I love a perfect old fashioned. In an age where seemingly everyone is declaring sobriety - and in a town where legal weed in numerous edible and edible forms seems to be an acceptable option, I'm going to take a controversial stance and declare my love for a cocktail, or two.
I love the tingle of bourbon, the sweetness of the simple syrup, and the mouse surrounding the giant ice cubes, making for the perfect grown-up candy. As I savored every swallow, I felt the tension release, the feeling of joy. It's a buoyant, accessible lift, a social lubricant, a celebratory drink. I can't help but love it.
I'm very lucky. I prefer moderate and only attend occasionally a few times a month. I don't long for other times. I rarely drink alone. I'm not easily addicted.
These days, especially at my age, I'm starting to feel like an anomaly. Yet here I am, over 50 years old, and still a fan of game sauce. Some of my best memories happened under its influence. I'm not going to feel bad about it.
I crave craft cocktails on a first date. My preference is for bourbon drinks, favoring rare crafty cocktails with unrecognizable (at least to me) ingredients. Make my head big, bold and stiff. After all, a first date benefits from feeling one's head spin, one's body bold, one's... oops, determination stiff.
I find that sharing stories about cocktails creates a special sense of shared intimacy. It forms a shared trust, an unquestionable agreement that can be slowly held back together to allow our inner selves to become revelations as we speak, stare, laugh and vibe. Under this effect, I lower the guard low enough that I can see it, or it becomes translucent enough that the shape and color can be seen in both directions.
After a cocktail or two, I became more intuitive and sympathetic. I can still think clearly, but it enhances my sense of connection. The undercurrent is clear; the pheromones feel almost tangible. Chemicals collide.