First weekend in October and there are many indulgences. Two days of intermittent rain extended the period of nightfall such that I have slept all night and past 8 am for two nights in row. While the clouds prevented us from gazing at the full moon, there is still a Chinese mooncake waiting to be eaten. Dense, glutinous, sweet — it almost certainly transport billions to their childhoods upon the first bite. Me: I learned how lotus paste tastes and am not surprised the hard-boiled egg yolks are not common within most past pastries I have encountered.
We drove across the border in search of an orchard recommended by a local friend. Along the way, the steering wheel all but jumped out of my grip as we approached a sign indicating it was New England’s largest liquor store. The parking lot was full and inside we were greeted by a costumed scarecrow (note: purchased costumes such as lobsters are far superior) and clots of people. Turns out it was Octoberfest and the locals were swarming around tables for beer tasting. On the periphery, others hovered with their bratwurst. We made our way around one soggy swarm to an aisle of whiskey and a section from the isles of the United Kingdom. Four different styles of Tullamore Dew varying in supposed age and by bottle design. Nearby, distinguished and aloof, was my choice of a tall cardboard sleeve or a regularly corked bottle with the hazy landscape of Connemara in western County Galway.
Further, weaving on narrow damp roads toward the orchard, my co-pilot asked what I might want to eat at this place. Bratwurst was on my mind and her response indicated that was a feeble hope. We parked in a meadow and walked toward the store and apples. We heard music. Turned out there was a live band doing a very decent job generating southern rock from beneath a shelter that held a dozen or so picnic tables. A trailer was selling onion rings, french fries and other greasy foods. And so I had my bratwurst with kraut. There were goats and llamas to survey. A weedy pen held a sign explaining the world distribution of the emu but none was to be seen. Sue tossed a piece of my brat bun to a chicken who then fell head over claws in love. We ambled back toward the music, selected a peck of Galas, and headed down the road.
Breakfast on Sunday was a caramel apple we bought at another orchard the same day. The whiskey sits next to the coffee maker (temporarily) and I resist the indulgence of a snort or a sniff. It ought to be enough to enjoy the lightening sky where I am instead of attempting a mental escape. A reverse recollection would accompany the odor of peat-smoked malt, perhaps a vous jàdé experience where I know in the future I’m going to remember this moment. Quite sadly, I discover there are no cheap flights later this month between Hartford or Providence and Salt Lake City. The whiskey find then is a somewhat hollow victory. Somehow or another there has to be a way to indulge this increasing desire long before May 1 in Denver. Wheels begin to turn.
We drove across the border in search of an orchard recommended by a local friend. Along the way, the steering wheel all but jumped out of my grip as we approached a sign indicating it was New England’s largest liquor store. The parking lot was full and inside we were greeted by a costumed scarecrow (note: purchased costumes such as lobsters are far superior) and clots of people. Turns out it was Octoberfest and the locals were swarming around tables for beer tasting. On the periphery, others hovered with their bratwurst. We made our way around one soggy swarm to an aisle of whiskey and a section from the isles of the United Kingdom. Four different styles of Tullamore Dew varying in supposed age and by bottle design. Nearby, distinguished and aloof, was my choice of a tall cardboard sleeve or a regularly corked bottle with the hazy landscape of Connemara in western County Galway.
Further, weaving on narrow damp roads toward the orchard, my co-pilot asked what I might want to eat at this place. Bratwurst was on my mind and her response indicated that was a feeble hope. We parked in a meadow and walked toward the store and apples. We heard music. Turned out there was a live band doing a very decent job generating southern rock from beneath a shelter that held a dozen or so picnic tables. A trailer was selling onion rings, french fries and other greasy foods. And so I had my bratwurst with kraut. There were goats and llamas to survey. A weedy pen held a sign explaining the world distribution of the emu but none was to be seen. Sue tossed a piece of my brat bun to a chicken who then fell head over claws in love. We ambled back toward the music, selected a peck of Galas, and headed down the road.
Breakfast on Sunday was a caramel apple we bought at another orchard the same day. The whiskey sits next to the coffee maker (temporarily) and I resist the indulgence of a snort or a sniff. It ought to be enough to enjoy the lightening sky where I am instead of attempting a mental escape. A reverse recollection would accompany the odor of peat-smoked malt, perhaps a vous jàdé experience where I know in the future I’m going to remember this moment. Quite sadly, I discover there are no cheap flights later this month between Hartford or Providence and Salt Lake City. The whiskey find then is a somewhat hollow victory. Somehow or another there has to be a way to indulge this increasing desire long before May 1 in Denver. Wheels begin to turn.
