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theshopislocal · 3 years

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corinth rains

New and improved Heaven may well be the Happiest Place (not) on Earth. But Dean, it turns out, is still Dean.

(also on AO3)

chapter ten

Hand fisted, raised, poised before the solid oak door - but Dean doesn’t knock. He should’ve called before he came.

It’s a nice porch. The roof extends out over it, supported by weathered wood pillars, and there’s a ceiling fan turning lazily overhead. A wide bench sits a couple feet away, with horizontal wood slats and wrought iron legs, and there’s a scrap wood coffee table with a big peach-colored candle in the middle.

Dean should have called before he came.

He peers through the little door-side window, but the lights are off inside. Maybe no one’s home. Maybe they’re busy. Dean grimaces - maybe they’re getting busy—

The door swings inward, hinges creaking out a plea for some WD-40, and there’s Bobby, glaring at him squinty-eyed from underneath his ball cap.

“Dean?” Bobby grunts, eying Dean’s suspended fist.

Dean’s arm drops, flopping uselessly at his side, and his bicep aches. “Heya, Bobby,” he grunts out, forcing a smirk onto his mouth.

Bobby squints harder. “Hey your damn self,” he snarks. “You look like pickled shit, boy.” Dean huffs a brittle laugh at that. Bobby stares at him for another moment, considering, before stepping to the side. “Gonna stand there twiddlin’ yer thumbs all day?”

Dean gives a crooked smile and steps over the threshold, scraping his feet against the bristly welcome mat.

Bobby ushers him through the foyer - dimly lit by the tinted skylight above - and into the dining room. He circles the round mahogany table with its calla lily centerpiece, and steps into a wide archway, gesturing Dean over.

Dean follows him through, boots clicking against the stone tile flooring. It’s a rustic sort of kitchen, country style, with butcher block countertops and a farmhouse sink done in etched porcelain. There’s a pretty pink apron draped over a cabinet door, and matching handtowels on the copper oven handle.

Dean glances over it all with a tiny smile on his face, while Bobby rifles through a white shaker cabinet. He comes up with two scuffed tumblers and a dusty unlabeled bottle, then juts his chin toward the sliding glass door.

Dean strides over and pulls it open, standing aside as Bobby steps out onto the raised wooden platform. There’s a tall square table flanked by barstools to his left, and a rusted mesh fire pit on his right, but Dean barely notices either of them.

Everything is wet.

The awning over the table is dripping, the floorboards damp and shiny, and little rivulets run down the metal handrails at the edge of the platform where it overlooks the lake.

Dean shakes his head and barks a bemused laugh. “You power-washin’ your deck, or was there a tidal wave?”

Bobby peers over at him, frowning, then he peeks his head out from under the awning, casting his gaze inexplicably skyward. Dean follows his eyes to the clear blue sky and winces at the overbright sun. He looks away, spots dancing on his retina, and finds Bobby staring at him, eyes sharp and speculative.

Dean feels his brow drop low, shoulders going stiff. “What,” he grumbles.

Bobby purses his lips and grunts out a cryptic ‘hmph,’ then turns his back to Dean, setting his spoils on the table.

“Thirsty?” Bobby asks, though he’s already pouring two glasses.

Dean frowns at the evasion, but shrugs it off, nodding at Bobby’s back. He steps up to one of the barstools at the little table and wipes the water off the seat with the side of his hand. “Always,” he snorts.

Dean swings his leg over the stool, resting his elbows on the tabletop as Bobby settles in opposite him. “Karen home?” he asks as Bobby slides him his glass.

Bobby glances up at him, swirling his tumbler as if it were Lagavulin and not gasoline-scented rotgut. “Nah,” he grumbles. “She and her sister went to the City.” He brings the glass to his nose and takes a short sniff. “Sure they’re gettin’ into all sortsa trouble.”

Dean nods and stares down at the amber liquid in his glass. He’s heard about the City - seen signs for it on the highway - though he’s never been. He’d learned young that cities are just for passing through - on the way to the next clue, the next job, the next apocalypse. The most he’d ever found in a city was a nameless girl to pass the night with, if he was lucky, or a wanted poster with his face on it, if he wasn’t.

Dean prefers the open road.

He brings the glass to his mouth and takes a short sip. It stings like battery acid - Bobby’s ‘legendary’ sour mash always does - but it’s a familiar burn, and Dean savors it. He coughs subtly into his shoulder, grunting, “Whatcha been up to?”

It’s an odd question - neither Dean nor Bobby go in much for small talk - and Bobby clocks it quick. He raises an eyebrow, leveling Dean with A Look, but something in Dean’s face gives him pause.

He settles back into his seat and shrugs, holding his glass over his belly. “Nothin’ much,” he mutters offhand. “Bit of research for the Arch - wards mostly.” He tilts his head toward the flatlands past the lake. “Rift opened up out in the marsh. Not much pass-through - coupla small fries itchin’ to get outta Purgatory. Bill and Jo’s crew sent ‘em packin’.”

Dean nods, though his stomach goes taut. He hadn’t caught sight of the rift, but he’d seen the Harvelles’ old pick-up trudging across the bog, maybe a mile out from his bunker. He’s got enough friends in the Arch to know that rifts aren’t uncommon, that pass-through is usually minimal, that the Arch can handle it. He also knows they could always use another set of hands, more boots on the ground, as many seasoned, able-bodied hunters as they can get.

These days, Dean feels more disembodied than able-bodied - more salty and bitter than seasoned.

Dean swallows dryly and nods. “S’good.”

Silence reigns for a short moment, during which Dean stares down into his half-empty glass and pretends not to feel Bobby’s eyes on him.

A beat passes before Bobby blows out a sigh and smacks his tumbler onto the tabletop with an audible thunk. “Out with it.”

Dean’s jaw clenches tight. “Wh—”

Bobby hunches forward and rolls his eyes. “You ain’t here for a gab and a mint julep.”

Dean stares blankly at him for a moment before dropping his eyes to his hands, turning his glass in a slow circle.

Bobby’s right, of course. Dean isn’t here to shoot the shit - if there’s even any shit to be shot. Trouble is, he’s not sure why he’s here.

These days, that’s how he spends most of his time - meaningless construct that it is: wondering why he’s here. When Billie had sworn to cast him and Sammy into the Empty, Dean had felt a pit of dread open up on his chest - not for himself, but for his brother. Sam deserved a beautiful eternity spent with Eileen - just as Bobby deserved to be with Karen, Ellen deserved Bill, and Kevin deserved his Resolute desk.

Dean’s not sure what he deserves, but eternal sleep hadn’t sounded so bad. Still doesn’t.

Bobby shifts forward in his seat, and Dean looks up at him, noting the heavy brow under the shadow of his ball cap.

“Speak your piece, boy,” Bobby says, and his tone is mild - kind in that way he pretends not to be.

“I, uh,” Dean starts and swallows hard. “I went past the mountain. To the—” he runs his tongue over his lip as Bobby squints at him, “—the forest in the field.”

Bobby’s eyes shift to the side before his brows pop up. “Cas’ place,” he surmises.

Dean’s eyes flutter closed for half a second. Of course, Bobby knows. “Yeah,” he grunts.

Bobby’s lips purse, and he leans back into his chair. “You talk to ‘im?”

Dean huffs out a bitter laugh. “Somethin’ like that, yeah.”

Bobby’s eyes go sharp and slitted, roving over Dean’s face like he’s looking for something. Whatever it is, he finds it, and he rolls his eyes when he does.

“Judgin’ by the mopey face, I’m guessin’ that didn’t go so good,” he grumbles.

Dean’s jaw goes taut, mouth pulling into a rictus of a smile. He breathes out another brittle laugh and shakes his head. “...Nope.”

Bobby stares at him for a short moment, blue eyes squinted against the sunlight. Then he blows out a gusty sigh and reaches for his drink. “You’re a damn fool,” he grunts, and knocks back the last finger.

Dean blinks several times, brow sagging in a frown. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but that certainly wasn’t it.

He shakes his head, leaning forward against the table. “What?”

Bobby sets his glass down and folds his arms across his chest, eyes rolling. “You’d think that rusty nail mighta knocked some sense into your head—”

Dean groans. Again with the rusty nail. “It was rebar—”

“But nooo,” Bobby scoffs, ignoring the interruption. “Still every bit the damn idjit you always been.”

Dean feels his frown smooth into blank confusion.

Compared to John, Bobby may well be Father of the Year - but he’s no pushover, and he certainly doesn’t pull his punches. Dean’s admired the old man’s brutal brand of honesty for some eighty years now, and he’s always taken it to heart: if Bobby says he’s being an idiot, then it’s very likely that Dean is being an idiot.

Only, in this instance, Dean’s not exactly sure how.

His bafflement must show on his face, because Bobby’s brow straightens, tone going softer.

“You’re a good kid,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice has Dean’s shoulders going tense, “but...” He trails off, jaw working like he’s chewing his tongue. After a moment he continues. “There’s a reason you ain’t seen hide nor feather of your angel in half a damn century.”

Dean’s shoulders tense further, crowding up around his ears, and he shakes his head. “He’s not my—”

“And it’s the same reason,” Bobby says, pitching his voice above Dean’s, “you never quit huntin’.” Dean frowns at that, but doesn’t interrupt. “Same reason you—” Bobby’s jaw goes taut, tone hardening, “you died in a barn instead of callin’ a damn ambulance.”

Dean squeezes his eyes closed. Definitely no punches pulled. “Bobby—”

“And it’s the same reason,” Bobby grunts sharply, pointing a wrinkled finger towards the sky, “that sun shines so damn bright.”

Dean’s jaw clicks shut. The sun... what?

Dean knows perfectly well why it’s always sunny: it’s Heaven. The whole place is designed to keep people happy; everything - from the bucolic landscape, to the picket-fenced houses, to the cloudless blue sky - all of it exists to preserve the joy, the peace, the contentment of the souls here.

Maybe all that isn’t really Dean’s bag, but he’d hardly endanger it for a flash of lightning and a few drops of rain. Dean’s happiness has always been the incidental sort, anyway - happenstance and fleeting, ephemeral like morning fog.

Dean peers over at Bobby and shakes his head, brow furrowed. “I don’t—”

Bobby heaves a sigh, more resigned than frustrated now. “‘Course ya don’t,” he grumbles and reaches for the dusty bottle. “Fish doesn’t know it’s in the water.”

Dean frowns harder, clarity drifting further and further away. Hardly matters, he thinks; fish out of water is dead, anyway.

Bobby leaves his own glass empty, but pours another two fingers for Dean. Dean watches the spirit slosh against the scratched glass, coming nearly to the lip, but never spilling over. He brings it to his mouth to sip, but Bobby raps against the tabletop with his knuckles.

“Shoot it,” Bobby grunts. “Else it ain’t medicinal.”

Dean nods and knocks the tumbler back, the whisky burning down his throat to roil in his belly. This, at least, he understands.

chapter nine | chapter eleven

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#corinth rains #destiel #deancas #fanfiction #post-canon #slow burn #dean-centric #chapter wc: ~2k

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rabbitcruiser · 1 year

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World Whisky Day

Mix up a whisky sour, or pour your favorite whisky over some ice and enjoy. Gather some friends together to try out different brands and cocktails.

If you’re friends with Jack and Jim and spend your weekends with Jameson and Johnnie, then World Whisky Day is going to hold a special significance for you.

Whisky is one of the iconic drinks of true lovers of alcohol and is the foundation of some of the most wonderful drinks known to man. But honestly, who needs an excuse to imbibe in these wonderful libations? If you need one, World Whisky Day is it!

History of World Whisky Day

One of the most common forms of whisky that is sought after is Irish Whisky, and perhaps appropriately so. The origins of the word Whisky can be found in the Gaelic Language.

Uisce Beatha was the original name of whiskey in classical Gaelic, which ultimately became Uisce Beatha in Ireland and Uisge Beatha in Scotland. Both of these names mean “Water of Life” and tells us just how important and vital this particular distillation was to the Gaels.

It was later shortened to just Uisce/Uisge, and then anglicized to Whisky. So now you know, when someone is concerned about your whisky consumption, you can just tell them you’re drinking the water of life!

