Stroopwafel

I've been traveling for about two weeks. This particular adventure is soon coming to an end, and I've been thinking about the nature and effects of travel. I'm sure I've heard this song before, but I happened upon it again the other day, and it's simple beauty struck me. Although the lyrics suggest a more somber mood than I identify with at the moment, when paired with the melody, the song conveys a sense of life's movements to me - dancing between the bitter and the sweet, and throughout it all, buttressed by a solid sense of faith and hope. Here's the instrumental version that I came upon:

I've tried a few new Scotches in this time, and most of them were lovely enough. While I was still in New York, I stopped by the liquor store I used to work in when I was younger. After catching up a little, and learning of my newfound love of Scotch, the owner offered me a sample of a bottle he had open. Singleton 15 year was a lovely smooth character that I intend to meet with again. It was only a small taste I had with him that day so I couldn't really get more than a first impression.


After spending time with family in New York, it was time to fly to California for work (and some play). I was very happy to discover that United Airlines offers a single malt Scotch on their flights, and it was one I hadn't tried yet but had heard good things about.




Glenfarclas 12 year is Speyside Scotch. The little airplane bottle is a lovely miniature of the full size. Coming straight out of the airplane storage, this fellow was a little cold at first, but I gave him time to warm up and tried not to rush our meeting. From the bottle his nose had a vanilla sweetness that flowed smoothly into the scent of caramel once poured into the plastic airplane cup.


I did wonder if my perception was influenced by another gift from United Airlines - a stroopwafel. This tasty little treat is filled with the buttery sweetness of caramel, meant to be laid upon a cup of coffee or tea and warmed till soft. A lovely idea.



The Glenfarclas was warm and gentle from the first sip. Adding water dulled the nose a bit, but the creamy feel remained.

I sensed a hint of smoke or ash, perhaps a nutty flavor. He was light mannered gentlemen, with a bit of spice and dark overtones of something like ash.

I took long pauses between sips, letting him breathe and warm up to the conversation. Our chat called to mind for me the freshness of a foggy day - opaque, but clean and crisp.


After a bit, a little more of his spice became apparent, but the smooth buttery characteristic remained; his sweet demeanor and character reminded me of Macallan. I think I have a soft spot for the Speyside boys.

Traveling is a way of resetting perspective sometimes. When I travel, in some ways I forget my everyday life. In such a short time span, my comfortable, familiar existence can grow so distant in my mind, almost as if a dream. I remember it, but at the same time feel very detached from it.

At some point - say, after I've lived in a place for a while, this feeling fades and the new becomes the norm. I'm sure at some point a new place becomes "home" in the sense that no matter how long you may leave for, there will always be a resonance and comfort to it when you return, but how long do you need to be in a place before this magic happens? I don't know when that point is - how long it takes, or if it's spectrum. I've been to San Francisco before, many years ago; I lived in the city for a summer, and I knew it fairly well, but it never settled into my soul to become a home. Flying into the city and traveling over its iconic bridge, I recognized it, but it might as well have been completely new to me. 

While traveling, I listened to Michael Meade's The Water of Life. At one point he says: 

"you must get stuck before you can ask the real questions,"

- one of those being - "am I going the right way?" 

It's a perfect question to ponder on trains and planes.

During some of my down time out west, I went with a friend to The Whisky Tip - a local bar, complete with resident cat, and a whole slew of whiskies. I was missing my smoky Scotch, so despite the variety of new fellas available, I went with one I knew I'd get along with - Laphroaig 10. It was nice to spend the night with him again. He did not disappoint, but was as warm, spicy, smoky, and delicious as I remembered. My friend wasn't as sure about this as I was. After one sniff, she quickly returned to her wine. 

                                                                                                              We were also able to visit a couple of wineries. Korbel offered as part of their tasting a cream Sherry. I never used to be much of a sweet wine drinker, however, that is changing. As Scotch is traditionally aged in Sherry barrels, and Sherry is much less popular than it used to be, many of the crafters have had to turn to Bourbon or other barrels to age their spirit in. This is the thought behind a friend's advice, "If you like Scotch, drink Sherry." I can only do my duty...

