Whisky Tasting and Storytelling

--Our first evening of whisky tasting and storytelling with @jungandwhisky came off better than any of us even hoped it would. We met and talked with wonderful new friends who architect and build intricate models of alien beings, sail to far off lands and become locals just like that and weave dreams like sugar for grandchildren and strangers alike!

We sipped whisky, guided by a palate much advanced from our own, welcomed and even beckoned down a shady path of intimate exploration of our own tastes, sense memories and stories. 3 whiskies touched our tongues and snifted our snouts and we were not unmoved. So moved in fact, we wrote a poetic tale or two together and they went a little something like this.

TASTING NOTES

How does it move YOUR soul?

It elicits, invokes, instill from other than our over-used sense of self.

A 15 year Whistle Pig, mature at 2, well-healed in true depth at 15.

They do a Rye Whisky very, very well.

So we invite this spirit, the alchemy in the pepper pot.

It shocks the palate when taken all at once.

Swirled, sipped, gargled, then primed

this complex anemone flower.

Like a highland fling

an eagle, butterslip, countryside of

cinnamon, soda bread, apricot tree,

it wets our whistle like a mint plant near the ocean.

A canoe of midwest thunderstorms and
fire flow on friends' faces.

This warthog in the harvest field

puts work gloves in the back pocket of our jeans,

all while the sunflowers!

HELD IN THE GLEN CAIRN (the stones that show the way to the sacred circle)

Professional tasters may miss the soul.

Ishekebala--means the life not live alone.

Our relationship with the weather,

the bath, the barrel...

Humid, fired and frozen.

The phoenix, the scars,

not beautiful in their suffering.

Damn those Buddhists,

They're always right!

Only the Irish graduate from a punch-packing

to this Islay, single malt, no blend scotch

where Giant's Step blunted by storms

malt and ferment the smoked peat of Balmoral (Bow More).

18 years it spent, 3 times(x) the empress met the lovers(6) and birthed the stars (18)

where masculine meats to lead the feminine in subtle dance,

the burning bandaid of kali ma's tongue

Ripples a feather bead and

the ocean spray records the opening blossom

of a python on a suede couch.

With the grit and spit

a spring lamb & hoot owl in the night call out for the

kennings of the group.

Rocks on the beach where kenny's drying seaweed and salt

cure the oiled canvans of an old army tent.

Linseed oil, thunderstorms

frame the sailors sirens whose hands in the dirt

loose the happy hounds so they can pond skate

The anise pillows want us to go slow.

they demand our attention,

at last, we do indeed,

want to be courted.

GRAB THE GENTLE

Honor the sacred

The vulnerable psyche of the collective expression,
the American label will often slap a story on it.

we have sipped in the young, we danced in the old...

now there is no better muse than a deadline.

But i've got the time, a projection of my fears,

this copper pot distilled with Writer's Tears

From a sister's carpet bag good things come from our tears

and here we end with the simple, nestled just so, in the middle.

the elusive,

the golden bell jar,

the oatmeal with brown sugar in the spring rain.

Where Mercury slips in on Christopher Marlowe's words and

sheep's spirits rise thru Grampy's pipe tobacco.

Georgia, apple pie and cinnamon soothing,

the honey pot on a galloping horse

as soft as bread.

Billion and billion of fireflies

light our lovers' blanket in the sunrise.

A simple caress, a honeysuckle sipping.

James Joyce is not dead and old leather chairs seem to ask

"am i walking to eternity along this sandy mountain strand?"

While welcoming arms melt and surround us in the copper honey.

So bring on your dancing horses,

into the knitted afghans of grandmother's

dessert, dessert, dessert...swimming hole.

Where cows once sipped and celebrating cat purred in the universe

of this perfect eternal sweater of humming birds

and right there smack dab in the middle of our words this menu appears...

Backyard Social Co--Summer Menu

-a rainbow spread snack table of finger foods

--Summertime Cherry Basil Bruschetta

--Glowing strawberry mango salsa and chips

--Melting Smores around the fire

Does it burn the palate?

no, it insists on subtle.

She shouldn't come across after all that smoke.

Get yer liquor

Don't get caught by cash and spend.

This underrated beauty,

Grab the Gentle where you can.

Afterward...

good meat on the bone

jung raps on inner works

it can't be done alone...

"the soul cannot exist with out...

it can't know me without you"

Thanks for letting Valerie Holt @valillama spin your yarns, reach out if you have a story you need told, a personal work asking to be done. a myth made from all the mole hills. The gift of the storyteller is to find sense, a sixth sense of knowing, from all the words we speak without yet guessing their meaning.

Valerie Holt
StoryHealer
valerie@thelamafarm