So what, exactly, is whisky? Whisky is what happens when you create take rich flavorful grains and ferment them into a mash, and then take that mash and distil it down into a pure delicious spirit.

Distillation takes place in a still, a device whose whole purpose is the purification of the alcohol from the fermented mash. One of the most important secrets of distillation is that it must take place in a copper (Or copper lined) still, as the copper removes the sulfur from the drink that would make this otherwise diving beverage decidedly unpleasant to drink.

Astonishing facts about whisky

You may enjoy a delicious glass of whisky, but did you know the following…?

Let’s start with a worrying fact, which is that whisky could have been banned. If it was not because of a medical loophole in the Prohibition period, this drink would have been banned altogether. However, because there was a law that enabled doctors to prescribe whisky as medicine, it survived.

The word whisky actually means ‘water of life.’ this is because it comes from a Gaelic word that reads ‘uisge beathe.’

There are some expensive bottles of whisky around the world. However, the most expensive is the Macallan ‘M’ whisky. This Lalique decanter of whisky was auctioned in Hong Kong for £393,109. The luxury decanter features six liters of whisky, which was drawn from casks made of Spanish oak sherry, dating from the ‘40s until the ‘90s.

The oldest whisky is more than 150-years-old. The Guinness World Record for the World’s Oldest Whisky currently goes to a bottle of 400ml Glenavon Special Liqueur Whisky. It was owned by a family from Ireland. However, it fetched an incredible £14,850 at auction when it was sold to Bonhams in London. It is believed to have been packaged sometime between the years of 1851 and 1858.

The spelling of whisky is interesting. You may have seen it written as whiskey. The version without the ‘e’ is used for Canadian and Scottish whisky. However, for other types of the drink, you opt for the whiskey spelling.

Last but not least, whisky starts life as a beer! This is because it is made with wort, which is a form of beer that gets distilled. In fact, the wort is created using all of the ingredients that yare enjoyed in a pint of delicious beer, i.e. malts, yeast, and water.

How To Celebrate World Whisky Day

World Whisky Day reminds us that there is an incredibly broad range of whisky out there to try, and its unlikely that we’ve managed to try all of it. Whisky can be made from barley, corn, rye, and wheat, just to name a few, and those grains are often mixed in different proportions before fermenting and distilling.

The results are then aged in casks, with both the cask and the time inside changing the flavor. Needless to say, you may need more than one day to sample every kind available to you! World Whisky Day is a great opportunity for you to expand your palette, and share your experiences with your friends.

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the-expert-zone · 3 years

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17 “Zero” Calorie Foods That Will Help You Lose Weight

Even with nutritional facts available online, it can be difficult to find diet foods with the right ratio of calories to essential nutrients. In other words, even experienced dieters sometimes need a quick, low-calorie reference guide like the one below.

Do Zero Calorie Foods Actually Exist?

The short answer is no, but don’t despair. Foods have calories that generate energy for your body. There are also good and bad calories. This may seem daunting at first, but remember that the majority of bad calorie foods are also higher calorie.

Good calories come from:

complex carbohydrates in beans, fiber-rich vegetables, and whole grains

unsaturated fatty acids like omega-3 and omega-6 in nuts, fish, avocadoes, and olives

lean proteins in skinless chicken, fish, plain yogurt, and tofu (soy)

That doesn’t mean you can eat as much of the above foods as you want. You should still count calories because too many lead to weight gain. But at the very least, you can avoid the bad calories, which come from:

processed foods like potato chips, soda, and cookies

refined foods like sugary breakfast cereals and white flour

high-sugar foods like low-fat yogurt, chocolate milk, most canned soups, and canned fruit

There is one more thing you should know before we dive into our list. With bad calorie foods, you should basically count the calories on the label twice. Even on a 1,000 calorie diet, you can still gain weight if you are taking in too many bad calories. The list below will help you target the calories and nutrients you need, providing you with a balanced and reasonable diet. It also runs the gamut in terms of the five flavor profiles – bitter, sweet, sour, salty and savory.

1. Apples

Some are bitter, some sour, and some sweet. Regardless of flavor, a cup of sliced apples contains 57 calories and has 3 grams of dietary fiber along with antioxidants (which can help prevent heart disease and cancer) and other nutrients.

Since digesting apples actually burns calories, the net calories are probably a little less than 57. This also makes them a great breakfast food that can kickstart your metabolism in the morning.

2. Arugula

Eating arugula means you never have to have a bland salad again. This lettuce has a savory, peppery, and slightly bitter flavor. One cup has six calories.

Arugula also contains vitamin K (which helps with blood clotting and wound healing), calcium and potassium (which help keep your bones strong), and folate (which is key in cell division and growth).

3. Broccoli

Broccoli is one of the most nutritious vegetables out there. One cup provides 100% of your daily vitamin C needs. It is packed with cancer-preventing nutrients. It also contains more protein per calorie than steak! One cup contains 31 calories.

Broccoli is in the cruciferous family with cabbage and cauliflower. It can be baked, steamed, boiled, sauteed, mixed with meats, or thrown into soups.

4. Broth

Broth is an extremely versatile liquid used in soups, parboils, and gravies. One filling cup contains 7-12 calories. Chicken or beef broth will give you that salty, savory flavor, while vegetable broth will have a lighter, more complex taste. While it doesn’t have a huge amount of protein, you can pack basically any vegetable on this list into it for quick, nutritious soup.

5. Carrots

Carrots are naturally sugary and great for satisfying a sweet tooth. A cup of carrots contains 53 calories, 6 grams of sugar, and 2 of fiber. In addition, carrots contain copious amounts of the nutrients essential to eye health – beta carotene and vitamin A.

If you are tired of the flavor of orange carrots, try the starchier tasting white and yellow varieties. For a richer, earthier flavor, try the red or purple ones. They are best eaten raw but are delicious baked or grilled.

6. Cauliflower

Cauliflower is very popular right now. In restaurants, it is mashed to replace potatoes (which are much higher in carbohydrates). They can also be made into (or bought as) a cracker base or pizza crust.

This cruciferous veggie contains 25 calories per cup, 2 grams of protein, 5 total carbs, and 2 grams of dietary fiber. Cauliflower is unique in that it contains absolutely no sugar, so it is ideal for a low-carb diet.

7. Celery

Since most of celery’s dietary fiber is insoluble and therefore can’t be digested, it cannot be absorbed as calories. Insoluble fiber is one of two types essential to bowel health and function. Celery is also low-carb, low in sugar, and reasonably fiber-rich.

Containing 18 calories per cup, celery is as close to a natural zero calorie food as you can get. Its high water content gives it a low flavor profile, making it a great filler in dishes like spaghetti, meatloaf, and soups.

8. Clementines

Not to be confused with tangerines, this diminutive fruit is a hybrid cultivated from the sweet orange and the mandarin orange. They are typically sweeter and less acidic than oranges.

One of these little guys has just 35 calories. While they have trace amounts of many vitamins, just one contains almost 60% of your daily vitamin C needs. Though sweet, the clementine has only nine grams of carbohydrates.

9. Cucumbers

95% water, moderately sweet and crisp, this vegetable, which has many species, is actually a gourd in the same family as the zucchini. While they are a favorite in salads, cucumbers can also be used as pickles and in salsas, chutneys, and even jams.

One cup contains only 16 calories. Add to that trace amounts of vitamins A, C, and K, as well as magnesium, manganese, and potassium.

10. Garlic

Garlic is pungent and savory, and you will find it in many ethnic dishes. Technically a root, it is in the same family as onions, leaks, and chives. It has nearly a dozen proven health benefits, with anti-inflammatory and anti-viral qualities.

An entire clove of garlic (about the maximum you would put in any dish) contains a mere 4.5-5 calories. A clove also has a moderate amount of calcium, copper, iron, phosphorus, potassium, and vitamin B1. It can be a great salt substitute as well.

11. Kale

Kale is one of the most nutrient-dense foods in the world. It has one of the highest concentrations of vitamins K and A, which help blood clot and wounds heal. Rich, savory, and slightly bitter, it can be a salad leaf or put into soups and smoothies.

One cup has 33 calories, 6 grams of carbs, 2 grams of dietary fiber, and an amazing 3 grams of protein. With a little oil, salt, and pepper, they can be dehydrated into delicious chips that make a satisfying, low-calorie snack.

Kale, like its cousin spinach, has some interesting qualities. Its flavor concentrates and increases when cooked. It also lowers bad cholesterol, has eye-enhancing nutrients, and prevents cancer. It is very filling and an excellent daily food for weight loss.

12. Legumes (especially garbanzos and peas)

The term “superfood” is thrown around a lot nowadays, but it truly applies to the two legumes on our list.

Beans and peas are high in fiber and protein, low in fat, and contain vitamins B1, B9, K, manganese, and often iron. Studies show they may reduce your risk of heart disease. They may also mitigate the effects of type 2 diabetes.

One cup of earthy, savory garbanzo beans (chickpeas) has 269 calories (good ones), 14.5 grams of protein, and 12.5 of dietary fiber. A major study has shown chickpeas help reduce your blood sugar levels, so they are great for diabetics and vegetarians alike.

Green peas (the ones from the Pisum sativum plant) have a sweet note, and are one of the highest fiber vegetables in the world per volume. One cup contains just 125 calories, 8.2 grams of protein, and 8.8 grams of dietary fiber.

Peas are known to fight blood pressure and prevent kidney disease. A little known fact is that they can be a quick, satisfying treat straight out of your freezer.

13. Lemons and Limes

These two tangy, sour citrus fruits often go together in Mexican food, drinks, and pickling recipes. One fluid ounce of either contains just 8 calories. They are also packed with antioxidants, heart-protecting flavonoids, and vitamin C.

Studies also show that lemons and limes contain a special antioxidant called polyphenols. This nutrient may help jumpstart your metabolism, help your body process fat more quickly while enhancing your response to natural insulin.

14. Peppers

Sweet or bitter, large, small, or spicy, peppers can be snacked on raw, stuffed, roasted, put into salads and relishes, or used as an edible garnish. The health benefits of the humble pepper are about as diverse as the number of species that bear the name.

One cup of chopped red bell peppers has 46 calories, just under 9 grams of carbs (6 net carbs), and is extremely high in antioxidants. Since they contain a lot of water per volume, they also make a filling addition to your diet in any form.

15. Strawberries

These special berries range in flavor from tart to sweet. They are extremely versatile, found in jams, salads, desserts, and on yogurt and breakfast cereals. Among their many health benefits are enhanced heart health and cancer prevention.

One cup of sliced strawberries contains just over 50 calories, a mere six grams of sugar, nearly three grams of dietary fiber, and your 100% of your daily vitamin C needs.

16. Tomatoes

Sweet or tart, red, yellow, or green, tomatoes can be served raw on salads, or cooked in stews, roasts, soups, and pies. A slice or two of tomato can easily replace a sugary ketchup serving.

One cup of sliced tomatoes contains about 27 calories, no fat, as few as 4.3 carbohydrates, and plenty of vitamins like A and C. Tomatoes also contain lycopene, a cancer-fighting and heart disease-preventing nutrient.

17. Zucchini

Zucchini is one of the cheapest, healthiest, and most versatile foods in the squash family. With its high water content and mild flavor, it can be a filler in spaghetti or a flavor carrier in soups and bakes. You can even make nice, firm noodles out of it.

A cup of raw zucchini (which can be snacked on) contains just over 26 calories, 3.4 grams of protein, 1 gram of fiber, and about 4 carbs. With lots of water and low-fat inner flesh, this veggie can stretch dishes, making them healthier and more filling.

Zucchini’s many health benefits include high amounts of vitamin A, C, and manganese, along with many antioxidants. The squash is also purported to help lower blood sugar, aid in digestion, improve cardiac health, and protect your vision.

To Cook or Not To Cook?

Cooking these foods at high temperatures greatly reduces many of the nutrients. When you must cook any of these 17 items (except broth), your best best for nutrient retention is dehydrating (at no more than 130 degrees Fahrenheit) or steaming.

To maximize the benefits the 16 solid foods on our list, go with raw. You can and probably should heat broth to prevent pathogens from getting into it, and heating does not change the nutritional content.

