Here is the official announcement going out today! For local events, check out my daily updating special Sherry Week 2020 page! Get excited! It all begins Monday, November 2nd and concludes Sunday, November 8th.
Monday: Drink Manzanilla
Tuesday: Drink Amontillado
Wednesday: Drink Palo Cortado (or Oloroso)
Thursday: Drink Cream (or Oloroso)
Friday: Drink Fino
Saturday: Sherry Cocktails!
Sunday: Whatever Sherry your heart desires.
“The course of true love never did run smooth.” – (A Midsummer’s Night Dream, Shakespeare)
I often cringe when I hear someone declare their hatred of specific foods and beverages. When someone outright says “I hate ginger,” for example, I genuinely hurt a little inside. My first retro-reactive thought that springs to mind is “ginger surprise,” which was when I would always manage to get fooled by a chunk of ginger in a stir fry in my mother’s cooking. You bite into it, then get caught off guard and become undone by the imbalance of taste in your mouth. Concentrated ginger is not a flavor experience you are born loving. It’s intense. Or how about when someone makes the blanket statement of “I can’t drink Tequila.” Then I typically recall the largely-shared-collegiate-memory of taking multiple shots of often the worst brands out there, suffering dire consequences later that night and far into the next day. Or probably the most frequent declaration is when someone inveighs against the flavor of anise. Suddenly I am a child again, seriously disappointed by the finding of black licorice candies in my Halloween treats. What do all these particular flavors have in common for me? I love all of them now.
Taste is personal, of course. Allergies aside, you might dislike something and then grow to love it later or you might not. I suppose my cringing is more because I see myself in their hatred. Like visceral memory triggering. The thing is, I genuinely worry that some folks are just stuck in the past and not evolving. If I never learned to change my stance on these flavors, I’m not sure who I would be right now and I find that somewhat scary. Sounds dramatic, I realize, but I think it is important to always make an effort to try something again and not because someone is force feeding you. Try something again with the possibility that the memory association you have of that thing might be too limiting. Singular taste experiences brand our memories particularly in childhood. I get it. I’m pretty sure I was a picky eater and the bane of my mother in that regard.
I often watch a skeptical newbie try a dry Sherry for the first time.
When I look at that individual’s face, eyebrows crunching, nose mildly flaring, lips curling, mouth torn between a grimace and a sneer as the two parenthetical curves linking mid-nose to upper chin strike their daunting poses, I always end up thinking the same thing. I see my past self. I think about all the times I first tried something and hated it. And I also think how amazing it is to learn to change one’s mind, or more specifically, to learn to like something. The process varies. Sometimes it’s an overnight epiphany, akin to an out of the blue craving after a long period of absolute NO. Other times, something just seems to taste less and less bad until after a while, you realize you actually enjoy it. Sometimes, you keep it a secret. I recall as a child, truly disliking pizza. I would make a point of it and be sure to choose a sub sandwich or a plate of spaghetti or whatever the other available option was. Secretly, I held on to the claim for much longer than was honest as deep down, I knew my tastes had changed. I just refused to back down in public. My pride and special identity amongst my family and peers were at stake.
It’s hard. Perhaps you’ve made a vocal point in front of your partner over your distaste for sherry* because you tried it once and it was like an alien landing on your palate. Unfamiliar and jaunty, not falling into the comfort of what you have already learned to typically enjoy and therefore just plain strange. Perhaps you’ve even tried it a few times later, desperately hoping you’ll like it suddenly because that one bartender you absolutely love is a super fan. I get it. All I ask is that you don’t give up on it forever.
The first time I remember eating mushrooms, I recall enjoying them. Then something odd shifted as I got older. I started hating mushrooms, say until most of high school. Honestly, I can’t be sure when my tastes shifted back to enjoying them again, but I’ve certainly loved near every type for my entire adult life.
I could go on and on. Tomatoes? Oysters? Pickled vegetables? The taste of fermented anything? The point is, our tastes evolve, often constantly. Whether we want to own up to these shifts at any given moment, amongst whomever as company, or just to ourselves is sometimes a political matter. Similar to how someone who changes their stance on an idea or law matter, the flip-flopping of one’s sentiments or opinions does not encourage trust or confidence. Do you even know what you are talking about if you don’t know where you stand on how you like your burger cooked or how you prefer your eggs?
