The Vodka Story
Poor, poor Mr. BC. In moments of astounding bad judgment he will on occasion give to me the overflow of liquid gifts that come his way during the holiday season. Once it was a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. I did not know of the Blue at the time, only that it was not Red or Black, but remember thinking how uniquely delicious and smooth it was, everyday, until it was gone. It was, in retrospect, almost touching how sincere BC was when months later he asked me did I save him any. I looked at him like he was crazy, which, I don't know, I think he may be. Not daunted by such bad judgment he then handed over to me numerous bottles of a fine Hetman's vodka, hand delivered from the Ukraine. All I can tell you is that I saved each and every one for as long as is humanly possible. There was later another group of vodkas entrusted to me, and, exercising my own terrible judgment, I gave the best of these, a Beluga brand, to a local man who was having a spot of trouble, and needed some cheering up. I had one, or two, sips of it though; if only BC could say the same.
Then, last year, really, I don't know, he must go into a deep cave of denial about this decision making ineptitude from which he suffers, this trusting of me with cherished liquids, for he gave to me another batch of liquor, left over from a Christmas party. It was mostly of the higher quality but generic grade, but there was again, an interesting vodka or two. Honestly though, I can't even remember what they were. There was however a quirky-shaped bottle that for whatever reason I stashed in a cupboard up at the bighouse, thinking anything this stupid looking must be stupid vodka. I have at this point, as you can imagine, developed such a sensitive palate for vodka that I won't drink it except on those occasions where I find it acceptable, or more likely, necessary, to dilute it with a dash of vermouth and an olive or two. The exception I would make to this rule of dilution is to of course at least consider drinking straight any vodka received from Mr. BC.
Well, I can only tell you this--I get sometimes lonely and bored out here. And thirsty. Bernadette is only able to visit every so often, which is good, until she leaves, and then it is bad, bad like being held down by a syringe-weilding god in a dark alley littered with lost souls and then getting injected with pure loneliness. But I only mention that as a distraction because I was neither bored nor lonely when I decided the other day to grab that funny shaped bottle and give it a new home in my freezer. It's flat on one side so it does lie nicely in the cold storage. It is a brand called Kauffman's and is distilled 14 times, whatever that means. Anyway, it's not very good. For one thing, unless you inhale with the snorting force of a Hoover, there is no smell to it whatsoever. I mean nothing, unless you count that faint hint of a single flower growing on a far away hill as something. And the taste, jeez, what can I tell you--it has none, except maybe a touch of the petal of that aforementioned flower, one strand of its root, and a single fine speck of the loamy soil from which it grows. It is almost like it doesn't even exist because frankly drinking ice cold spring water burns the throat and stomach more than this Kauffman's does.
I don't know why you would bother with this one. But, if you feel it is in your best interest to taste this vodka, I will with every fiber of my pretty much non-existent self-control, restrain myself for one month, Mr. BC, from drinking every last drop of this latest clear liquid. After that though, I will only be able to tell you a story about it.
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Conrad On Foot
It was frightfully windy last night. The wind bent the trees and rattled the windows. It blew clouds so quick across the moon that the on and off lighting of it was like a signal, but one I could not understand a word of.
The electricity flickered on and off a number of times, which is not an unusual thing in these parts. It finally went off for good right when Bernadette was putting a slice of salmon filet in the oven. Bernadette did not say--do you think it will come back on? We just started lighting candles and turning on battery operated devices. I made a fire in the cast iron fireplace but it didn't take right off so Bernadette blew on it. It got going pretty good after awhile.
We sat down and played cards. Bernadette is a card player from way back but she hasn't had much experience with Gin so I eased her into it. I am not all that adept at card games but do know most of the rules of Gin. She would say things like--uh oh, I'm screwed, and then the very next draw would lay down her cards and say, Gin. And she would have Gin. I would, not very calmly, perhaps even ranting, explain to her that you cannot one minute say, uh oh, I'm screwed, and then immediately after that win the game. That not only was it incorrect to do so but exasperating. And that she might have to forfeit the game if she did it again. I don't mind losing though, much in the same way I don't mind getting wet when taking a shower. Or squinting when the sun is in my eyes. Or coughing when a bug flies down my throat.
The electricity never did come back on so we had cold steak sandwiches.
Earlier in the day we had eaten at an area restaurant about six miles from here. It was moderately satisfying. It was okay. A few blocks away is an antique barn and before eating we had stopped there for a few minutes and looked at antiques. On the road leading to the parking lot we had passed a man wearing a light jacket and carrying a plastic bag, walking in the grass alongside the road. After eating we drove the six miles back to the house and passed the same man about four blocks from our driveway, and when he turned, in this context of seeing him so close to his own driveway, I realized it was the 79 year old Conrad Jones, who has had his truck taken away from him by his concerned children because of the rapidly progressing dementia. Yet he still figures out ways to sneak off and get around, even if it requires 12 miles of hiking on a nearly freezing day.
Conrad's people go back about three hundred years in these parts so it is understatement to say that he is well known and I can only guess that I am not the only one who passed him by unaware that he was Conrad Jones on foot walking twelve miles to get something that would fit into a small plastic bag.
It was frightfully windy last night. The wind bent the trees and rattled the windows. It blew clouds so quick across the moon that the on and off lighting of it was like a signal, but one I could not understand a word of.
The electricity flickered on and off a number of times, which is not an unusual thing in these parts. It finally went off for good right when Bernadette was putting a slice of salmon filet in the oven. Bernadette did not say--do you think it will come back on? We just started lighting candles and turning on battery operated devices. I made a fire in the cast iron fireplace but it didn't take right off so Bernadette blew on it. It got going pretty good after awhile.
We sat down and played cards. Bernadette is a card player from way back but she hasn't had much experience with Gin so I eased her into it. I am not all that adept at card games but do know most of the rules of Gin. She would say things like--uh oh, I'm screwed, and then the very next draw would lay down her cards and say, Gin. And she would have Gin. I would, not very calmly, perhaps even ranting, explain to her that you cannot one minute say, uh oh, I'm screwed, and then immediately after that win the game. That not only was it incorrect to do so but exasperating. And that she might have to forfeit the game if she did it again. I don't mind losing though, much in the same way I don't mind getting wet when taking a shower. Or squinting when the sun is in my eyes. Or coughing when a bug flies down my throat.
The electricity never did come back on so we had cold steak sandwiches.
Earlier in the day we had eaten at an area restaurant about six miles from here. It was moderately satisfying. It was okay. A few blocks away is an antique barn and before eating we had stopped there for a few minutes and looked at antiques. On the road leading to the parking lot we had passed a man wearing a light jacket and carrying a plastic bag, walking in the grass alongside the road. After eating we drove the six miles back to the house and passed the same man about four blocks from our driveway, and when he turned, in this context of seeing him so close to his own driveway, I realized it was the 79 year old Conrad Jones, who has had his truck taken away from him by his concerned children because of the rapidly progressing dementia. Yet he still figures out ways to sneak off and get around, even if it requires 12 miles of hiking on a nearly freezing day.
Conrad's people go back about three hundred years in these parts so it is understatement to say that he is well known and I can only guess that I am not the only one who passed him by unaware that he was Conrad Jones on foot walking twelve miles to get something that would fit into a small plastic bag.
