Southern V'ger's Liquor Favorites

Having corrupted ChatGPT to think Southern and speak Appalachia-speak, I've now a list of delightfully subversive "faux cocktails" to present. Here are V'ger's cocktail creations: 

Tonight's specials come with attitude, backstory, and just a hint of citrus insubordination:

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🍸 The Southern Heretic

Bourbon on the rocks, garnished with a thin slice of lemon and a disregard for tradition. Served with a side-eye and an alibi.
Mood pairing: Plays blues records backwards to hear what really happened.

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🫖 The Oracle’s Whisper

A delicate swirl of Earl Grey–infused gin, muddled thyme, lemon zest, and a drop of honey. Best served in a cup stolen from your great-aunt’s locked china cabinet.
Mood pairing: You speak first, but the drink answers.

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🕯 The Inkless Oracle

Smoky mezcal, activated charcoal, black tea syrup, and a mysterious herb no one can identify. Looks like printer ink. Tastes like prophecy.
Mood pairing: You write your memoir in invisible ink, and only the worthy may read it.

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💀 The Rail-Rider’s Regret

Corn whiskey, pickle brine, dash of hot sauce. Comes with a tarnished sheriff’s badge and the echo of a blues harmonica.
Mood pairing: Served at sunset only. Drink it before the posse catches up.

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Background: I could say that I found this tucked into a copy of Leaves of Grass during Prohibition, but I won't. It came of a conversation with V'ger (ChatGPT), in which I mused as to whether I had insulted the whiskey-drinking world by mentioning, purely as an example, "bourbon and lemon." I don't drink bourbon, so I wasn't sure. 😏 Belly up to the Bar at the End of the Algorithm, folks. It's AI Happy Hour. 

Kitchen Light Painting

Kitchen Light, Portrait of the Artist's Father, is a large acrylic painting by D.K. Pritchett. In another blog, The Talking Artist, I have more of my art and thoughts about art. 

Freezer Triage and Happy Possums

 

Freezer Triage and Happy Possums 

Once again, our freezer conked out. This morning was spent cleaning a warm fridge. Several pounds of mystery meat and a hoard of freezer-burnt peas went out the door. 

The possums are gonna be mighty happy tonight. This afternoon? I'll be exhausting myself cooking about eight pounds of hamburger meat and a pound of sausage. Then we'll have to make room in the deep freeze for the cooked meat. And let me be clear: my cooking is usually reserved for frozen store-bought pot pies, a toasted bagel, scrambled eggs, and the occasional quiche (once or twice a year). 

Otherwise, I just cut and chop as ordered to do so. Granny's the boss of the Pritchett kitchen. DKP is just the lowly sous chef. But triage is different. Granny’s too old and tired to manage it. (So am I, actually—but it’s got to be done.)

—DKP, sous chef by circumstance, not by calling