VIRGINIA DISTILLERY COMPANY
June 4, 2016
299 Eades Ln
Lovingston, Virginia 22949
VIRGINIA DISTILLERY COMPANY
June 4, 2016
299 Eades Ln
Lovingston, Virginia 22949
My latest book, WHISKEY, arrives in May 2016, from Countryman Press, a division of W. W. Norton. WHISKEY covers the history of the venerable brown beverage, the differences between — say — bourbon and scotch, and the abundance of cocktail applications for all the many different whiskeys of the world. Preorder here:
My first book, SHRUBS, premiered in September 2014 also from Countryman. In SHRUBS, I look at the history of the beverage called shrub, from its origins in the Middle East up through to its modern use in the trendiest cocktail bars and restaurants. Order here:
WHISKYLIVE DC 2016
March 5, 2016
Grand Hyatt Washington
1000 H St NW
Join me as I sign copies of SHRUBS and talk up WHISKEY, which will be available for preorder. I’ll have a limited number of copies of SHRUBS to sign, but feel free to bring your own.
This might surprise people, but we’ve signed a lease extension for our current apartment; we’ll be staying at least another year. We’ve put up with a lot over the years here: our bathroom has flooded repeatedly because of broken plumbing upstairs; our heat and hot water go out at random times on the coldest nights of the year; the exterior door is often broken and unlocked; there’s a church next door that worships loudly using its PA system. I could go on.
We talk about these things a lot on Facebook, and people keep saying we should move, and yet here we are, staying another year. Why?
Here’s my reason. Jen’s might be different, but this one’s mine: Since leaving my mom’s house at the age of 18, I’ve moved a lot. I’ve never lived anywhere longer than three years. Now that we have kids, I want that to change. I want to learn to be rooted to a place again. For all its faults, this is a good place to root myself to:
We won’t stay here forever. We already want a larger space, maybe with outdoor space again. But I think when we do move, it will be out of town, and not just to another address in Brooklyn or Queens.
I’ve already stopped griping about small things, the inconsequential annoyances of this particular apartment. After all, every dwelling has its flaws, and there’s no sense in bitching about them. I save my complaints for the health-and-safety stuff: the heat, bathroom leaks, etc.
So even though we might seem crazy, we’re staying. it’s nice to feel like my apartment is also my home for a change.
I remember the first time my son said, “Daddy” instead of “Da” or “Da da.” It was October 12, 2012, exactly two years ago, and I remember it so clearly because it was pegged to a specific moment in time.
Julian was in his crib in our bedroom, recovering from surgery. His pain meds and anesthesia were wearing off at the same moment, as his recovery nurse had warned might happen. Jen and I were in the living room, sitting quietly and waiting for signs of distress from his direction.
We heard him start to fuss and crank, the way he normally did when waking up, but this time it carried more urgency, since he was in discomfort. I walked quickly into the kitchen to get his pain med and headed to the bedroom. The very second I entered the room, he cried out, “Daaaaaaadeeeee!” I gave him the medication and held him and he gradually quieted down.
My wife and I don’t discuss the specifics of his surgeries (he had two), to protect his privacy. We do talk about the fact of his surgeries, though. We discussed them at the time because we needed the moral support from friends, and we talk about them now for another reason.
While we were in the waiting room, hanging from a thin cord, desperate to hear anything, we watched the other families. We saw tiny infants awaiting the knife, small children with complex leg braces, kids who seemed sickly thin, and kids who seemed “normal,” but who clearly had a serious reason to be in a surgery.
Julian is now healthy and the problem he faced is one that’s thankfully resolved, but when we round the corner on each anniversary of his operations, I can’t help reflecting on the kids we saw, and their parents.
I feel grateful for organizations like Chicago’s Open Heart Magic, where a friend works, and my heart sinks whenever I read about a child who is seriously ill. I feel thankful that Julian’s surgeries succeeded so well, and I’m enormously grateful to his surgeons and their teams of support people.
My wife follows the Facebook page of a sweet little girl with leukemia, and we ache that we can’t do much that feels like anything for these kids and their families. But there is one thing I can do, one thing that matters a lot — maybe not always for kids, but maybe so.
I donate blood. I get an email notification when it’s my time to roll up my sleeve again, and I book the first possible time I can to get in there and bleed. I maximize the giving by donating double red cells each time.
I’m sitting here as I write this with a bandage on my left arm and the pervasive feeling of low-level lethargy that usually follows a donation. But I’m also sitting here, wondering about the families my blood will help, and that feels pretty damn good.
Y’know, for Julian, and the kids in those waiting rooms, and that sweet little girl, and all the kids we don’t know anything about.
My wife has a saying: The days are long, but the years are short.
Julian started preschool today, and to say that my emotions are mixed is to say that Everest is steep.
The school is a cooperative playschool, put together by friends from the Cortelyou Moms Fall 2011 mailing list. It meets in the basement of a house nearby, and it’s led by a teacher certified by the NYC DoE to teach early childhood classes. The curriculum is informal and play/discovery oriented, just letting kids learn things by exploring their environments and forming friendships with other kids.
