe smoke, the soft, but scratchy feel of his Pendleton shirts, and the look of his cowboy boots, the only shoes he wore out of the house. It was an easy drink to order at the Elk’s lodge, an easy drink for a child granddaughter to make. It fit well in a flask that may or may not be hiding in his cane or boot. And it was conveniently the same color as apple juice just in case he needed to play a trick on his grandsons. Scotch was necessary gear for hunting trips – where as far as we could tell, not much got killed except quite a few bottles of alcohol. I know he must have longed for a drink while spending WWII in a Japanese prison camp. He drank other things – beer and white Russians and he even made his own wine and Kahlua. But I only remember him ordering one drink, whether from a bartender in the “smoking and swearing” section or from “squaw” – that was Grandma. “Scotch on the rocks.” I liked the clink of the ice against the glass, the pale color, the pungent and sweet smell. He liked a kind called Sheep Dip – more for the creative packaging that originated to get the alcohol bottles past the prohibition censors. Grandpa liked to feel he was doing something wrong, that he was a rebel, even though as long as I knew him he could pretty much do as he damn well pleased. At his funeral party out on his lawn, the family stood in a circle and passed around one of his whiskey bottles. Cousins, aunts, maybe even Grandma took a swig from the bottle. My uncle put Grandpa’s picture in the cast on his hand so he could join us – he would not have wanted to miss it. I guess in a way, even before I tasted a drop, the whiskey was already in my veins, already a presence in my memories of time spent with Grandpa in his gun room or relaxing out on the deck in the rare moments when the Portland weather was nice. It was only fitting that the first time I was ever drunk was on whiskey – in Dublin, Ireland on St. Patrick’s Day. Me and whiskey, we’ve been friends ever since. But we knew each other even before we were properly introduced. |
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