Vintage Black Gilliflower apples festering on a zinc grill, doing the funky chicken under the influence of the blazing heat of the burning coals. A cannoli filled with refined African elephant cerumen, aka earwax. A rococo well-turned baroque dresser’s leg with a lion’s claw knob foot being swung like an Indian club by an intense-looking young man in Brooklyn. (John had inserted a horrible pun here, but in deference to your higher sensibilities, gentle reader, I’ve removed it. And you’re welcome.) An amber honeyslide coughdrop anxiously being given to your eight year old son. Once the bandages are off, the floral gorgeousness dominates.
Strong sticky legs doused in peppermint oil leading the initial charge, then settling down like your beloved Irish wolfhound on a great big green leather mat by the front door.
A nasturtium finish the creeps up into the nose, investing your sinuses. Tiny grass flowers noted only by observant ruminants. Moo! Baaa! A drying red tea on the finish, but the rich color probably tinted our sense of the kind of tea. Drying, in a Finnish sauna kind of way. Time to go roll in the snow.
On the scale of musical child prodigies—-
The Glendronach The Hielan’ 8yr is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart–So what if he wrote his first symphony at age 8, thereby (likely) surpassing the artistic output of your entire life? He never had the opportunity to drink a dram of Glendronach. Ha!