We met the teacher last week at a play date, and she’s fantastic. She’s smart, with clear ideas about how young children learn best, and she has a great rapport with young kids. We arrived accidentally together at the play date, and while Jen and I were putting our stuff away and getting Mirabelle out of her stroller, Rachel (the teacher) took Julian’s hand and led him into the backyard to play.
I am thrilled for Julian. He’s shown a lot of signs lately that he’s ready for something like this. He plays well with other kids on the playground. He recognizes his friends and gravitates to them when they’re out. And he loves going up to adults and just sitting and chatting with them.
Rachel warned the group of parents that some of the kids might have separation anxiety at the door, and I saw that this morning with one little boy. But Jen and I joked that Julian would probably immerse himself right into free-play when he got to school and barely be aware that we were leaving.
That’s exactly what happened. Jen and I were struggling with our feelings, and he was blissfully playing with a little girl in the group.
Julian’s unusual, in that he’s really never been with a sitter or a teacher who wasn’t family. When I went to Mexico earlier this year, Jen’s mom came up for a while and stayed with the kids while Jen worked.
I’m not worried about his adjustment, though; he likes Rachel, and I think he’ll do well with her and the other kids.
No, it’s MY adjustment that worries me. Aside from the Mexico trip and a brief jaunt to Kentucky, I’ve been with him all the time. We’re inseparable, and now he’s off having adventures without me.
But this is right. This is what should be. I want him to fly to Mexico on his own to join a group of strangers on a week-long distillery visit slash bender. Or Argentina, or New Zealand, or Japan, or Canadia, or wherever. That drive for his independence starts here, and it starts today.
It’s good for me, too. I’ve been very frustrated lately: Julian and Mira have such divergent nap schedules right now that it’s nearly impossible to have them both napping at the same time. Some days, I get half an hour of quiet in which to write, plan publicity for the book, keep up with email, and plan future projects.
I have felt frenzied, but worse, it affects my output. I was writing weekly for Serious Eats, and now I’m lucky if I get a post a month in there.
Right now, I’m listening to music and writing this, while Julian’s in school and Mira (finally) naps. I feel like I’ve reclaimed a part of myself. How can you be a writer if you can’t write?
So this is good, but goddamn, it’s hard. I miss my best buddy.
My father died on this date, forty years ago. 31 years old.
It was fucking pancreatic cancer, and it lingered for months. He started feeling ill during Labor Day weekend, while working on our new house in Marietta, Georgia. He died April 14, a Sunday. Easter Sunday, in fact.
Dad had just taken a promotion, one that moved us from Louisville, Kentucky, down to Georgia. He and my mom had grown tired of moving. (In my first five years, I lived in four different places.) So he had his sights on his next promotion, and he had some options to choose from: stay in the Atlanta area permanently, move to the D.C. area and stay there, or move out to Seattle. My mom said they were sort of leaning toward D.C., but they had only just started to seriously discuss it when he fell ill.
Dad was a hotshot auditor for the federal Department of Housing and Urban Development. As I wrote here two years ago, he investigated development projects that took public funds, to ensure the funds were being used efficiently and honestly. He uncovered a few cases of fraud during his time in Kentucky, and he saved the government so much money as a result that HUD kept kicking him higher up the ladder. He was rising quickly in HUD, and it’s sometimes hard to imagine what might have happened had he lived–how far he might have gone, what our lives would have been like in Atlanta, Seattle, or D.C.
I don’t mean to dwell on the tragedy of it all. My father famously didn’t get along with his parents, and he wasn’t terribly fond of my mother’s mother either. (My mother’s dad, on the other hand, thought of my dad as the son he never had.) He left home the first chance he had, to attend Bellarmine College, a Catholic liberal-arts school in Louisville. (He was the proverbial first-in-his-family-to-attend-college type.)
He visited his family often enough (he was close to his siblings) that on one trip, he met my mother, and it didn’t take them long to decide to marry. I came along in 1968; my sister, in 1970. By 1974, they were looking to plant new roots somewhere.
Just not in southwestern Indiana. Not near “those bitches,” as he called both my grandmothers. (I remember them both well; they were … difficult.)
So had he lived, we wouldn’t have seen the extended family much, probably just on holidays. The strange truth of his death is that my mom moved us back “home,” so she’d have help from the family in raising her kids. I grew far closer to grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins than I ever would have had my dad lived. So when I say I don’t want to dwell on the tragedy, that’s what I mean. Moving back to Indiana had its benefits.
But I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I left Indiana nearly 12 years ago and have no desire to move back. I get along well with my mother, but I think my dad left for reasons other than his family; I think he wanted a bigger world than southwestern Indiana provided at the time. (Even into the 1980s, Evansville was an insular place. My dad’s very small town was even more cut off; I think they got phone service some time in the 1950s.)
I think there’s something in his fierce independence that leads me to sit now in Brooklyn, writing about a childhood in Louisville and Marietta. I’ve recently returned from Mexico, and I’m about to leave on another trip–ironically perhaps–to Louisville.
On this 40th anniversary of his death, I want to get some words out about his life and attempt to understand how he continues to influence me, all these decades later. My children will never know this man, except through me, and to some extent, through my mother.
I wish we still owned that necktie, and I can’t tell you how pleased and amused I am that spectacles like his are back in style.