Some Final Thoughts

Remember that a calorie-counting diet primarily means avoiding the bad calories (from processed, refined, and high sugar foods) and maximizing the good calories (from complex carbs, unsaturated fatty acids, and lean proteins).

Balance the good calories with high nutrient content to keep the number of total calories (even good ones) down. Remember, dieting is about practice and perseverance. Don’t give up. You now have 17 new strategies for satisfying and healthy eating.

See Also:

You can click the LINK to start creating your 8-week plan. Simply follow the plan to achieve a successful keto diet.

⠀ LINK : CLICK HERE LINK :CLICK HERE

from Your Keto Plan https://ift.tt/3aMBCwp

#keto diet food cook cooking

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mulliganstn · 4 years

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-Wheel Horse Bourbon Following the successful launch of Wheel Horse Rye, recently rated 94 points at the NY Int'l Spirits Competition, we're excited to announce the launch of Wheel Horse Bourbon Batch 1! This sour mash, small batch whiskey is made from 70% corn, 21% rye and 9% malted barley. It's distilled in copper stills then matured in hand-selected, 53-gallon, charred American oak barrels for between two and four years. We use a #4 char. Like all of our small batch whiskeys, Wheel Horse Bourbon is bottled at 101 proof and without chill filtration. 50.5% ABV (at Mulligan's Wine & Spirits) https://www.instagram.com/p/CG5S1qTpP3Q/?igshid=kxlb3i2f0kck

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unsettlingshortstories · 4 years

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The Ash of Memory, the Dust of Desire

Poppy Z. Brite (1992)

Once, I thought I knew something about love.

Once, I could stand on the roof of the tallest skyscraper in the city and look out across the shimmering candyscape of nighttime lights without thinking of what went on down in the black canyons between the buildings: the grand melodramatic murders, the willful and deliberate hurt, the commonplace pettiness. To live is to betray. But why do some have to do it with such pleasure?

Once, I could look in the mirror and see the skin of my throat not withered, the hollows of bone not gone blue and bruised around my eyes.

Once, I could part a woman’s legs and kiss the juncture like I was drinking from the mouth of a river, without seeing the skin of the inner thighs gone veined and livid, without smelling the salt scent and the blood mingled like copper and seawater.

Once, I thought I knew something about love.

Once, I thought I wanted to.

Leah met me in the bar at the Blue Shell. It was six o’clock, just before dinnertime, and my clothes were still streaked with the dill-cream soup and Dijon dressing we had served at lunch. The fresh dill for the soup had come on a truck that morning, in a crate, packed secure between baby carrots and dewy lettuces. I wondered how many highways it had to travel between here and its birthplace, how many miles of open sky before the delivery man lugged it up to the twenty-first floor of the posh hotel. “The Blue Shell on Twenty-one” read the embossed silver matchbooks the busboys placed on every table, referring not to avenue number but to floors above street level. Way up here they kept it air-conditioned, carefully chilled . . . except in the heart of the kitchen, where no amount of circulated air could compete with the radiant heat of a Turbo Ten-Loaf bread oven. In addition to the residue of lunch, I felt sheathed in a layer of dry sweat like a dirty undershirt gone wash-gray with age.

The bar on ground floor was as cool as the rest of the hotel, though, and Leah was cool too. As cool as the coffee cream when I took it out of the refrigerator first thing every morning. For her appointment today she had dressed carefully, in the style affected by all the fashionable girls this year. Leah was one of the few who could get away with it: her calves were tight and slender enough for the clunky shoes and the gaudy, patterned hose, her figure spare enough for the sheath-snug, aggressively colored (or, for a very special occasion, jet black) dresses, the planes of her face sufficiently delicate to sport the modified beehive hairdo, swept up severely in front, but with a few long strands spiraling carefully down the back. “There was a long waiting line,” she told me, toying with the laces of her shoestring bodice. I imagined her sitting in one of the anonymous chairs at the clinic, hugging herself the way she did when she was defensive or less than comfortable—an unconscious gesture, I was sure. My cool Leah would never have chosen to do something that so exquisitely exposed her own vulnerability.

I was supposed to feel guilty. I was supposed to feel neglectful because I hadn’t been able to get anyone to work lunch for me; thus I had sent fragile Leah into a dangerous situation unprotected, into a situation of possible pain without the male stability she craved. Something in me cringed at the accusation, as if on cue. Until now I had only sipped at the boilermaker I’d ordered; now I drank deeply, and was vaguely surprised to see it come away from my lips half-drained. The taste was good, though, the sour tangy beer washing down and the sweet mash of the whiskey lingering. Bushmills. The kitchen staff drank free after getting off a shift, and the bar brands were damn tasty.

“They hurt me,” she said next. “I don’t see why I had to have a pelvic. Jilly didn’t have to have a pelvic when she went to her private doctor. They just tested her pee, and when they called her on the phone later, the nurse already had an appointment set up for her.”

“Jilly’s boyfriend designs software,” I told her. “Jilly can afford to see a private doctor.”

“Yes, but listen.” She spoke excitedly, mouthing her words around the various straws and skewers they’d put in her drink. She drank fruity, frothy stuff, drinks you couldn’t taste the alcohol in, drinks that more properly belonged on a dessert plate with a garnish of whipped cream. A dark red maraschino cherry bobbed against her lips. “Cleve went with me today. He says he’s got some money saved up from his last gallery show. If you help too, I’ll have enough. I can have the operation at a private doctor’s office—the clinic’s going to call and make me an appointment.” Her hand set her drink down on the bar, found mine, tightened over it.

I noticed the way she said operation before I thought of anything else. Casual, with no more pain in the twist of her mouth than if she were saying new dress or boyfriend or fuck. Like something she was used to having, that she couldn’t get used to the idea of not having whenever she wanted it. It wasn’t until my next swallow of whiskey that I registered the name she’d spoken.

“Cleve went with you?”

Again the casual twist of the lips, not quite a smile. “Yes, Cleve went. You couldn’t get off work. I didn’t feel like doing it alone.”

I remembered standing in the kitchen two days ago, slicing a carrot into rounds and then chopping the rounds into quarters. I kept my eyes fixed on the big wooden cutting block, on the knife slicing through the crisp orange meat of the carrot, but in the corner of my vision I could see Cleve twisting his battered old hat in his hands. Between his long fingers, the hat was like an odd scrap of felt. Cleve’s hands were large enough to fit easily around my throat; Cleve stood a head and a half taller than me, and his arms might have been strong enough to throw me half the length of the kitchen. But I knew he would let me kick his ass if I wanted to. If I was hurting so bad that I wanted to pound his head against the floor or punch him in the face until his blood ran, then he was prepared to let me. That was how deep his guilt went. And that was how bad he still wanted Leah.

“I can’t work for you Wednesday,” he’d told me. “Any other day I’d do it, you know that. I’ve got to see this gallery owner, it’s been set up for weeks.”

He wouldn’t meet my eyes. I thought he was just upset at the idea of me having to run the kitchen alone, having to make the thousand little decisions that go with the lunch rush while all the time I worried about Leah . . . imagining her getting off the bus at the last stop before the clinic, having to walk through blocks of the old industrial district. Other parts of the city were more dangerous, but to me the old factories and mills were the most frightening places. The places where abandoned machinery sat silent and brooding, and twenty-foot swaths of cobweb hung from the disused cogs and levers like dusty gray curtains. The places that everyone mostly stayed away from, mostly left alone with the superstitious reverence given all graveyards. But once in a while, something would be found in the basement of a factory, or tucked into the back room of a warehouse. A head, once, so badly decomposed that no one could ever put a face to it. The gnawed bones and dried tendons and other unpalatable parts of a wino, jealously guarded by a pack of feral dogs. This was where the free clinic was; this was where certain doctors set up their offices, and where desperate girls visited them.

And while Leah was making her way through this blasted landscape, while I was slicing goat cheese for the salads or making a delicate lemon sauce to go over the fresh fish of the day, Cleve would be ensconced in some art gallery far uptown. I pictured it like the interior of a temple: lavish brocade and beaded curtains, burning sachets of sandalwood and frankincense, carpet lush and rich enough to silence even the tread of Cleve’s steel-toed cowboy boots. There Cleve would be, kicking back in some cool dim vast room, trying to say the right things about the colorful paintings that came from some secret place in his brain, about the sculptures he shaped into being with the latent grace of his big hands. I liked the idea of Cleve bullshitting some spotless hipper-than-thou gallery owner, someone who attended the right parties to see and be seen, someone who had never been to the old industrial district or any of the rough parts of town except for a quick slummy thrill, someone who never got mustard all over his shirt or scalded his hands in hot dishwater.

But Cleve hadn’t been bullshitting anyone except me.

Leah extricated her hand from mine and adjusted the hem of her skirt over her knee. Her fingernails were painted the cool blue of a blemishless autumn sky; her movements were guarded and deliberate. I caught the glimmer of her frosted eyelids, but in the semidarkness of the bar, I could not see her eyes.

I took a long drink of my boilermaker. Warm rancid beer; the flat taste of whiskey settling spiderlike over my tongue.

One of Cleve’s passions was his collection of jazz and blues records, most of them the original pressings. No digital techno-juju or perfect plastic sound, just the old cardboard sleeves whose liner notes told the stories of entire lives. Just the battered vinyl wheels that could turn back time and rekindle desire, just the dark sorghum voices. Billie and Miles, Duke and Bird . . . and more obscure ones. “Titanic” Phil Alvin, Peg Leg Howell. I had given him a bunch of them, and he knew I loved them too. One night he willed them to me over a case of Dixie beer. (Cleve had made a special trip to New Orleans when the Dixie brewery finally closed, and there were still a few cases stashed in his studio closet; I had helped him drink another five or six.) “Jonny, if I got jumped by a goddamn kid gang on my way home—” he paused to light a Chesterfield “—or if I walked in front of a bus or something, you’d have to take ‘em, man.” He gestured around the room at a series of little jewel-box watercolors he was doing at the time. “My paintings could go their own way—shit, they can take care of themselves. But you have to take the records. You’re the only one who loves ‘em enough.”

The records were Cleve’s sole big indulgence. The rest of his extra money went to buy paints and canvas and an occasional luxury like groceries. He never collected them out of any kind of anal retentiveness, and desire to possess and catalog. It was just the feel of good heavy vinyl in the hands, the fragrant dust that sifted from the corners of the dog-eared cardboard, the music that spun you back to some grand hotel ballroom where you danced beneath a crystal chandelier . . . or some smoky little dive renting space in the basement of a whorehouse. The records were magic rabbit holes that led to the past, to a place where there was still room for romance. And I loved them as much as Cleve did.

And right then, in that moment at the bar as Leah withdrew her hand from mine, I could have taken a hammer and smashed the records all to bits.

We walked the four blocks from the hotel to the train tunnel half-staggering, almost drunk off our one drink apiece. Leah had not eaten because of her appointment; I, after wracking my brain to concoct delicious menus day after day, could hardly eat at all. Forsaking a free dinner at the Blue Shell meant we would go to bed hungry. Our refrigerator at home was empty of all but the last parings of our life together: an old rind of cheese on the shelf, a vegetable or two that neither of us would ever cook withering in the drawer, a flask of vodka I had stashed in the freezer.

As we left the hotel behind, the street grew shabbier. The buildings along here were old row houses of brick and wood, once fashionable, now unrenovated and nearly worthless. Children and teenagers sat on some of the stoops, hardness aging their faces, their grim eyes urging us past. Most unnerving were the houses that stood vacant: I could not imagine what face would look out from the dirty darkness behind the windows. Leah pulled my arm around her. I felt her skin and muscles moving under the thin dress. I thought of that strength moving with me, around me, like snakes wrapped in cool velvet. We had not had sex in three weeks, had not made love in so much longer than that. Whenever I was not with either Cleve or Leah, I imagined them together, drowning in ecstasy, dying their little deaths into each other.

Cleve had told me first, as soon as he realized that Leah didn’t intend to. Away from the kitchen, away from work, in a neutral bar with a fresh beer in front of me, he confessed in a hesitant voice, telling me what a dumbfuck he was and how anyway there was only lust between them, no love, not seeing how that would hurt the worst. He bought me another beer before I finished my first one. Maybe he just wanted to know where both of my hands were.

