It’s più bella Carnevale! A sophisticate among scholars and hoi polloi, I am sure that I’ll recognize mio amore among the teeming masses, the citywide Ballo in Maschera, the divine madness enveloping the most perfectly unholy city. That smell…what is it? Sherry—obviously—and rum butter? Holidays, but later in the year, perhaps a gioiosa accogliente Natale! It’s the barnyard of a chianti estate; no, make that a barolo estate: Richly layered, burnished, but organic, evocative, and umber. I’m behind her (at least, I think it’s a ‘her,’ but it is Carnevale) and get a perfectly-crisped sponge cake. Oh, Angeli! And now, miei amici, acorns swaddled in a silvery diaphanous funk, spiderwebs rolled into croquet balls, and loamy earth doused in unicorn urine. She can’t be my love, can she? Un nuovo profumo?
I lift her(?) mask enough to drink deep of her(?) lips. It is of the scotch that the philosophers and artists agree that the doges drink, a shining grand canal leading from the present through all previous Carnevales to my youth. Fruit, from the trade routes: figs from Turkey, kakis from Tuscany, apricots from Spain…I swoon and kiss with abandon, no longer concerned about the particular human behind the mask—indeed, the perfection argues for un angelo gifting me its presence here on earth. Smoothed with a burr, like a rich baritone’s vibrato in Teatro La Fenice di Venezia. My nervous system is rewoven into a silken tapestry. There’s a backbone and…such interesting padding.
This kiss to my unknown angel becomes an all-consuming hug. Spices, again from trade routes, but not the far east. Rosemary, basil, the faintest sprinkling of ginger–all of them part, scrim-like, to unveil a majestic, infinitely tender Pimpinella anisum. “Who are you?” ask I, ardently. But no, I kiss again before an answer: I don’t want to know. But I do want to know! You are my love in a new guise, Chieftain’s Mortlach 19 year old (PX finished). Mio Dio!
–Our thanks to Chieftain’s and ImpEx for the sample!