Cold and lonely: My old mug from the Bakery on Cherry Street.
The first two weeks in April, we go thirsty. By choice, and for love, of some body. Some thing.
The missus will miss her coffee the most. I will miss it, too, but also the tea—the delicate Darjeeling, the black Scottish breakfast that I doctor with milk and sugar, the lapsang souchong that takes me back to the trade routes, even though I’m not a Mongol, never drank tea on a steppe, and never smoked the leaves over a wood fire before steeping and imbibing. Still.
The wine, of course. Perhaps the most. The box of Jack Tone or Redvolution — a not-bad French blend from Bota Box — the occasional bottle of Spanish garnacha or French syrah or Chilean sauvignon blanc. The one we drink it with shrimp. No wine, no nothing, with the money saved going to a mission that will build wells for those without clean drinking water. Turning wine into water. A miracle that will occur in a place I will never see.
I might have missed the odd dram, of Lagavulin or Macallan or Ardbeg or Sprinbank, but the whisky season is on its last legs, and so, in this coming April secession, I may or may not have gone to the cabinet to pour a finger or two from one of the bottles of gold reclining in the cabinet dark, in wait.
And no thrice-weekly martini, the one whose measure will call to me like a siren to a sailor surrounded by water and unable to drink, shaken or stirred. The martini whose portion I have deduced to a near unwavering blend of six parts Gordon’s to one part Dolin Dry, with a mad dash of Bitter Truth blood-orange bitters. Or a little pinkling, with Peychaud’s, if nothing else.
Yes, the coffee. The Panama, Colombia, Costa Rica, Ethiopia and Tanzania all-stars of Brian Franklin’s mad roastery, where new and delicious coffees emerge every so often like stout, young centerfielders who can hit and field.
A bleak opening to April, to be sure, but mighty is the cause, so there. At least we have the baseball. Happy opening day.