I love a perfect old-fashioned. In an era where it seems everyone is declaring their sobriety - in a small town where a variety of edible and non-edible forms of legal weeds seem to be an acceptable choice, I will take a controversial stance and declare my love for cocktails, or two.
I enjoy the bite of bourbon whiskey, the sweetness of simple syrup, and the mouse that surrounds the huge ice cube, forming the perfect adult candy. As I savor each swallow, I feel the tension ease and a happy sensation wash over me. It’s a buoyancy, an easily accessible lift, a social lubricant, a celebratory drink. I can’t help but love it.
I’m lucky. I prefer moderation, only indulging a few times a month. I don’t crave it at other times. I rarely drink alone. I’m not easily addicted.
These days, especially at my age, I start to feel like an anomaly. Yet here I am, past 50, still a fan of wild sauce. Some of my best memories happened under its influence. I won’t be sad about that.
I crave handcrafted cocktails on first dates. My preference is bourbon drinks, favoring precious crafty cocktails with unidentifiable (at least to me) ingredients. They make my head big, bold, and stiff. After all, the first date benefits from feeling one’s head spin, a person’s body daring, a person… oh dear, determination stiffens.
I find that sharing stories about cocktails creates a special sense of intimacy. It forms a shared trust, an unspoken agreement that can slowly be nurtured together to reveal our inner selves as we talk, gaze, laugh, and create an atmosphere. Under this influence, I lower my guard enough to see it, or it becomes translucent enough to see shapes and colors in both directions.
After a cocktail or two, I become more intuitive and empathetic. I can still think clearly, but it enhances my sense of connection. The undercurrents are clear; the pheromones feel almost tangible. The chemicals collide.