If you get your nose in there, you’re going to smell the memories of freshly cut wood in your dad’s workshop. There are the standard whiffs in here–caramel and oak and I guess what some say is vanilla–but there are also campfire ashes and your grandpa’s aftershave. (via This Bourbon Can Vote | Elijah Craig 18 Year Single Barrel « Food for Your Face)
Counter lady was excited that I wanted to blog about the store, and I thought, “You’re really sweet, and my blog kind of isn’t, so I hope if you find my blog, you appreciate how much I love your store and don’t mind the fuck word.Food for Your Face
The bourbons I drink come with stories. You could call these stories the sixth flavor, and perhaps the most important. I’ve received many bourbon recommendations, and none of these have sold me with the traditional flavor profile bullshit. If I’ve remembered a bourbon recommendation, it’s because it was coupled with an unforgettable story. So, I’m going to tell you stories. Because maybe you’re like me. Plain and simple. That’s what I’ve always loved about bourbon. It’s plain and simple—no bullshit.
on Hobart today!
the et ceterist
Photos for tomorrow’s No Bull Bourbon Review at Hobart. (at The Desk at Type Giggity)
The bourbons I drink come with stories. You could call these stories the sixth flavor, and perhaps the most important. I’ve received many bourbon recommendations, and none of these have sold me with the traditional flavor profile bullshit. If I’ve remembered a bourbon recommendation, it’s because it was coupled with an unforgettable story. So, I’m going to tell you stories. Because maybe you’re like me. Plain and simple. That’s what I’ve always loved about bourbon. It’s plain and simple—no bullshit. So in that same spirit, that’s what you can expect to find here in the coming months.
I knew I needed to call my dad. There were things in that essay I’d yet to tell him, that I’d needed to tell him for a good while.
"I’m not stupid, you know."
It was a fair enough response from a fair enough man. Of course he saw the bruises, the way I kept to my books and to myself. When I’d come to him late at night with an unquiet mind, his slack-shouldered ten-year-old boy, he’d say, “It can be difficult getting to sleep in a new house, I know.” And he’d pour me a Beam and Pepsi to help me sleep.
Five years ago, I was a guy who took pills in hopes to lose weight. A year ago, I would have made a beeline for Tattered Cover. Yesterday, I walked a mile to buy a calligraphy pen.
* * *
You’re going to smell memories of freshly cut wood in your dad’s workshop. There are the standard whiffs in here — caramel and oak and vanilla — but there are also campfire ashes and your grandpa’s aftershave. You’re going to smell how much can change in 18 years.
Sip. You’re going to taste the sweetness at first, let your guard down, and then you’re gonna get tongue-punched by an oak barrel. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
This is what it feels like: you know that thing in your life that in all honesty, you’re completely comfortable talking about, but it seems so intimate a thing about your life that to tell it to someone adds an immediate level of vulnerability and depth to the relationship. For some people it’s past drug abuse, or child abuse maybe, maybe a parent dying too young.
But really, it’s not vulnerable at all. You’ve told that story over and over again to other people, to friends, to lovers past and current. But you use it in that moment to seem vulnerable, because maybe they just shared something vulnerable with you and you feel the need to reciprocate, or maybe you want to draw something vulnerable from them, so you tell the story in hopes they feel the need to reciprocate. Whatever the reason, it’s still just a wall—a well disguised wall, but a wall—a way to seem vulnerable while remaining fully within bounds of what you’re comfortable talking about.
Often, when I write about my mother, I feel exactly that way.
pretty proud of this last week on the Ho’. let’s round it up!
Maria say she gon’ tell me the future. She say she know. Mama taught her, but Maria had that gift, not her mama. The real kind. She’d seen all kinds of things ‘fore they happen, like her brother shot dead in that parking lot, she’d seen it all four days before it happened.
The yak is tiny only relative to the world he’s traveling in. In this case, it’s a world of overinflated power and senseless extravagance, where everything is twenty times bigger than it needs to be (especially here, the throne room being the ultimate symbol of power and the height of decadence and excess).
She was our pilgrim, that first cell, gone ahead again.
You and I stand in a hall smoking, wondering
why she bothered. Why all the fuss out of nothing & fire.
Whatever crop and bung was leftover he burned in a large heap of muzzy smoke and lapping flame and when it was chopped down to ash and live glowing charcoal ember, he drug the spreader over the field, everything still burning and here and there little volcano puffs of flame and the iron wheels sizzling themselves…
So, what bourbon is best for going through your mother’s old letters and diaries? I’m sure given time, I could muddle up some extended metaphor here about a bourbon that reminds me of my mom, but that’d be mostly bullshit. The short and honest answer is simply a comfortable one.