I can’t stand the taste of most alcoholic beverages and I hate to throw up, so I shun parties and refuse to go to bars unless there’s no way to get out of it. As a student I learned to be a professional party evader. I’ve also been a nomad most of my life. The results have been that my only long-term friendships have been books.
As a writer I could use the goose of the benevolent muse, sometimes. You know how it is, when nothing comes on those writing days? When just the thought of facing the page is worse than eating glass? But you drag yourself there and write hours’ worth of pure, unmitigated crap? At least if you’re baked with benevolence, your mean muse, the one holding a gun to your head saying “Just write the fucking story,” has to back off, at least for a little while.
When I was growing up my parents were lushes and kept a well-stocked liquor cabinet and a steady supply of beer in the fridge. I was more of a Coca-Cola aficionado myself, so I found the sweeter liqueurs more appealing, since the parents gave me 24/7 access to their fermented beverage supply. No doubt if I’d have actually shown an affinity toward booze, they’d have locked it up in a safe faster than you can say Jack Daniels.
When we lived in Southwest Asia, Western liqueurs were relatively cheap and easy to find in markets that catered to Westerners. As a result I developed a keen appreciation for Drambuie and Cherry Heering. And when I went to Moscow my friend and I made the major error of drinking too much cherry juice and vodka at the Bolshoi Ballet during intermission. Sufficiently inebriated we found our way back downstairs and when the curtains went up again we shouted at the dancers until everyone in the audience turned to stare at us. I don’t know why the authorities never kicked us out, but, then, I don’t remember much about the ballet either.
Fast-forward to a wedding I attended some years ago. I didn’t know the bride or the groom, but that didn’t stop me from drinking glass-loads of something that tasted divine from an enormous champagne fountain in the center of a table at the reception. It was absolutely the best alcoholic beverage I’d ever tasted. I was so drunk from it I forgot to ask the hosts what it was, and I gave up a long time ago, thinking I’d never find out.
That is until today when someone set a bottle of Barefoot moscoto on the kitchen table and I poured a swallow into a mug and tasted it. Bingo. I recognized the taste from the wedding. I’m in love.
Reviews are mixed on the Barefoot brand, but there are many others out there. This is a new day. Oh, joy. Oh, inspiration. Okay, I’m a lightweight, and no connoisseur, but I think I found my Fée Blanche, my white fairy.
Could this be the beginning of a beautiful relationship?