Leah was in bed but not asleep when I went home. She’d heard me coming up the stairs and fumbling with my key, and rolled over when I came in. Some nights she slept naked; tonight she was wearing something as sheer and weightless as ectoplasm. I saw the line of her shoulder silhouetted in filmy silver-white, somehow more erotic than the curve of her hip or breast. I sat on the edge of the bed.

“I waited up for my story,” she said. It was our custom for me to tell her a tale before we fell asleep at night: sometimes just a shred of hotel gossip or a memory from childhood, sometimes a dream, one of the plans I only told her and Cleve, one of my schemes to get away from the kitchen and into a grander, larger, more leisurely world. These were made of the finest ego-spun gossamer and collapsed in the telling; nonetheless it was pleasurable to tell her, like placing a drop of my heartblood on her lips.

“I’m not telling you a story tonight,” I said. “Tonight it’s your turn.”

She didn’t move then, only looked up at me with her eyes dark in the darkness of the room: she knew I knew. And four weeks later she finally came up with a story to tell me in return for all the ones I’d given her. She was carrying a living, breathing, bloodsucking piece of meat inside her, and it might be Cleve’s meat, and it might be mine.

***

Leah always liked to feel passive when she had sex. No, it wasn’t just that she liked to: she needed to feel passive, needed to feel she was being acted upon. I could kiss her anywhere, manipulate her knees and elbows and the strong curve of her back, pretend she was a department-store mannequin I was posing for some pornographic window display. She would press her face into a pillow and whimper, enjoying the power of pretended helplessness. I could dine on her tangy juices all night if I wished, I could stay inside her as long as I pleased, come when I wanted to. Only when I asked her what she wanted would Leah get angry. She had to be the little girl; she had to have someone take control.

Not on the morning of her operation. I woke in the still, stuffy light of predawn, unsure what had caused me to surface. I thought I had heard a distant sound, something separate from the intermittent cacophony of voices and sirens that punctuated the night. A train whistle miles away, or a telephone ringing in a far-off room.

Then, before I even knew Leah was awake, she sat up and in one liquid movement was straddling me. I had not felt her body close to mine in so long that it startled me into immobility. Even when I pressed up against the urgent sharpness of her nipples, up into the syrupy heat of her crotch, I wasn’t ready.

She tensed above me. In the waxing light I saw surprise on her face, and faint annoyance. She began to grind against me. In the unfamiliar position I could not think how to respond. Leah hardly ever got on top—maybe five or six times in the three years we had been together. It didn’t fit her penchant for being acted upon, and it played up the fact that she was almost as tall as me. She had told me that one of the things she liked best about Cleve was his bigness. His hands could enfold hers as if her hands were baby birds. Her bones felt more delicate when she pressed them against the solid bulk of him.

My overactive imagination served me up plenty of Leah-and-Cleve snapshots, plenty of inevitable intimate moments, generous helpings of feverish speculation. I was helpless to push these out of my mind once they held sway, but that was not the worst thing about them.

The worst thing about them was that occasionally—usually when I was feeling low and tired and ugly—these thoughts would give me a moment of masochistic excitement.

I thought of Leah’s flower-stem spine pressed flush against Cleve. I thought of him kneeling above her, his back covering hers, his big hands cupping the tender weight of her breasts. I knew Cleve preferred to fuck doggy-style. He was a confirmed butt man, loved to ride between those sweet snowy globes. I thought of him just barely entering her, the petals of her opening for him, slicking him with her juice. Cleve had a thick penis, heavily veined and solid-looking; he told me the only time a girl had blatantly propositioned him was once when he had been modeling for an art class.

Imagining it going into Leah, searching out the fruit of her heaven, I began to get hard too.

She grabbed me and then suddenly I was deep inside her. One thrust upward and I felt I was pushing at the heart of her womb. She came the way women do when they only need one good deep touch: quick and hard, with an animal groan instead of the little feathery noises she often made. I thought of the lump of meat that grew inside her, thought of bathing it with my sperm, melting away its rudimentary flesh, melting away the past few months and their caustic veneer of pain. Then I did come. The sperm didn’t reach far enough: it pulsed out in long, aching spasms that flowed back down over us, into the sticky space between our thighs. The months of pain did not melt away. The lump of meat remained—it would have to be scraped away, not drowned in the seed of sorrow.

As she was pulling away from me, the telephone did ring. The noise jarred something in me, a faint, grating edge of déjà vu: I wondered again what had woken me. Leah hunched over the receiver. “Yes,” she said. “Wait—let me get something—” She grabbed a pen from the bedside table, a glossy magazine from the clutter on the floor. Her breasts hung ripe as eggs when she leaned over. She scratched something on the cover of the magazine. I rolled my head sideways on the pillow and looked. 217 Payne Street, she had written—the doctor’s address, which the clinic wouldn’t divulge until the morning of the abortion. An address in the disused industrial district of the city.

“Thank you,” said Leah, “yes . . . thank you.” Gently she placed the receiver back in its cradle. The weak light was growing brighter behind the dirty curtains. Leah got out of bed and hurried to the bathroom. I was still lying there when she came out thirty minutes later. She did not look at me. She pulled fishnet stockings the color of smoke up over her long smooth thighs, fastened a wisp of a garter belt around her waist, zipped up a sleeveless, black-lace shift. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and cried.

I held her hand and touched her face with all the tenderness I could summon. Her mascara did not run—some new waterproof kind, I supposed. Her lipstick was perfect. I tried to comfort her, and all I could see in my mind was Leah lying back on a stainless steel operating table, some black-rubber vacuum-tube apparatus snaking up into her. Her labia were stretched wide as a screaming mouth and she was wearing nothing but the lacy garter belt and the fishnet stockings.

It was an image Cleve would have appreciated.

***

“Yes, Jonny, I know you try to be sweet to me. You’re a saint, Jonny. But you know what you have? Only that damned little-boy sweetness. You can’t take care of me. You could cook me a million gourmet dinners and when I finished them I’d still be lonely. Cleve has a special kind of sweetness—”

“I know, I know. Cleve’s sweet the way a dumb dog is sweet. You like ‘em big and stupid, right?” When I was with Cleve I could not hate him. Only my arguments with Leah could convince me that Cleve had ever meant me any harm, and only then could I say cruel things about him. We had started arguing on the way to the doctor’s office. Walking through the abandoned factory district made me tense—the landscape was falling to waste, long stretches of broken glass gleaming dully here and there like quicksilver sketched onto a monochromatic gray photograph. The silence in the empty, shabby streets seemed deafening. Leah mistook my own silence for indifference: I wasn’t listening to her gloomy prattle, wasn’t even thinking of the ordeal about to happen to her.

The buildings here loomed low and oppressive, blotting out the sun. Years ago this place had been a toxic hell of factories and mills. We passed smokestacks blackened halfway down their towering stalks with soot and char. We passed burned-out lots that made me think of cremation grounds. The smell of death was here too—the odor of burning crude oil is somehow as humanly filthy as the odor of corrupted flesh. These places had been abandoned over the past twenty or thirty years, as the heart of the city’s industry gradually moved north to the silicon suburbs. Out there you could live your whole life shuttling between a superhighway, an exit sign, a gleaming building made of immaculate silver glass, a house and a yard and a wide-screen TV and the superhighway again.

More frightening to me than the empty lots, more oppressive than the huge corrugated-steel Dumpsters that overflowed with thirty years’ forgotten trash, were the dead husks of the buildings. Some of them went on for blocks and blocks, and I could not help but imagine what it would be like to walk through them—endless mazes of broken glass and spiderweb and soft sifting ash, with the corners laved in shadow, with the pipes and beams zigzagging crazily overhead. I thought of a poem I had written once for some long-ago college class, in some idealistic day when the city was far away and I only cooked the food I wanted to eat. A few lines came back to me: When the emptiness in you grows too large/You fill its vaulted chamber with the ash of memory/ With the dust of desire.

“I don’t want to fight,” Leah said suddenly. “There’s not enough time, it’s too soon. Hold me, Jonny. Help me—” She pressed me back against a wall and covered my mouth with hers. Her lips were lush, her tongue was moist and searching, and again I was reminded of loving her. Not the sterile and functional fuck this morning, but the real love we had once shared: the soft friction of skin, the good long thrusts, the liquid sounds of pleasure. But these memories were receding rapidly. Soon they would be just a point of brightness on a dark horizon, and I knew now that they could never return. As I kissed Leah I became conscious of the rough bricks at my back, of the vast empty space behind me. I grasped her shoulders and gently pushed her away. “Come on,” I said. “You can’t be late. What are we looking for—Payne Street?”

She nodded, didn’t speak. We kept walking. In all the blocks since we’d gotten off the train, we had only seen two or three other people: sad silent cases who walked with their heads down, who looked like they might vanish from existence as soon as they turned the corner. Now it seemed we were alone. The streets grew ever shabbier and emptier; a few of them had signs whose letters were half-obliterated, spelling out cryptic messages, pointing to nowhere. None of them looked like they might have ever said Payne Street. At one corner, a long spray of dirt lay across the sidewalk. Leah could not quite step all the way over it, and when we were past I saw a dark crumb stuck to the heel of her shoe. The delicate tired lines around her mouth and eyes seemed etched in dust. I began to feel that the landscape was encroaching upon her; she would leave here forever marked.

If it could erase the mark of Cleve from her, or rather the mark of her love for Cleve, then I would bless this blasted landscape. Maybe then I could love her again.

I thought I wanted to.

Soon, it was obvious that we were getting to the fringes of the industrial section. The buildings here were more cramped and ramshackle. If anything walked here, it would be the wraith of a drudge worked to death in the sweatshops, dead of blood poisoning from a needle run through her finger. Or perhaps a tattered ghost, a hungry soul mangled by machinery from a time that knew no safety regulations.

The sidewalk was fissured with deep cracks and broken into shards, as if someone had gone at it with a sledgehammer. I saw weeds sprouting at the edges of the vacant lots, leaves barely tinged with green, as furtive and sunless as mushrooms. “You think the doctor’s office burned down?” I said.

The look from beneath Leah’s eyelashes was pure sparkling hate. Leah disliked getting around the city, and when she had to find a place by herself, she got panicky and sometimes mean. “He said we should come out of the tunnel and turn left. It was supposed to be three blocks down past the cotton factory.”

“They had cotton mills, Leah, not factories, and any one of those buildings we passed could have been the one you want. By the time we walk all the way back there, we’ll be a half hour late.” A little flame of rage snapped in my chest. If she didn’t have her directions straight, and if we arrived too late, we could miss the appointment. Appointments with a private doctor who would perform this particular operation were difficult to get, so difficult that if Leah missed this chance, she might be too far along by the time she could get another.

Without a word, she wheeled and started walking back the way we had come. I had to hurry to keep up with her; despite my anger, there was still the old reflexive fear that she might twist her ankle in one of the cracks or break into a run and escape from me or fall into a giant hole that would open like a mouth in the ground beneath her feet. You hold onto what you have; you do not give it up easily, even when you know it is poisoning you.

We walked quickly for a long time. Leah was sure we had turned at a certain corner; I didn’t remember, and we argued over that. Somehow she managed to bring Cleve’s name into it. “If you were with Cleve,” I said furiously, “you wouldn’t be bitching at him. You’d be all contrite and saying how stupid you were to get lost. You’d whine until you tricked him into taking care of you.”

Leah spun on her heel. “Well, Cleve isn’t here, is he? He had to hang his stupid gallery show today—he couldn’t come! I’m stuck with you!”

“He was never going to go. He said you and I should go alone—said maybe that would help you decide. Make you quit stringing me along, I guess he meant.”

“Yes, that was what he said he told you. But Jonny, I was going to meet him this morning. I was going to tell you I wanted to go by myself, that I’d decided I had to do it alone. Then I was going to meet Cleve at the train station. But when I called him this morning, the bastard backed out. He decided to spend the day playing with his damned pictures.”