I've been in a bit of transition for a while now, and I have found myself asking Michael Meade's question even before he suggested it. Honestly, I think my nature prompts me to have this question constantly lingering in some part of my awareness... Am I going the right way? Michael Meade says most people need to get stuck before they can hear this question being asked of themselves. Although travel is pretty much the opposite of being stuck, I think it can have the same effect on a person. It's a reset of our psyche in certain ways to be taken from the habits and routines we are used to and be placed firmly in the center of so much new. Some folks are overwhelmed by this; for myself, it is usually quite refreshing. 

To ask that question though, implies that there is a "right" way to be going, and therefore also, a "wrong" way. I interpret the right way to mean the path that allows a person to live in alignment with their truest self; reality forces the addition of the caveat: "as much as possible." It's a pretty important caveat to include, and changes what might have been a simple answer to a sometimes life-long quest peppered with existential crisis. Ah...life. 

For me, there is a beauty and rejuvenation that comes hand-in-hand with the asking of difficult questions - at least while traveling. I may not have the answer yet, but maybe it is enough now to be asking the questions. As one of my favorite writers, Rainer Maria Rilke says:

"Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer."

"The point is, to live everything." As my travels come to an end, I think on my journeys and all the wonders I've seen. From the ancient mysterious redwoods, to the powerful crashing seas, and all the simple beauties in between. For now, I am loving the questions, and living all the things. 

Glendfiddich 12

Yesterday was the last night of the Levitt Amp concert series at the IX art park. The Bumper Jacksons were the headline band, and there were many folks swing dancing throughout the evening. The band also sang some blues style songs. Here's one warning women not to marry...

After the music, I went down to Bang! for dinner and a Scotch. Of the five they had, the one I had yet to try was Glenfiddich 12, so I ordered a dram.

His nose was mellow and a little fruity. The first sip was warm, sweet, and creamy. Glenfiddich was a smooth character, for sure. As I continued sipping I tasted a gentle cinnamon and spice. Adding water didn't seem to change him at all except for becoming more bold with the cinnamon flavor.


My dinner came quickly, and one of the dishes was spicy, which seemed to bring out the spice of my Scotch in a stronger way.


A word that came to mind as Glenfiddich and I continued our conversation was "slick." He was very smooth, and mellow...charming really, but also had another taste to him that became more apparent as the evening drew on. I couldn't quite place it; I thought perhaps nutty..maybe tobacco or ash?  Slightly bitter - not unpleasant, but rather distinctive. It made me stop and notice that there were more layers to him than I may have originally thought.


As I ate my dinner and sipped my Scotch, snippets of the conversation between the bartender and another patron made its way to my ears. As I listened to the talk of love and life, my thoughts turned to gratitude. How we often find solace and joy in the little things of life to help us deal with the larger, more difficult things. Or at times we must remember to take a broader perspective when the bigger elements of life are going very well, and it is only the smaller issues that burden us.

As busy as most of us have become these days, it's hard not to get caught up in our own lives and challenges. But there's a lot going on in the world right now, and sometimes we need to change our focus in an intentional way - to keep from being overwhelmed, and to maintain a connection to why we're trying so hard in the first place.

In my work with emotions, I've come to think of gratitude as a re-calibration of sorts. It is a mix of many emotions, possibly even incorporating all of them. From sadness and envy to anger and joy, I see a mix and a re-balancing of the emotions occur when gratitude is present. It can be a very helpful practice. Turning my attention back to my meal, thankful for the small joys of food and drink, and the many other ways I am lucky as well, I decided to do some reading up on this new fellow...and I found some very surprising news.

Glenfiddich is married. How can a single malt be married, you wonder? I wondered too. This led me to finally find out something that's eluded me so far in this journey - what exactly does "single-malt" mean? Apparently, it is simply that a whisky is made from malted barley, and aged at a single distillery. Many different ages and barrels of a distillery's whisky are mixed together (often in steel, but sometimes in oak) before bottling. This is done to create consistency in a many-variabled production process. Unless a whisky specifies "single-barrel" it has, in fact, been mixed with many other batches of whisky.

