1. It's not just the making of the Bourbon Balls -- which is a hassle -- it's the licking of the bowl and spatula that makes the rest of the making of them a lot LESS hassle.
2. For some reason, Bourbon Ball creation numbs the ends of the fingers. Or, it could just be the vigorous bowl- and spatula-licking that does the numbing indirectly.
3. Great care must be taken to avoid the hangover from the application of the various nostrums in Slog-prevention. It is important to keep Bourbon Balls within reach at all times, particularly with morning coffee.
4. Bourbon works fast, even though it's hard on the gullet. Gin is a euphoric, and sometimes a hallucinogenic; further, gin can be mixed with all sorts of other things that make its ingestion a lot gentler on the system. Irish whisky is excellent for bedtime, has it all over Nyquil for soothing the psyche and inviting deep and dreamy sleep.
5. Christmas carols, even when sung along with (I do not know how to avoid the dangling participle there), are not necessarily cheering; viz: "In the bleak mid-winter", "Coventry Carol", "The infant King", etc. VERY cheery, on the other hand are: "The 23rd Psalm" by Bobby McFerrin, the otherwise loathesome "Donkey Carol", anything with a brass ensemble, "Adeste Fidelis" because it could also be "Semper Fidelis" which is always an upper.
6. Standing over to the right of a Slog, looking closely at it and writing about it, especially while a tiny bit tipsy, helps one HELL of a lot in rising above it.
7. So does a good hard snowfall.
Seven being a holy number, I'll stop there.
My dear friend Shane comforts me (as she often does) with the following:
ReplyDeleteI think you may be on to something, there.
I have a very clear memory of observing my Aunt Pinky (who was Icelandic and a dancer and beautiful), as she slogged through the holidays. Thing was, it was not out of the ordinary to find her so, if you get my drift. She and my Uncle Dan, for whom [Shane's brother] Kelley Daniel is named, started each day of the last, oh, forty or so years of their lives with an inch or two of bourbon in a Dixie Cup, and kept on truckin'from then on. Off to the store we'd fly, in Pinky's Ford Falcon, which was never without a substantial number of boxes of Chiclets on the dashboard. We shadowed her through her day, then, towards evening, Aunt Pinky's eyelids would droop, her voice would lower several decibels and it was "darling" this and "sweetie" that as the stories and anecdotes of past Christmastimes filled the evening. (It's important to note that our little nomadic family was rarely at home - wherever THAT happened to be at the time - during the holidays. We usually found ourselved bunked up with willing family members, often on my mother's side, and always those aunts and uncles who had "backslidden" into a less-than-evangelical life, for which I will be eternally grateful.)
The thing about Aunt Pinky and Uncle Dan (this is beginning to sound like a tribute) was, they were alive and in love and funny and intelligent and...showpeople! In their spare time (he was an executive with the telephone company out of San Francisco for 30 years), they ran an acting company and costume rental out of their basement, which had racks and racks of the most splendid costumes, and a piano! Can't you just see cousin Tina plucking out "True Love", then maybe a carol or two, as a tiny Martha and Shanie harmonized for all we were worth, in our flowing boas and fur stoles? It was spectacular, the show we put on, I can tell you that, and our audience was infinitely appreciative... "Darlings! That was wonderful!!!!"
They lived in Alamo, in a rustic house on the creek, hand-built by Uncle Dan his-own-self. They bred dachsunds and owned a motorcycle with a sidecar and were always, always, magical people.
It was at Christmastime that we were reminded how life should be lived, that the occasional tip of the glass or smoke of the pipe were acceptable, that bourbon-induced laughter was contagious, and that Mom and Dad were more comfortable and in their element at those times. And so were we.
Tip one for me, dearie...and for Aunt Pinky.
Love, s
Love, love this.
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