Only the fact that I was still somehow pitifully, stupidly in love with Leah allowed me to do what I did then. I turned and ran from her. If I had stayed I could not have kept my fingers from round her throat; in my head I would have been choking her and Cleve at once. Never mind the total illogic of it; never mind that both Leah and Cleve knew I would never have let her go off alone; never mind that I did not really believe Cleve would betray me so completely, not even for Leah, not even though I knew he was pitifully in love with her too. Something had woken me up this morning at the first pale light of dawn; it could have been a cry down in the street, or a jet plane arrowing through the smog far overhead. Or it could have been Leah murmuring into the phone, cursing her conspirator in a whisper when she realized he wasn’t coming. Then replacing the receiver ever so gently—wanting to slam it down—and flowing over on top of me. Making love to me to spite Cleve, even if only in her head.

I had the spreading cancer of jealousy in me; it had been eating away inside me for a long time. Now at last I thought I was in its death throes, suffering its final agony. And, like any dying man, I tried to run from it.

We had already lost the way we had come by. Now I ran deeper into the maze of streets, not looking or caring which way I went. For a few moments I sprinted, desperate to get away, wanting nothing but to run and run. Then the sound of Leah’s heels ticking frantically behind me began to slow me down, began to pull me back to here and now and what I thought I wanted. I walked fast, jogging when she got too close, not letting her catch up with me but not completely losing her. I was afraid I might never find her again; I was afraid of having nothing to crawl back to.

Then I turned a corner and didn’t look over my shoulder soon enough. When I did glance back, Leah was gone.

I froze. How could I have lost her, not meaning to? I waited a few seconds to see if she might follow. If I ran back around the corner and she was still coming, my game would be up—it would be as good as admitting that I hadn’t wanted to run away at all. But if she’d gotten disgusted and started back to the train station, I had to catch her. I had to get her to that appointment if I still could. If she needed dragging there, I would drag her.

I came around the corner and the sidewalk was empty. For a moment I vacillated between anger and the stark terror of abandonment. But farther up the street, at the mouth of a narrow alleyway, I saw a smudge on the sidewalk—darker than the drifting ash, and shiny. I walked back to it. The smudge on the sidewalk was blood, twin patches of it ground into the cement. A few feet away, half-hidden beneath a blackened flake of newspaper, lay a tube of scarlet lipstick.

Leah had tripped over her heels, fallen, spilled her purse, skinned her knees brutally on the broken sidewalk. But where had she gone after that?

I looked down the alleyway. No one there. Nothing—

—except a sign.

I hadn’t seen it at first. No one walking quickly past would have noticed it; it had been placed only three or four feet up the wall, at waist level instead of eye level. And it was so faded, the edges of the letters seeming to blend into the dusty brick, that it could hardly be read. But I imagined Leah sitting up after her fall, her smoky fishnets torn and the raw ganglia of her kneecaps screaming, her eyes filling with tears. She would have sat there for a moment, dazed, not quite able to get up. And the sign might have caught her eye.

Pain Street, it said.

The alleyway led between two empty factory buildings.

Suddenly the sky seemed too wide and bright and heavy, the silence too big. A fragment of sidewalk shifted under my foot. I saw little drifts of refuse piled against either wall of the alley—soot and ash, more bits of charred paper, the razor confetti of broken glass. I did not know if I could set foot in the alley; I did know, however, that I could not go home alone.

One wall was blank and featureless all the way to the back of the alley, where more trash was heaped. At my approach, a bottle rolled lazily down but did not shatter. I thought I had walked into a cul-de-sac until I came to the end of the alley. There, set back in an alcove of crumbling mortar, was a heavy steel door wedged open with half a brick.

Someone had taken a nail or a shard of glass and scratched the number 217 on the door.

The door made a gritty ratcheting noise as I pulled it open, but there was no trash in front of it, and the hinges swung easily. Someone had opened it before me. I paused for a moment, drinking in what little dirty sunlight managed to filter into the alley. Then I stepped inside. It was easy. Leah always led me to the places I feared most, and I always followed.

The air inside the building was as cool and dim and stagnant as the air in a sarcophagus. In the dark rafters and pipes of the ceiling it hung like a cloud of bats waiting to fly, rustling their parchment wings, exuding their arid spice smell.

The ash of memory, I thought dreamily, the dust of desire. Walking in this air was like moving through a syrup of fermented ages; the silence in here could wrap you up like cloth and preserve you for a thousand years. As my eyes adjusted to the light, shapes began to resolve themselves around me: a huge mesh of Gigeresque machinery, cogs hanging in the air like dull toothy moons, rubber belts and hoses gone brittle with dust, steel spires soaring up to the apex of the great vaulted chamber. And a row of hooks as long as my leg, sharp metal hooks that looked oddly organic, as if they should be attached to the wrist-stump of some enormous amputee.

I walked a few steps into the chamber, and my foot punched through something dry and papery. A giant vegetable bulb, I thought, like an onion or a shallot kept too long in a root cellar, rotten and desiccated from the inside. Not until I pulled my foot back did the fragile rib cage crumble, collapsing the swollen shell of the belly and exposing the scrimshaw beadwork of the spine.

A younger woman than Leah, almost a child, half-buried and half-dissolved into the grime and ash of the factory floor. Most of the face was gone. I saw scattered teeth gleaming in the dust like fragments of ivory. But the curve of the cheekbone—the tiny hand—surely she could not yet have been sixteen. And I wondered why she had come at all, with the once-ripe swell of her belly; she had been too far along in her pregnancy to have hoped to live through an abortion.

I could go no further. I could not walk that gauntlet of machinery, not even to find Leah. I could not turn my back on it either. I stood over the husk of the young girl, and the machinery stretched out mutely as far as I could see, and time hung motionless inside the old factory, not disturbed by me or Leah or anything in the city. It seemed impossible that just a few miles away the trains were still running, the drugs were still changing hands, the endless frantic party went on as if time could not be stopped.

Very nearby, magnified by furtive echoes, I heard the click of a high heel.

“Leah,” I called, not knowing if I hoped to save her or if I wanted her to save me. “Leeeeah . . .” When she walked into the far end of the chamber, I could no longer be ashamed of the pleading note in my voice. Her face was smeared with tears and makeup. The blood from her scraped knees had begun to cake, gluing her torn stockings to her legs. Her face twisted with relief and she started toward me, her arms out as if in supplication. In that moment Cleve might never have touched her, never have tasted her. We might have gone home together, might have slept in each other’s arms again. I might have rested my cheek on the burgeoning mound of her belly, and found peace.

Then the machinery kicked on.

It had not been used in a long time, long enough to let the young girl fall away nearly to bare bones, and it filled the air with dust as thick as whipped cream.

Only dimly did I see the first hook lifting Leah up and away from me, as if she had raised her arms and flown. I stood there dumbly for several minutes, unable to grasp what had happened even as her blood fell upon my face and my out‑stretched hands. A high-heeled shoe dropped to the floor in front of me, missing my head by an inch. I did not move. I stared up, up at the swirling clouds of dust, up at the figure that hung suspended like an angel in black lace. When the dust cleared, Leah was slumped over limp, her head hanging upside down, her hair like a bright banner in the dusk of the room. The hook had punched into her back and out through the soft flesh of her abdomen, but her face was perfectly calm. I was calm, too, an absolute calm like the equilibrium of particles in a solution. Should I have been frightened? Perhaps. But somehow I knew that even if I walked up to one of the machines and touched it, I would not be hurt. They did not want me.

The metal of the hook was beaded with bright blood. On its sharp tip was a thick gobbet, darker than the rest and more solid-looking. It looked like nothing but a piece of meat—meat that had ceased to live or breathe or suck.

I no longer thought I knew something about love.

Now I knew what love was all about.

***

I have described the scene to Cleve as well as I could, and asked him to paint it for me. When he has captured it as closely as possible in the jeweled watercolor tones that he loves—the soft gray dust, the banner of her hair, the red so clear and vital it hurts the eye to see it—he will mat and frame it and we will hang it on the wall.

Cleve’s work has become somewhat fashionable among the gallery crowd, and he has begun getting shows uptown, where the art patrons don’t think they’ve gotten their money’s worth unless they pay upwards of five hundred for a piece. We have both cut back to half time at the Blue Shell. Whenever we have a night off, we try to work our way through the last of the Dixie beer, and we listen to Sarah Vaughan or Mingus or Robert Johnson, and when the music ends we sit and stare at each other, and a thousand secrets pass between our eyes.

I hate to look in the mirror. I hate to see the beginnings of an old man’s face. I hate the loose skin of my throat and the hollows around my eyes. But I know what Leah’s eyes must look like by now.

Sometimes we talk about magic.

In a city of millions, an ancient city overcrowded and mean enough, a kind of magic could evolve.

Ancient by American standards isn’t very old. Two or three hundred years at most . . . and the abandoned mills and factories are no more than sixty years old. But I think of New Orleans, that city mired in time, where a whole religion evolved in less than two hundred years—a slapdash recipe concocted of one part Haitian graveyard dust, one part juju from the African bush, a jigger of holy Communion wine, and a dash of swamp miasma. Magic happens when and where it wants to.

In a great, cruel, teeming city, one could create one’s own magic . . . intentionally or otherwise. Magic to fulfill desires that should remain buried in the deepest pit of the soul, or just to get through the desperate hustle of staying alive from day to day. And out of the desperation, out of the hunger for bread or love, out of the secret hard bright joy at the madness of it all—out of these things something else could be born. Something made of bad dreams and lost love, something that would use as its agent the abandoned, the forgotten, the all-but-useless.

The obsolete engines, the rusted cogs . . . and the steel hooks that stay honed sharp and shiny. The machinery of a forsaken time.

The love that no one wanted anymore.

I go up to the roof of Cleve’s building and I look out over the city, and I think about all the power waiting to emerge from its black womb, and I wonder who else will tap into this homegrown magic, and I howl into the wind and rejoice at the emptiness within me.

And nowhere else on the horizon have I ever seen so many billions of lights . . . or so many patches of darkness.

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beerandwinereviews2016 · 4 years

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Best Ways to Flavor Moonshine

One of the best things about learning how to make moonshine is adding flavors that are going to really elevate the taste of the moonshine. The best part is that when moonshine is flavored, it resembles commercial spirits on a much closer level. You can produce moonshine with different products like bourbon, whiskey, vodka, and many more. All these have undergone some kind of flavoring and a lot of aging to achieve the final product.

The ingredients that you use and the brewing methods can impact the taste of the moonshine. The taste and smell of the finished product also depend on the raw materials that have been used in the process. One of the most important parts of making a flavor-rich moonshine is the production method that you have used in the process. The character of your final product will rely on how you have taken control of the distillation, like making cuts out of your fermented wash.

Use a Quality Moonshine Still Kit to Make the Perfect Spirits Every Time

If you’re using homemade or cheap still, your results are going to vary by a lot as these DIY kits are never going to give you much control over the production methods, and your results are going to be different every time, which will make it harder to create spirits with a distinctive taste. With a quality still, you are going to have more control over everything from the temperature to the barrel pressure. You can apply precise ingredients and methods to produce spirits with the perfect alcohol level every time.

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Aging Moonshine Can Enhance Its Taste

Aging your spirits will make a massive difference in the taste of your spirits. That’s exactly why so many brewers tend to store their products in barrels for several years before they tend to sell it on the market. Even though it is a fact that flavored spirit can be consumed right on the same day that it is distilled, a lot of distillers will suggest that you have a distinct advantage if you are going to let the spirits sit in the bottle for a month or store it in a dark place, which is going to enhance its taste. By following this simple technique, your wines and bourbons are going to be more refined and sweeter in taste.

Aging Moonshine with Wood Chips

If you’ve created a scotch whiskey, you should let it age to make your product more scotch like. If you want to create excellent bourbon, you can allow your neutral spirit age in oak chips for around 15 days, and use 15 grams of oak chips in one liter of spirit. If you’re worried about acquiring the taste of the wood in your finished product, you can taste a sample of the spirit you have aged at 10 days and then see how it tastes, and then you can do the same thing after an interval of 1 or 2 days. With this method, you will find that the taste of your bourbon is going to be perfect by the 15th or the 16th day.