So what to make of this new information? Not much will change, I imagine. It might be exciting to try and seek out some single-barrel Scotches, but I'm not sure if that's a route I want to take at the moment. I've been staying away from blended Scotches intentionally, but now I know that even the single malts are technically blended. That's okay, because there are still elements that hold single-malts apart. They are still only made from malted barley, and there is still the art to their creation that remains unique to each distillery, so the magic of the journey is still there. Unlike with what a single-barrel Scotch could promise, I'm grateful to know that if I find the perfect bottle of single-malt, it won't be the only one of its kind.

To quote this Bumper Jackson song: "Live and Learn."

Mabon - Part II: Craigellachie 13

In the last post I talked of the pleasure of familiarity. A continuation from that idea are the concepts of tradition, ceremony, and ritual. Our psyche craves these things, and in our modern world they become harder and harder to find. For our ancestors, however, these things were tightly woven into their existence.

Understanding the cycles of nature was essential to life. Their lives were very literally dependent on knowing when to plant and harvest, and when to store and conserve for the coming winter. The holidays that were celebrated in those days were intricately connected to the seasons, the sun, and the moon. Back in the day of oral tradition, stories of gods and myths were often the entertainment at gatherings and festivals. In a time when survival was much less certain than it is today, the familiar ceremonies and rituals such as those of Mabon brought a comfort to the people and a strength to their community.

One of the songs The Boys From That Band sang that night was written by Damh the Bard and pays homage to the old ways - Taliesin's Song:

Although our lives do not seem as connected or dependent on nature these days, there is still a yearning to feel that rhythm - of the seasons, the cycles, and the mystery.

For me, this journey to find the perfect Scotch is a type of a ritual, or perhaps a pilgrimage of sorts. I was delighted to combine my modern day ceremony with a tradition rooted in a much older time. Before nightfall, and the start of the festivities, I was able taste a new Scotch - Craigellachie 13.

He's a Speyside whisky, and of an unusual age apparently, as 13 is often considered unlucky. Another unusual thing about this guy is the use of "worm tubs" in the distillation. These long snake-like tubes help impart a deeper flavor into the whisky than one would expect for the age. 

This is an older process of distilling whisky, and most have moved on from it. It seemed fitting to be tasting a Scotch made in the way of an older tradition while honoring the equinox in an older way as well.

At first, before the water, I thought his nose light and fruity. I did sense a small bit of smoke, and on tasting I noticed an acidic bite. 

To be fair, I couldn't really focus on really getting to know Craig. I was so excited and distracted by the atmosphere and energy of the event that I didn't really give him my full attention. Also, the ball jars aren't the best tasting glasses I realize, so I may have to plan another day with him. He was very interesting though, despite my flighty mood. There was a flavor to him I couldn't really identify, but it was different than I have noticed in others. He was complex, but still maintained a light quality. It really was great to meet him.

When the elements of ritual, ceremony and tradition are at play it opens up a space for a certain kind of magic to happen. Perhaps it is a synergy where the things that are familiar help us find a sense of communion and grounding, while the pieces that are unique catch our attention and bring us joyful delight. It is in these moments, the best memories are made.

I experienced one of those moments at this festival: The weather was perfect with the awesome fire blazing at the center of a sand circle. A dozen or so drums were pulsing rhythms into the air, and the community of kind, accepting people were all around. My senses were heightened; the air had a slight chill, but the heat of the fire kept my muscles and my soul relaxed. At one point I had raised my hand up while dancing and felt a single rain drop in the center of my palm...it was beautiful.

I was outside dancing, with drums, fire and friends. So much perfect...and then one of the band folks left the drum circle to play a short tune on the bagpipes - and my perfect overflowed into exquisite magic. It was all of the elements, all of the things that I loved and were nourishing to my deepest self, all present in a glorious mix of comfortingly familiar, and excitingly distinct. 

It is moments like these that become the stuff of myths, legends and future fireside stories forever. Blessed Be