I have a newfound taste for gin. Silverfox would be so proud to know this, if he ever reads the text I sent him last night extolling the virtues of “juniper berries and other botanicals.” That’s assuming I actually said anything other than, holy shit this is good.

I first sampled gin – again, that is – at the Flower Show a few weeks ago and I’m pleased to announce that it wasn’t a one-off. Todd and I went to the restaurant for a St. Patrick’s brunch, not so much for the food but for the music, which I will get to in a minute. I decided to order a reenactment of the Hendrick’s Lesley Gracie, which I have fervently refused to call it because frankly Hendrick’s, you can do better. It was delicious. Jess, the bartender, is also quite skilled at mixing and so I had no doubt it would be every bit as perfect as her perfect Cosmopolitan.

As it was a Sunday, I planned to have one. I had two, which went well with the scones and then with my plate of carpaccio drizzled with a delicate truffle oil and I have already completely forgotten what else I ate. Aunt Dianna was there with a friend whose twin brother is a priest and how I wished I could’ve heard some of those stories.

I was most motivated to go because of the Celtic duo playing in the bar. One-half of the duo I have known since my early 20s as a regular Jazz musician at the restaurant over as many years. I learned in December 2010 that he also performed Celtic music and was scheduled to perform in the barn of a (then) local park at Christmastime. Life was very different then. It was maybe a week after I told my ex I wanted a divorce and there was still no way I was going to be allowed to go without convincing him to go too.

The barn was standing room only by the time we arrived so we stood near the back, him holding Veruca and O standing next to me. There was something so intimate about the performance – there was no “stage,” the lighting soft and twinkling with a holiday glow. The music was so beautiful it brought tears to my eyes, but it was so much more than that. Something swelled up inside me that said, you are enough, you can do this, you are made for better than all the insults and the pinching and the criticisms. This is the last Christmas you will have to endure with this man who hates you and your goddamn independent streak. I spoke to Nana and I prayed to God.

But that was then. I don’t talk about it so much anymore. What purpose does it serve? I will always carry the scars, but the scars do not carry me. I have lost the desire to write about it in any meaningful way, because I don’t want to resuscitate the dead. Todd would be happy to read this, but he won’t. He long ago stopped reading me, and that’s okay. There’s freedom in that, too.

I find there are people and things I do not write about, because I don’t want to expose them and there’s a form of stifling there, I think. If I could write about them and have them understand it comes from a place of love and humor, then well done. However, I fear it would likely land as well as my scrawling Happy Birthday O all over my car windows when I picked him up after practice on his 16^th birthday. I wonder if he is still mortally embarrassed and remembers it with the same rage he did back then?

Mom recently suggested to me that I should write about my travels to Greece. My first trip was in 1981 with my mom and my stepfather, to visit his family over the holidays. It was my first trip overseas and my 5^th grade teacher gave me a journal with related assignments. Someone (likely my teacher) alerted the community paper and I ended up being interviewed for a one-page spread about my trip. I have several shoeboxes I’ve kept memorabilia in, and that journal is somewhere.

The good news is I found the other journal I wrote a few passages in, on my second trip to Greece at 14 with one of my close friends. So, I’m halfway there, I suppose. Mom has the slides from that trip and many others, loaded onto projector carousels and buried in one of her dusty closets. It’s been forty (holy shitballs, FORTY) years since that trip and almost as long since we’ve seen the photos. Once we find them and fire up that antique it’ll be wonderful to see them all again.

Some other fun things I’ve found so far: postcards from Greece, letters on rice paper from mom on her first trip to Greece that she wrote to me back home, two $12.50 tickets to Earth Wind & Fire (with my dad), a big plastic red elephant “key” to the Philly Zoo, my Shaun Cassidy scrapbook, a Greek cigarette box with shells I plucked off the beach in Parga, an 8×10 glossy of Duran Duran, and two love letters from friends with whom I only wanted to continue our valued friendship. (To the last, in the forty years since, at their request I have never told anyone. And, if I’m honest, I had quite forgotten it anyway.)*

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to downsizing, and thoughtful purchasing. By downsizing I mean subtraction – eliminating the clutter that reflects a life of 55 years. Today, after digging through three boxes I decided perhaps consolidation might be better. Even better – take pictures of what’s in them and then throw much of it away. If we ever do move, will I really want to move it all to yet another home?

And, no, another home would definitely not be in New York City. Even if I keep getting listings for the Upper West Side and Park Avenue. All the fantasizing and nostalgia over my old days there will not make it any closer to reality. Unless we hit the lottery, and it isn’t our only home. But a girl can dream.

Weird segue that will make sense in a moment…

I’ve been cleaning out my closets and listing unwanted/unworn items on Poshmark. I sold a pandemic-era, retail-therapeutic, pair of Tori Burch Espadrilles three days ago. The hardest part was letting go of the gorgeous shoebox they came in (for real – think of all the memorabilia I could stuff in that stylish box!). So I printed the label.

The address is on West 72^nd street in New York City. The Hermitage. One of the very places I looked at before. So in a weird karmic way, while I can’t live there, my shoes WILL.

Miscellaneous

There’s song by Phish – Bathtub Gin – an 11-minute playful little ditty with a cool jam.

There’s Gin & Juice by Snoop Dogg, a bit of a NSFW rolling laid back groove about sex, weed, and… gin. Haha!

Silverfox likes Bombay Sapphire. I went with Hendricks for continuity but can confirm it’s also good with Blue Coat. Haven’t tried Botanist yet. I’ll let ya know.

Lyrics.com found 32,795 lyrics and 69 artists matching gin. I have not fact-checked this tidbit.

Yes, I’ve considered writing stories about The Shoes. It’s on the table, along with some other projects I spend more time thinking about than typing.

Today’s title brought to you by Todd who, when I told him I didn’t know what to call the post, called me a “hodgepodger.” I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. Either way, here it is. And he still hasn’t read it.