In case you want to make dark rum, then you can change the technique that we have mentioned above, by soaking the spirit in oak chips at 10 grams per liter of spirit for a period of 15 to 20 days. You must then wait for around 10 days before you can take out a sample using a shot glass so that you avoid consuming all of it. That is going to help you gauge the flavor ahead of time.

You should know that leaving it for a long time can cause a woody flavor, and that’s why you must make a wise judgment here. After you have been satisfied with the flavors that the oak chips are giving to your drink, you can then start to remove the wood chips and start filtering the spirit to get rid of splinters.

How Commercial Brewers Flavor Spirits

Spirits that are produced commercially are stored in wooden casks so that the taste of the spirits is enhanced. Most commercial brewers tend to allow their products to sit for a minimum of 1 year, while others may choose to age their products for several years to increase both the taste and the price of the product. The type of wood that you’ve chosen for aging the spirits can also affect its taste.

For example, scotch whiskey is generally kept in sherry cask to combine the different flavors of sherry, sugars present in the wood, along with the distinct flavor of the whiskey. As a result, the product comes out more unique and flavorful than before. If you look at commercial whiskey products, you’ll know that their age is about 3 to 8 years, and some even go to 12 years. You may also start to wonder why your spirit soaked with oak chips to get that aging only takes a few days instead of a few years.

The answer to that question depends on the surface area of the oak wood chips that have come into contact with the spirit. In essence, the surface area of the oak chips is far greater than that of the barrel, which is why the exchange of flavor is more rapid.

Using Fresh Wood Chips is Best for Enhancing Taste

You should know that newer wood can age the spirit more than older wood does. Therefore, it is recommended that you should use fresh wood chips instead of the old ones because that will allow your spirit to have a woody taste if the chips are old, and that can negatively affect the flavor of the finished product.

Sweet Bourbon Essence Can Also Enhance the Flavor

If you want to intensify the taste even further, you should filter it in a muslin cloth and then include the sweet bourbon essence into it. Once you’ve done that, you can proceed with the bottling of the product into 700gram bottles, which can then be stored in a cool and dark place for a month or even more. Once you’ve done that, you can achieve the bourbon that is smoother and mellow to drink.

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Avoid Using a Carbon Filter

You shouldn’t filter it by using a carbon filter for removing the chips as that will only remove most of the flavor, and you’re going to lose all your efforts. It is highly recommended to use a tea towel or muslin cloth in this case so that you can retain all the flavors that you would like to keep. You can also try a coffee filter, but that is going to be a slower process compared to the muslin, but it is more effective as well.

Adding Sugar Can Adjust the Taste of your Moonshine

To add the final touches to your moonshine, you should add 5 teaspoons of caramelized raw or white sugar per liter of your spirit. You can then add additional sugar if you want to make it sweeter because the final product is going to greatly depend on your taste buds.

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asecondyelping · 4 years

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Black Angus Steakhouse

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Ever wake up Sunday morning with the "steak starvies"? I'm sure you have. Abby and I woke up one Sunday morning in October and felt a particularly sharp craving for some of that true steak, the kind a real cattleman would fix over a desert wood fire, under a full coyote moon, sitting under a canopy of desert pricklies. Luckily for us, down the freeway from our church proudly stood a steakhouse made entirely out of wood (remember those?) like it could've been erected in the Old West by a herd of cattlemen. Don't forget- Hayward is an Old West Town in it's own right and tucked next to the H&R Block, a simple memorial to heavenly steaks and dusty cattlemen still stands. Abby and I got there early and eager, so we had to wait a few minutes. When the doors swung open at 11a.m., we swaggered in and were promptly seated.

We opened up our slippery menus (usually a good indicator of the juiciness of the steaks, trust me) and took a gander at the selections. I already knew what I was getting. I had to order a 16oz. cut of the Ribeye Steak. Medium Rare. Typically, I'd order up a Pittsburgh Rare cut of steak, but I've been having some health problems with my colon and my doc advised me to "Give up red meat or there would be hell to pay". I think Medium Rare instead of Pittsburgh Rare is a good enough step in the right direction. I only bring this up because I think it's proof that I would know what a good steak is having eaten enough to be officially prohibited lol. Along with the steak came a choice of two sides. I ordered the Traditional Baked Potato and Steak Soup. The missus ordered the Cobb Salad, which I wasn't expecting since we came in hungry for slabs of cow, but hey, we are all entitled to a change of heart I suppose. We handed the menus over to our delightful waitress who, after placing our order, walked back with a warm round loaf of native grain bread seeded with what looked and tasted like barley. This wasn't my first rodeo. I knew the deceptive friendliness of that loaf. I've made the mistake before of filling up on the delicious and complementary bread so much so I couldn't finish my steak. That wasn't going to happen this time, I vowed… as I mashed another buttered hunk into my mouth.

The soup came out first. A delightful little stew of barley, kidney beans, and cubes of beef. The aroma alone took me back to a campfire dinner I had with my family as a kid out on outskirts of Vista, California, putting cans of Campbell's Chunky directly on the coals to heat up. I had a few spoonfuls of the slurry before I had a thought: it tasted EXACTLY like Campbell's Chunky, just like my dad used to make on those camping trips back in the day! I believe that taste can be a powerful channel for nostalgia and Black Angus's Steak Soup was a slow flood of boyhood memories.

Though I knew I had a massive platter of steak on the way, I basically inhaled that stew in 2 minutes flat, which is remarkable now that I think of it considering it seemed like the recipe called for 8 ounces of everything in the kitchen roughly blended together with a stick of butter throw in. It was not light. At this point, I was seriously doubting that I could manage to finish a 16 oz'er along with potato. As I glanced around nervously for the waitress touting my impending meal, my eyes landed on a television screen hung above our booth; an infomercial for the Copper Chef was on! In fact, it was playing on all the TVs hung on walls of Black Angus! Imagine that… at a steakhouse, watching the Copper Chef fry up steaks, hot dogs, corn on the cobs, and potatoes au gratin in the same pan. Actually, a few minutes of watching Copper Chef was all I needed to regain my "zeal for the meal". Just as though my stomach had sent out a specific frequency only audible by experienced waitstaff, our server appeared around the corner with our plates followed by an older lady that seemed like the owner of the establishment.

Abby was looking dumbfounded at the size of her Cobb Salad. I love gazing across the table and seeing Abby's face light up like that. It happened at Romano's Macaroni Grille, and it happened at the Nordstrom Cafe. Just typing this part makes my heart swell :' >. This is why you should take your lady to decent restaurants, fellas. I looked down at my own plate with tantamount dumbfoundedness. The ribeye had a beautiful cross-hatch char on it and the potato was split in the middle and in it burbled butter and sour cream. The presentation was incredible. Turns out, the older lady that looked like she was the owner was one of the most special members of the staff: she came out from the back of the Black Angus whenever someone ordered the 16 oz rib to personally deliver it. She took a special silverware setting out from her back pocket and placed the knife in my right hand, the fork in my left hand, and unrolled the napkin onto my lap. "Sir, would you mind slicing into your steak to confirm the doneness for me?", she said. Just wow. This had never happened to me at a Black Angus before. I cut into my steak (with some difficulty admittedly, the knife was really not very sharp I think) and it indeed was cooked to a perfect Medium Rare. She nodded and a proud smile broke discreetly onto her face. "Enjoy you steak sir, and madame, I hope you enjoy your Cobb Salad."

Everything after that was a blur. Bite after bite went into my mouth and I chewed every piece as if I was gnawing through a rope that bound me to a sinking ship. I ordered extra butter upon extra butter and drowned my potato in it. Steakhouses probably have access to really good butter, now that I think of it. I couldn't recall now, but it seemed that Abby was grimacing at me through the haze. She says now that she was smiling, so maybe I am just projecting, but I was unashamedly just devouring my meal like a nasty scoundrel. To tell you the truth, I don't quite remember the taste of the steak. I knew it must have tasted good, since I was tearing it to bits, but I honestly was more spurred on by the act of chewing the meat. "Steak Starvies" really means "I am starving for steak". I just remember my vision had dimmed to a tunnel that framed everything with a lurid glow. I should wrap this review up here actually, I'm sorry it's so long! I'm getting hungry again ahaha!! Anyway, if you're ever looking for a traditional American Western restaurant for the domesticated cowboy within, hop on your horse (or get in your car) and mosey on over to the Hayward Black Angus where they'll treat you right and ask you if they're doing a good job. It's right off the freeway! Oh, and I finished the steak and potato :)

Abby’s take: you know it’s going to be a good Sunday when the day begins at Black Anus. Unfortunately, they do not yet have a country breakfast menu, but they do open at 11am ! Perhaps true steakmen don’t see a need for labels when it comes to steak, unlike us city people. To the true steakman, steak is steak no matter the hour or gender. It seemed we were not the only patrons who wanted to begin Sunday in the atmospheric American darkness of a high-end ranch house. A fine way to escape the fast paced city life, slow down and take some notes from the locals! It really is a different way of life over at the steakhouse... I myself have always dreamt of country living. Blame it on my freckles, or my collection of Kenny Chesney fan fiction, I have always wondered if I was meant for the farm.

I ordered the vegetable Cobb, curious to try a “Country” take on a “City” classic. It was delectable! The cuisine equivalent of the musical masterpiece “Old Town Road”. I’m hoping Kenny Chesney is able to hop on that horse as well, perhaps accompanied with the always masterful Marshall Mathers (M&M). Those two on a musical horse would be quite the sight and sound!

The hubby, perhaps in an attempt to impress the locals, ordered a steak, medium rare, with no cityman dizzle-dazzle-add ons or subtractions. I for one, was impressed with his restraint, and took the moment to reflect. How accustomed have we city people become, to custom orders - “no tomatoes, no gluton” even picking and choosing particular Kenny Chesney songs to purchase from the ITune store, instead of purchasing the whole album. While I so enjoyed the cob salad remainders we took home, this lesson may have been my most valuable “takeaway”.

Local tip: “No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problems” is a great starter album for the Kenny Chesney novice.

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willridgard · 4 years

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Adnams - What a story!

Give the gift of the perfect present

Buying gifts for loved ones often comes with its challenges.

Christmas presents. Birthday presents. Valentine’s Day treats. Mother and Father’s Day gifts. It can be hard to decide what to buy. And stressful, laborious, and expensive.

I mean, we’ve all been there haven’t we? Wrong style. Wrong colour. Wrong size. No warranty. No refunds. And while vouchers can be seen as boring and too safe, we can easily insult and upset the ones we care about by not putting enough thought or effort in.

Good presents in my opinion are ones that are appreciated, ones that excite, and ones that offer things to look forward to.

People like adventure, challenge, and experience… Step forward, the Adnams Brewery Tour!

If you have an interest in beer (who doesn’t?), I highly recommend booking up this gem of a gift. Which is exactly what I did for my old chap.

Maturing taste buds and award-winning beers

The change in my taste buds, from lager to ‘real ale’, has been duly noted by my dad – and in recent years, we have spent many an evening together sipping on Adnams’ award-winning beers. And while Broadside tops the tasting palette for him, it’s Ghost Ship for me – but there are plenty of other tasty beers that also tickle our fancy. Mosaic. Ease Up. Bitter. Lighthouse. Explorer. Blackshore Stout. Dry Hop. And even the more exotic choices in Earl Grey and Cucumelon Sour. We’ve sampled a fair few…

At the end of the day, I suppose we are just a couple of ol’ Suffolk boys that love drinking quality beer now and again! And so, the Brewery Tour was the perfect, ultimate Christmas gift. ‘Sunday Funday in Southwold’ we called it. Caw’d a Hell buh, the missus came along as well: the more the merrier!

Our excellent tour guide, Rob Denny, was absolutely superb throughout. He made us feel very welcome from the start, answered all questions thrown at him, and also held a popular taster session that everyone enjoyed at the end!

Brewing liquor, tasty samples, and growing beer in coat pockets!

One of the first things Rob asked us was ‘Which four main ingredients make up beer?’ ‘Water,’ answered one enthusiastic tour goer. ‘Correct,’ Rob replied. ‘More commonly known as brewing liquor in the industry.’ I liked that reply. Can’t beat a good bit of brewing liquor! Yeast, malted barley, and hops are the other three answers as he talked us through the interesting brewing process (more on that later).

