Tag: Whiskey

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Saint Patrick’s Day

Saint Patrick’s Day was the high holy day of holiday shenanigans in our house growing up. Sure, Christmas and Easter were the main event. But no day was more treasured for sheer silliness.

And there were competitors. Take Robbie Burns night, the holiday where Scots honour their great poet. On this solemn eve, my dad dimmed the lights and lit black votive candles on the dining room table. He then “piped in the haggis”, on a kazoo. The “haggis” being a balloon he pulled from the refrigerator filled with frozen jello and bits of fruit. He stood with carving knife in hand, speaking in a faux brogue, then “opened the haggis”. We kids were traumatized. Mom swooned in admiration.

On Saint Patrick’s Day things got even sillier. Green everything. Irish drinking songs blaring on the stereo from dawn until dusk. My parents dancing jigs in the kitchen while waiting for their coffee to percolate. Beef stew with Guinness. Oat cakes. Once again, we kids were traumatized.

Except my little brother.  He would dress himself in green and pretend to be a leprechaun. He would flit around the house trying not to be seen. When we spied him hiding under a table he would waddle off at speed to another room, giggling all the way. He cut up pieces of aluminum foil to make “gold coins” which he slipped under people’s doors and left on chairs. It was very cute. And kind of weird.

One Saint Patrick’s Day, when he was perhaps 6, he outdid himself. My parents were at the kitchen table. In walked my brother with dad’s prized bottle of single malt whisky, a surefire Irish tradition. Except the whisky had been turned electric, neon green. In honor of Saint Patrick, My brother had dumped an entire bottle of green food coloring into my dad’s prized whisky. To be a good sport, dad drank a bit. His lips turned green. I suspect it may also have discolored his urine.

My father kept the ruined bottle of whisky. He would serve it to guests in dark whisky glasses, then say nothing as their lips turned green. He only did this to guests with a good sense of humor. Or so I believe. Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

Image Credit: Freaking News

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The Border

Crossing the border between Canada and the US used to be pretty easy. That’s to be expected between the best of neighbo(u)rs.

Take for instance the time I crossed from rural Maine into rural-er New Brunswick. To reach the border I foolishly took a minor road through the heart of Maine. Don’t ever do this. When eventually I hit the border, the crossing booth looked like a glorified port-a-potty. There were two female Canadian border patrol members squished into its cedar-lined interior. I expect they saw fewer than 20 cars a day.

I rolled down to the window and handed them my passport.

The guard looked into the window of my car. “Sir”, she said. “It looks like you have a car packed for a family. But I don’t see a family. Is there a family in there? You didn’t forget them, did you? That is generally considered bad for the marriage.”

I explained that my wife and children had flown to Halifax. It was only me doing the 1,000 mile drive because we needed a car once we got out there. I was solo, but would soon meet the family in Halifax.

“Sooooooooo”, she said with faux chastisement, “No family. That would explain the beef jerky and cigars at 10:30 in the morning”.

Indeed. That morning on the way out of Bangor, Maine, I happened upon a shop that sold beef jerky, whisky, and cigars: the holy trinity of road trips. Of course I hadn’t had (much) whisky since I was driving, but I was happily nurturing a cigar and chomping on beef jerky as I rolled up to the border.

I confessed. Mea culpa. Guilty as charged. Then I asked her not to judge me since Maine is – truly – an exceedingly boring state through which to drive. She agreed. Then she added: “Looks like we got another liberated husband here. Enjoy your time in Canada”.

That was it. Not a single question about where I was staying, for how long, what I was bringing in. Nothing. I was clearly not an existential threat to the legal or sovereign interests of Canada.  That’s to be expected between the best of neighbo(u)rs.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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The 4th of July

My extended family gathers on the Mississippi River each 4th of July to celebrate with fun and gluttony. These gatherings are the source of many of my favorite memories.

Anchoring the weekend is the keg – sometimes two kegs – of Miller Lite. In recent years this has been supplemented by margaritas and single malt whisky.

As the morning sun sparkles on the mighty river the breakfast pizza awaits – topped with bacon, ham, eggs, sausage. Or for the weight conscious, perhaps just a bowl of ice cream and left over Cheetos. My wife became an official member of the family one year when she came downstairs holding an ice cream bar and wine cooler at 9:30 AM. She had officially joined the dark side. There was wild cheering.

Lunch usually includes deviled eggs and ham salad – a dish that consists of neither ham, nor salad. It is ground bologna and mayonnaise with chives thrown in for roughage. You slather it on Wonderbread. An hour after ingesting this, the cottage septic system takes one vicious beating after another.

Evening favorites include fried catfish or “tacos in a bag”. The latter involves each family member with their own personal bag of Doritos. The bag is flattened, opened, and then ground beef, cheese, and tomatoes (veggies, so important) are scooped in and mixed around with the crushed Doritos. Then you just dig into the bag with a spoon. No messy cleanup!

After this we waddle to the campfire for S’mores with a side of diabetes. The campfire is the site of legendary family bonding: inappropriate fireside skits, inappropriate song and dance, inappropriate amounts of liquor. And so much 4th of July explosives that it leaves ashes in your drink.

Nearby is a small town which hosts our favorite 4th of July Parade. One year as the parade rolled past, a young lady waved from the back of a pick-up truck proudly wearing a sash that read “Clayton County Beef Queen”. Twenty minutes later the exact same girl rolled past a second time sporting a different sash that read “Clayton County Pork Queen”.  Here was true 4th of July Iowa royalty.

So too are my three lovely aunts who make the family celebration possible each year. This story is dedicated to you, with all my love and thanks. HAPPY 4TH OF JULY everyone!

 

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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Scandinavian Furniture – 30/10/2017

A certain Scandinavian furniture store, which I probably cannot name on a public blog post, is the last train stop before hell.

Many people like it. “It’s great value”, they say, “so many practical things and so affordable. I get a sense of accomplishment from assembling the furniture I just bought”. This is willful delusion.

Every minute spent in that store is an admission of failure. None of us choose to be deep in the bowels of the labyrinth with glassy eyed kids melting down all around us. We are there because we cannot afford to be somewhere else buying furniture that we actually like.

Each purchase is an exercise in compromise: you know it is bad quality, but we buy it because we have to. Sitting in our home, it reminds us that we just spent $200 on lacquered particle board and ate meatballs made from horsemeat. And then it breaks.

Products are named by cleverly rearranging letters from the Scandinavian spelling of only three words: “underachiever”, “futile” and “self-esteem” (which is actually two words). Fake accents are then thrown in to give products their mysterious Euro-allure. This is the furniture equivalent of Häagen-Dazs.

The company motto should be: “Where Relationships go to Die”.  Couples enter the store with dreams of the future they will build together. They end up seething in the check-out lanes, their ankles gouged from the person with the extended cart in line behind them, craving a $1 hot dog despite being vegan. This is followed by the silent car ride home and furniture assembly with the little allen keys: a guaranteed relationship-ender.

Guess where my wife and I just spent our afternoon? Thankfully we have plenty of humour and whiskey to regain our perspective. And no doubt we are soon to return, drawn by the meatballs like a moth to hell’s flame.

 

NB: Image credit to Reddit User dionysage