Glensomethingorother & the Passing of Time

My dad was always pushing some drink or other at me as a kid. Less in the interest of corrupting me than fostering a strong cultural foundation, an appreciation of the better things life had to offer.

A father and his son. Mt. Rainier National Park. 1968

“Try this, it’s the finest dark roasted arabica coffee,” he would say. Or, “You’ll never taste a wine this good, my boy…” I developed tastes for both. But not Scotch. That was Dad’s drink. Scotch on the rocks. There was always a Glensomethingorother in his glass, it was always “the best Scotch you’ll ever taste,” and it always tasted the way rubbing alcohol smelled. More

The American Series, Pt. VI — Julep Jars

Our friend, Heather, invited us and a few friends recently to celebrate her birthday. She wanted to do a “Southern potluck.” I offered to bring gumbo, fried chicken, corn bread and a few other miscellaneous items. “You nut,” Heather responded. “It’s not a potluck if you make everything!”

Heather & her julep

Ultimately I settled on buttermilk fried chicken wings and mangalitsa lard-infused corn bread. And, to drink, mint juleps. More

Gettin’ Me Oyrish Up

You could say I’m well in touch with my Irish blood — I love cloudy days, I’ve been known to drink a bit, I’m given to song at the slightest provocation, I write poetry and tend to be sentimental and a bit melancholy. So St. Patrick’s Day is a more special holiday for me than it might for the average person.

One of the finest St. Patrick’s Days I ever spent was in Venice, Italy, with my sister Andrea. Wandering aimlessly, we happened to stumble upon a real Irish pub where we spent the evening with a couple from Ireland and an American GI and his mom. The exchange rate was strong, we realized each glass of vino rosso only cost .50 cents, and so we ordered half a dozen each and lined the table with them. The train ride the next day to Florence was a hard one. More