Good Tours include interaction – and samples. And we were lucky enough to experience both at Adnams. Adnams work closely with a number of local maltsters and we got the chance to taste some of the malt used to make some of our favourite beers. Handfuls of rye and pale ale malt were very tasty indeed – but just a word of warning, if you’re not a coffee drinker / fan, do not get overexcited (like I did) when you hear the word ‘chocolate’ being briefed! I slightly overpoured my take, much to the amusement of Poppy, and had to sneak several grains into my coat pocket! Sorry, Rob!

Ghost Ship: a spooky tale or two!

As we moved through the Tour, taking in the sights and smells of the Mash Tun, the Whirlpool and the Fermentation Vessels, we learned that Ghost Ship, Adnams’ best selling beer and biggest commercial winner, was originally only meant to be a three-month trial! Thankfully, this decision was reviewed after the ‘hauntingly good pale ale’ proved hugely popular after its release in Halloween 2010 – and it now proudly leads the line in a number of Adnams pubs up and down the country. Life without Ghost Ship would be simply unthinkable! Now just to get Spindrift and Early Grey back on keg…

Rob also gave us the chance to smell some of the hops, which add delicious, unique flavours and aromas to the beer during the brewing process. Intense citrus aromas wafted through the air as we put our noses to ‘Citra’ – one of the most sought after hops in the brewing industry. Rumour has it that Citra made its way over to the UK, from the US, via Adnams’ Ghost Ship – such is the extreme power of citrus given off!

Citra is also used in Ghost Ship 0.5%. Zero to low percentage beers are proving mightily popular in an ever-growing market. In fact, Adnams recently had to double its production of the low alcohol Ghost Ship. And I must say I’m impressed – the same great taste is produced, but there’s the added bonus of waking up without the hangover the next day too...They offer the perfect solution to driving as well!

The contrast and challenge of ABV

At the other end of the ABV scale is Broadside – Adnams’ dark ruby red beer which takes its name from the famous ‘Battle of Sole Bay’ sea battle in 1672. Boasting rich and malty fruitcake flavours, Broadside is brewed differently in cask (4.7%) from bottles (6.3%) because of two main reasons: price and ABV. Generally speaking, the higher the ABV, the more expensive the beer will be in the pub. Adnams have therefore adapted the recipe to make it more ‘sellable’ in pubs. It’s also very rare to see high percentage beers in pubs – as they must be consumed very carefully! Makes sense, right?

Adnams all over the world!

One thing I was surprised at was the size of the brewery. I thought it would have been bigger seeing as how rapidly the Adnams name and brand is growing locally, nationally and worldwide! Not only do they own 44 pubs, inns and hotels, they also work closely with 1,000 free trades pubs and bars in East Anglia and 4,000 pubs nationally. They also export to more than 22 countries around the world, with their beers available to try in Abu Dhabi, Argentina, Australia, Belgium, Brazil, Chile, China, Colombia, Denmark, Finland, France, Germany, Hong Kong, Italy, Japan, New Zealand, Northern Ireland, Norway, Russia, Singapore, Spain, Slovenia, South Korea, Switzerland, Sweden, and USA. Look out for them the next time you’re on your travels!

Being Southwold and proud: a sign of success

All things considered, Adnams are doing a sterling job. It’s been reported that their turnover is in excess of £80m a year and they produce more than 34 million pints of beer and 250,000 bottles of spirits per annum – an extraordinary number seeing as they only brew and distill during the week.

They are also extremely proud of their Southwold roots – and this video perfectly highlights what they are all about and what they are looking to achieve moving forward:

youtube

Southwold is a beautiful seaside town in the heart of Suffolk, blessed with a beautiful sandy beach and a promenade of colourful beach-huts. It’s a very attractive and desirable place to live - and brew beer! The first beer produced on site was apparently in 1345 – nearly 700 years ago! It was in 1872 that Adnams was founded. Brothers George and Ernest Adnams bought the brewery from Sole Bay and to this day, alongside the Loftus family, who joined the business in 1802, it remains an independent family business. Current chairman, Jonathan Adnams OBE, has had a massive impact in driving the company forward in terms of innovation and sustainability: two elements Adnams look set to focus on in the future.

And while there’s no doubting that the Adnams story is a resounding success, things haven’t always been straightforward…

From cranky crocodiles to ‘the beast from the yeast’

Rumour has it that George was eaten by a crocodile in 1880 after moving to South Africa. 140 years on and we’re still waiting for a snappy beer to be released in his memory…

More recently, an overflow in the fermentation vessel meant that yeast escaped its home and started chasing employees down the stairs! How we giggled when Rob told us that story. But brewing is like a scientific experiment I suppose – and it was also fascinating to hear of brewers throwing in malted loafs of bread to the mix. Trying different things to produce more great beers.

It is also the second most easterly UK brewery. Lowestoft-based Green Jack hold that prestigious award – and I can confirm, from testing a few samples in The Engineers Arms, Leiston, that both Gone Fishing and Trawlerboys Best Bitter are two exceptional drops worth trying!

A rum owd dew!

The beer sampling after the Tour was a joy to behold. Rob was a fantastic host and there was a great variety of scrumptious beers to sample. Cask. Keg. Cans. Bottles.

Of course, there was still time to (literally) sprint to the shop before it closed. Which is also very impressive. Boasting an array of their beers, spirits, and wines – as well as other merchandise, Adnams now have 13 retail stores in the UK. These are mainly based in Suffolk coastal towns – and I couldn’t help but purchase an inviting six-pack of award-winning beers for a very reasonable £10. Heck! We even received a free bottle of our choice as part of the Tour as well. After trying it for the first time with Rob’s guidance, I opted for a Blackshore Stout to go alongside my six-pack!

There was even time to visit The Lord Nelson. Situated close to the seafront, ‘The Nelson’ is just one of several fantastic, bustling pubs serving Adnams’ award-winning beers, wines, and spirits. Happy days.

All in all, we had a wonderful time, and in my opinion, the Tour is well worth the £20. Thank you Rob and thank you Adnams. Book it up. Now! By visiting: https://www.adnams.co.uk/experiences/1

What’s next for Adnams? Well, rumour has it that collaborative brews are in the pipeline, alongside celebrations to mark the 10-year anniversary of the Copper House Distillery, which has now won more than 100 awards. We might have to take up the offer of visiting again soon. Adnams. What a story.

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dotumblerworld · 5 years

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Popcorn Sutton Moonshine

Anyone who calls themselves a 'shiner surely knows about Popcorn Sutton and his legendary moonshine. The godfather of modern-day home distillation and moonshine production, Marvin “Popcorn” Sutton was a rebel at heart and a true believer in the old ways of making white whiskey. This recipe is based on his renowned moonshine that uses both sugar and corn meal to make the timeless Tennessee spirit that the man used to sell from the back of his legendary truck. Popcorn Sutton Moonshine Author: MoonshineRecipe.org A simple recipe from the Master himself: Popcorn Sutton! Ingredients 5 lbs of Sugar 4 gallons Filtered Water 2 1/2 lbs of Coarse Ground White Corn Meal 1 small packet Yeast (preferably Distiller's Yeast) 1 gallon of Malt (rye, corn or barley)Equipment - See our guide here! Boiling Pot Fermentation Bucket Airlock Siphon Tube Cheesecloth Moonshine Still Instructions Add 1 gallon of water to the pot and bring it to boil. Add cornmeal and cook, don’t forget to stir occasionally. Remove the heat and let the cornmeal cool down some, then add the remaining water, then mix in the sugar and ground malt. Transfer mixture into the fermenter, let it cool to room temperature then add yeast. Let the mash ferment completely until no visible activity can be detected. Rack the wash off the yeast sediment with a siphon tube into the still's boiler. Distill the wash as normal. Notes Classic Popcorn Sutton mash undergoes open fermentation, so just need to cover the bucket with a cheesecloth and let it ferment.More cautious folk are concerned the mash might get infected with wild yeast or bacteria. We are of that mindset and recommend using a proper fermentation bucket with an airtight seal and an airlock in place.Preferably use a copper pot still for this one in order to keep it true to the way Popcorn Sutton used to do it. Manage the cuts thoroughly, as you’re aiming for the very hearts to get that legendary moonshine flavor.Adjust recipe to size of container. Cornmeal should equal about half or less of container. 3.4.3177

If It's Worth Doin', It's Worth Doin' Right

Make sure you're well prepared to perform this run! Keep it Clean The biggest difference with this recipe is the open air fermentation (if you want to keep it true & traditional). This is a bit less sanitary but can be done safely if you keep the wash indoors and keep it covered. We usually recommend a glass fermenting vessel but for open air fermentation you want the expose the most amount of the wash to the air as you can. So we recommend using one of these fermenting buckets (you can always keep it for future runs, too!): amzn_assoc_tracking_id = "sale05be-20"; amzn_assoc_ad_mode = "manual"; amzn_assoc_ad_type = "smart"; amzn_assoc_marketplace = "amazon"; amzn_assoc_region = "US"; amzn_assoc_design = "enhanced_links"; amzn_assoc_asins = "B071H8N2F2"; amzn_assoc_placement = "adunit"; amzn_assoc_linkid = "1b8972f725ebcdeed901aabff1364580"; Also, you want to be positive you're not letting any airborne elements get into the wash. We've all seen the boys on Moonshiners let their vats open to the wild while they ferment. Realistically though this makes it extremely likely animals and all the bacteria that come with them will sour your batch. Even if you have your fermenting bucket indoors, cover it with a breathable (unbleached) cheesecloth, please! amzn_assoc_tracking_id = "sale05be-20"; amzn_assoc_ad_mode = "manual"; amzn_assoc_ad_type = "smart"; amzn_assoc_marketplace = "amazon"; amzn_assoc_region = "US"; amzn_assoc_design = "enhanced_links"; amzn_assoc_asins = "B07C47RHZW"; amzn_assoc_placement = "adunit"; amzn_assoc_linkid = "71aa198600c92a3539dc69c6bc789d68"; Keep it Traditional Popcorn always insisted that copper brought out the best in his 'likker. Copper is an ideal material for stills as it actually attracts impurities from the mash and keeps them out of your product. This is a great traditional copper still that's mostly assemblsed and of good quality: amzn_assoc_tracking_id = "sale05be-20"; amzn_assoc_ad_mode = "manual"; amzn_assoc_ad_type = "smart"; amzn_assoc_marketplace = "amazon"; amzn_assoc_region = "US"; amzn_assoc_design = "enhanced_links"; amzn_assoc_asins = "B07466D6JT"; amzn_assoc_placement = "adunit"; amzn_assoc_linkid = "b74dadce75c452147315c48780df5c99"; If you want to compare your options for stills to use, be sure to check out our guide on the best moonshine stills! Don't Make a Mess The cornmeal in this recipe makes quite a bit of sediment in the bottom, and when it's time to rack off the liquid into the still you want to avoid as much of that as possible. It'll cook onto the inside of your still and it's hell to clean off afterwards. These auto-siphons have become extremely popular for their huge convenience in this regard. They're also fairly light on the wallet considering the headache they solve: amzn_assoc_tracking_id = "sale05be-20"; amzn_assoc_ad_mode = "manual"; amzn_assoc_ad_type = "smart"; amzn_assoc_marketplace = "amazon"; amzn_assoc_region = "US"; amzn_assoc_design = "enhanced_links"; amzn_assoc_asins = "B00SDLLZDY"; amzn_assoc_placement = "adunit"; amzn_assoc_linkid = "b296721cbddd7eb054922281c9d5a554"; Read the full article

#corn #cornmeal #whitecornmeal

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altughuner-blog · 5 years

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Indian Thali – who does not love eating that riot of flavors and tastes.

If you are an Indian, you probably know the different Indian Thalis found across the geography of India. If you are a visitor, you need to know that there is no single Indian Thali. Each region of India has its own version of Thali.

Some of the items like Rice or Pickle are found in almost all Indian Thalis. However, there is something unique about each Thali, some preparation that makes it belong to a particular region in India. I am going to share the unique aspect of each Indian Thali in this post.

