I nose my way into the back of a dark, deep closet, and find pages of vellum aged to the point of gentle ripeness, each one marked with arsenic ink with the word:
What does it mean? Is it a clue to a greater revelation? Or is it a strange joke?
There, with the darkness encroaching upon my fading candlelight, I swear I can taste a saltiness, but it’s so light, it’s like monarch butterflies have placed flakes of salt on my tongue, as they mistake me for the mad lepidopterist who has trained them. What was that? It seemed like a piccolo–a fine, singular note–or maybe that of a fife player being burned at the stake. I say that because there’s smoke and a sudden brightness that’s almost blinding, but beautiful, not unlike that time Uncle Willard used the whole container of lighter fluid to start the charcoal grill. I stand for a moment in awe, then wonder: What have I unearthed here?
I finish my exploration and find an ornate box which, given its contents, resembles a root cellar: pepper and morels and creamy truffles set alongside a lemon and mango. Curious. There are no turnips, thankfully, but I do stumble upon a parsnip grafted by thin tendrils to the roots of a cypress tree growing up through the floor. Fascinating. Then, in the far corner, I discover the oddest, but most exciting thing of all: Jalapeño peppers made into mouse saddles for a brigade of cricket dragoons. I close the wooden lid, which creaks like fine old furniture, and notice that someone has inscribed, perhaps with an awl, the word “Glen.” I hold the vellum pages in my hand and wonder: what could it all mean?
On the scale of reasons to clean out your closet–
The Dimensions Glentauchers 21 Year 1992 is you need to find that smell–A far better reason than I’m out of hangers or there’s nothing I can fit my fat ass into in here, identifying smells is a noble cause, and one to which we three Impostors have devoted a good deal of our best time.