Best Indian Thalis to Enjoy. Stock Photo – Shutterstock

Being a vegetarian, I am going to restrict this to Vegetarian Thalis of India, for that is all I know.

What is an Indian Thali?

Well, Thali is actually the large circular plate raised around the circumference on which food is served. It is usually made of metal. Steel is the most commonly used material these days, followed by brass. Copper Thalis can be seen at places as can be experimental clay ones. The Gods, kings and the wealthy used to have the Thalis made of Gold and Silver. Maybe they still use.

Food is served on a plate and in small bowls called Katoris. It is like putting the sample of the whole menu at one place, in one go.

Ingredients

Indian Thali is supposed to have the 6 tastes that Ayurveda prescribes. The six tastes being:

Salt

Sweet

Sour

Bitter

Spicy

Astringent

A perfect Indian Thali is the one that balances these six tastes. It is not just the tastes, but the colors are also balanced. The Thali, when served, is as colorful as India is as a country. You will see reds, greens, browns, yellow & white colors in the dishes. The aromas from various dishes mish-mash and create their own riot. In short, a Thali appeals to all your five senses.

There is a play of grains based on what is easily available locally. This makes Indian Thali perfect local cuisine to try. Rice, Raita and Salad is usually a part of all Indian Thalis.

In the western world, food is served course by course. To me, this is like someone else deciding what I should eat and in what order. When the meal is served, I choose to eat in whatever order, though the purist would always suggest an order.

A Lassi or Chhaas goes perfectly with Indian Thali. Take your pick based on the weather.

So, let’s take a tour around India with the Indian Thali.

1. Rajasthani Thali

Rajasthani Thali

Call me biased, but Rajasthani Thali is my favorite Indian Thali. It comes with the flavors of the desert that are dry and rich at the same time. Richness comes from oodles of desi ghee used. Some unique dishes to try in a Rajasthani Thali are:

Dal Bati Churma – a true blue desert food

Gatte ki Subzi – when the vegetables are not easily available, gram flour is used to make curry

Ker Sangri – This is one indigenous wild plant that grows across the desert. You get both Sabzi and pickle from Ker Sangri

Bajre ki Roti – Roti made of Bajra, usually drier than wheat roti, so eaten with a layer of Desi Ghee

Lahsun ki Chutney – Garlic Chutney

Khichdi – A multi-grain khichadi with Wheat, Bajra & Jowar

Kadhi – although you find it in many menus, each region has its own recipe

Roasted Papad

Ghevar – a traditional Rajasthani sweet dish, usually available in monsoon season.

2. Bengali Vegetarian Thali

Bengali Thali

Vegetarian and Bengali sound bit of an oxymoron. However, to my delight, they do have a lot of options for vegetarians. There is no dearth of flavors or options for vegetarians. Bengalis like to add a bit of sweet in their food, so everything, except maybe rice has a tinge of sweetness in it.

What makes a Bengali Thali is:

Mishto Doi – Told you everything is sweet here & the sweet set curd is the most celebrated part of Bengali meal.

Baingan Bhaja – Brinjal or Aubergine fries

Aaloo Posto – Potato cooked with poppy seeds, a combination you find only in Bengal

Luchi – It is like a small-sized Poori, but made with Maida, and tastes a bit different

Rasgulla or Roshogulla – No Bengali Thali is complete without this favorite sweet of Kolkata.

Daal, seasonal vegetables cooked in mustard oil and rice complete the menu.

3. Goan Vegetarian Thali

Goan Vegetarian Thali

Yes, it is not impossible to get a vegetarian Thali in Goa. It is not easy but you do get it at many places. Remove all the non-vegetarian food from a Goan Thali and you are left with rice, salad & sol kadi.

Now add shallowly fried, semolina soaked Phodi made with local vegetables including banana, roots, and breadfruit. That is the crispy element on the menu, found only in Goa.

Add a seasonal vegetable in coconut curry.

Daali Toye – a watery and rather bland version of the usual Daal.

Add Tambri Bhaji or Patal Bhaji usually made with red leaves

That is your Goan Vegetarian meal.

4. Gujarati Kathiawadi Thali

Gujarati Kathiawadi Thali

Just like Indian meals, there are various variants of a Gujarati Thali. Kathiawadi Thali is particularly famous. Like Bengali Thali, Gujarati one is also quite sweet. It is incidental that the east and west of India has a similar fetish for sweet. However, in Gujarat, you find a generous flavor of garlic. Many dishes will have a pre-fix Lehsunia, which means ample garlic.

Tamatar Shev ki Sabji – This is what defines a Gujarati Thali for me.

Papad ki Subji – yes you can make a curry from Papad too

Undhiyo – a version of Khichadi

Kadhi

Dhokla or Khandvi shine with their bright yellow color

Small sized Rotis or Bhakris made of Bajra accompany the meal.

Desi Ghee and Jaggery are used to give a finishing touch to the Gujarati Kathiawadi Thali

5. Punjabi Thali

Makki ki Roti, Sarson ka Saag Stock Photos – Shutterstock

What I am going to share here is my version of a Punjabi Thali, the one I love and miss. Best time to have this meal is in winters while soaking in the warm sun. This has limited menu options, but as they say in Punjab – Sawa Lakh se Ek ladaun or my one dish is worth thali full of yours. So, this Punjabi Thali has:

Sarson ka Saag with a thick layer of desi ghee floating on it.

Freshly made Makki ki Roti with a layer of what else, Desi Ghee.

Raddish or Mooli dipped in vinegar or maybe lime juice

A bit of raw onion

Mango Pickle

Chunks of jaggery or Gud to end the meal

Simple thali but the taste would linger on your tongue for a long time to come.

6. Malwa Thali from Madhya Pradesh

Malwa Thali with Paniya & Daal Baafne

This is an unusual, not so well-known Thali from the heart of India. I had it in Mandu, which was once the capital of Malwa. It is also a relatively simple meal, but it demands some time and patience from you to develop a liking for it. Honestly, I did not like its key ingredients Paaniya and Daal Bafna in the first go. Slowly, the taste began to get friendlier with my tongue.

Paaniya is made with corn flour or Makki ka Aata while Bafna is made with Toor Daal. They used to be typically roasted on cow dung in a traditional Chulha or open fire. The dish would be covered with leaves as it cooked. These days they are typically baked in a tandoor or clay oven.

Apart from these two heroes of a Malwa meal, you have daal, rice, seasonal vegetable, kadhi, salad and a sweet.

7. Andhra Thali

Andhra Thali

The Andhra cuisine in my mind stands as the spiciest cuisine of India. A layer of red from the red hot Guntur Chilles always floats on its dishes, especially the sambhar and rasam. A pile of shining white rice comes with bright curries. The things that make an Andhra Thali are

Parripu Podis – Dry lentil-based chutney powders. You can add them to any other items, after mixing it with ghee or Til oil.

Gongura – this is sour leave that you get only in Andhra and hence only in Andhra cuisine. You may find it as part of Dal or as chutney or as part of a side dish. Personally, this is the high point of Andhra meal for me.

Baingan Subzi – Many regions of India have Brinjal as part of their special fair, Andhra is also one of them.

Avakai – An Andhra style mango pickle, true to the cuisine it is spicy.

If you are not used to spices like me, take a big bowl of curd to balance the spice level.

8. Kashmiri Thali

Kashmiri Thali or Wazwan

A vegetarian Kashmiri Thali has to be custom made on order in most of Kashmir. During my Gulmarg visit, I had the opportunity to explore a vegetarian one. The unique elements include:

Nadru or the Lotus stem crisps. They can also come in the form of stuffed Kebabs.

Kashmiri Dum Aaloo – The whole potato cooked in curry is a defining element of Kashmiri cuisine for vegetarians like me.

Haak – lightly sautéed fresh greens that have a tinge of the bitter taste

Walnut Chutney – Walnut comes from Kashmir; you find it everywhere including in the furniture and souvenirs made from walnut wood. In your Kashmiri meal, taste it as tangy walnut chutney.

Kashmiri Roti – Tandoori roti usually infused with spices

Phirni – threadlike noodles cooked in milk with nuts on top is a soothing sweet dish, save some space for it.

Raita with Gheeya or bottle gourd is popular in Kashmir

Kahwah – No matter what you eat in Kashmir, finish it with a cup of saffron infused, nut loaded Kashmiri Kahwah.

9. North Karnataka Thali

This is a Thali that I remember from my Infosys days. This used to be served on a Banana leaf. It also meant you sometimes had to wait in the queue to have it, but it was worth it.

North Karnataka Thali

It is a rather simple meal of freshly made Jowar Rotis and Baingan Subzi. This was the meal. Rice and Sambhar were given but more to complete the meal. A glass of spiced Chhaas went perfectly with the Jowar Roti meal. Pickles, salads and fried papads were served in multiple rounds. A cooked grains vegetable would be there, but it was mostly ignored.

I again had this in Bijapur and in Dharwad at local Khanavallis. The Jowar roti is dry and it goes perfectly with the rich Baingan subzi.

Not too many options, but a tasty wholesome meal.

10. Maharashtra Thali

Typical Maharashtrian Thali

Maharashtra again is a big state. Different variants of Maharashtrian Thali are available in different parts of the state. In a generic thali, apart from Daal, Rice, Roti and seasonal vegetables, you can expect the following

Sabudana Wada comes as a starter for me, I simply love it

Varan Bhat – Maharashtrian version of Khichdi

Amti or the Chana Daal, the Maharashtrian style

Puran Poli – a favorite Maharashtrian mild sweet dish

Shrikhand – I am not too fond of Shrikhand, but don’t that to Maharashtrians 😊. You get it in various flavors including Mango called Amrakhand.

11. Ladakhi Vegetarian Thali

Ladakhi Vegetarian Thali

Ladakh is another region where vegetarian food is not easy to find, but not impossible. In these parts of the world, a vegetarian Thukpa is the staple food for me. It is a noodle soup with few vegetables thrown in, along with lots of garlic. Garlic helps you deal with the mountain sickness at high altitudes. Do read our post on Vegetarian Food in Ladakh.

Others things that add up a vegetarian Ladakhi Thali are:

Vegetable Noodle Soup with boiled grains like a variety of mini chana thrown in with mild spices

Vegetable Momos with Walnut Chutney

Apricot based dessert

Cheese platter, though not traditional is easily available

Gud Gud Chai – Tea made with butter and salt

Chaang – a local fermented drink

12. Karnataka Thali

Karnataka Thali on Banana Leaf

Sit down and wait for a banana leaf to be laid in front of you, that you must wash before you eat. A series of servings will follow, starting with salt, sweet, pickle and Papad. Wait for all the servings to be served and admire the whole menu in front of you on a bright green background.

My favorite part, of course, is the crisp fried papads and bhajjis which are like pakodas or fritters.

Tangy Sambhar with drumsticks is the highlight of this meal. Enjoy it with rice.

13. Lucknow Thali

Thali at Netram Ajay Kumar – Ameenabad, Lucknow

Lucknow is usually known for its street food and Kebabs. The vegetarian in me loved the street food of Lucknow. I love the Bedmi Puri meal. It has stuffed Puris along with Chana, Raita, seasonal vegetable & Chutney. Add a glass of Lassi and you have one of the most satisfying meals.

14. Nepali Thali

Nepali Thali

The food in Nepal is not very different from India. Daal and rice are a staple there too. Seasonal local vegetables are cooked and eaten with the staple.

15. Ashram Thali

I have eaten across Ashrams in India, be in Kanchi Kamkoti Peetham in Kanchipuram or an Ashram in Ayodhya or at Kumbh Mela Bhandaras or at local temples in Goa. No matter which ashram you eat at, the food is more than just food. There is a spirituality in food. It is served with devotion as a prasad or blessing from God, and that’s what makes it special.

Satvik Food at an Indian Ashram

Ashram food is served on a leaf, mostly banana leaf in south India. The food is made without using any Tamasic elements like onion or garlic. The food is simple yet sumptuous, it satisfies you instantly. The cuisine is usually local, made using local seasonal vegetables. Eat it with gratitude.

I think if you want to taste the basic cuisine of different meals from India, you must try some at an Ashram.

The post 15 Best Vegetarian Indian Thali Meals You Must Try appeared first on Inditales.

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