Throughout much of my awkward adolescence and even during much of my post-college life, I’m sure I struggled constantly with never quite knowing my own mind on things. Did I love that band? Did I think so-and-so was good looking? Did I know what restaurants to recommend? Did I have any idea what I was supposed to like? I call these learning questions. I needed them in my life to figure out how to sort out my own mind. Apart from color, I’m not sure I ever had an answer to “what’s your favorite (fill in the blank)?” And look at me now. I love all colors. I can’t even tell you if I have a favorite color anymore. There’s the first green on trees and grass in the spring, the gingery-orange hue to my cat’s fur in sunlight, the darker and bold blue-violet that the sky makes just before a thunderstorm breaks, the mauve purple that I associate with my favorite hoodies, the bright saturated yellows, ambers and reds of autumn leaves…
I guess my point is simply that I admit to being a pretty slow student in the oddly confusing life course of discerning what you like and why. Some people just need more time to decide, to revise and decide again and over and over again. To sort out these decisions of love and distaste. But perhaps more important in this timeline is the wherewithal to realize that hate is often just a temporary thing.
The world is distracting. Other people’s opinions are extremely so. The thing is, other people’s certainties can be like bright beacons flaring in the night sky. Shooting stars that make you interrupt whatever conversations you are having to point them out. They put on a dazzling show, illuminating but truly, only moments here and there. They become headers on files we stow away into our less than organized brains. We refer to them when we are unsure about a matter at hand.
The challenge is unique and the lack of sure footing never makes it a smooth climb. It’s not about un-learning. It’s about accepting more than you ever thought you had the capacity for. Realizing that other perspectives and experiences while not your own, certainly make a part of you and that you never know the end of what you can learn to love. This is a good thing. It is a hopeful thing.
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.**
*International Sherry Week in November 2nd – 8th this year! Stay fortified in these troubled times…and maybe do it with Sherry.
** “Romeo and Juliet” by William Shakespeare
“But then again I wonder if what we feel in our hearts today isn’t like these raindrops still falling on us from the soaked leaves above, even though the sky itself long stopped raining. I’m wondering if without our memories, there’s nothing for it but for our love to fade and die.” ― Kazuo Ishiguro, The Buried Giant
Ever have that sort of seemingly senile memory moment where you decide on something, (usually quite insignificant) and then change your mind and decide on something else, but then later when you try and recall your decision, you end up only remembering your first decision? Let me give an example:
Sheila bakes some cookies and starts to plate them to bring to her friend. She decides to keep two for later. Then she changes her mind and decides to just bring the entirety to her friend thinking they will end up eating them together anyway. An hour later, Sheila says to her friend that she has two more she left behind in the kitchen in an attempt to offer her more cookies.
Classic memory glitch. And yes, I am Sheila. I did this today, in fact.
It’s all a matter of short term memory. I stored a quick idea and then added another revised idea. When I thought back to retrieve the idea, I came upon the first one I created and was immediately satisfied. It’s a glitch. The same thing happens when someone loses things around their home, like keys. Trying to recall the last place we set something down versus all the places we’ve set that same item down beforehand is almost like a chronological treasure hunt where each wrong answer may or may not shed light to the next one in a not-so-funny game of slowly losing one’s marbles.
When someone forgets a minor detail, while annoying, it can be overlooked because to err is human. We’ve all been there. Now then, say a person forgets something huge. An important birthday or anniversary. To pick up their child from school. Or perhaps a dark past involving a violent bloody war over the genealogical blood-purity of a tribe. How does forgiveness sort itself out here?
“I didn’t say I survived it,” Dara corrected, his voice curt. “I remember almost nothing of my time as a slave. It’s difficult to be driven insane by memories you don’t have.” – (P. 281, The City of Brass, by S.A. Chakraborty)
The loss-of-memory plot device in stories is both classic and contemporary. When employed brilliantly, we have characters face psychological dilemmas of morality, identity and responsibility. Readers and viewers question their understanding of reality. When employed crudely, we have married adults forgetting they were having an affair with their husband’s younger brother and awkward moments ensue. I was never a fan of soaps, alas.
But there is more than just lost of memory under the microscope here in Chakraborty’s “The City of Brass” (2017). There is the suggestion that accumulating too many memories from living for perhaps too long inevitably leads to madness. Darayavahoush e-Afshin or Dara for short, is a Daeva or Djinn, said to be over fourteen hundred years of age. I can’t even begin to try to imagine how one would keep track of that many moments, that many faces, conversations, impressions, soul crushing life traumas…Perhaps an attempt to do so would only lead to careless accounting of one’s mind. I mean what if you hated someone for centuries, then made up but forgot a few centuries later and just started hating that person again?
A theoretical long-term memory glitch? In a mountain of time, landslides here and there can bury details and emotions into darkness.
In Ishiguro’s “The Buried Giant,” (2015) fabled post-Arthurian lands are continuously blanketed in an eerie mist that keeps long term selective memories at bay. A devoted elderly couple can’t seem to remember what happened to their son and decide to go look for him in a neighboring village. A wandering Saxon warrior aims to slay Querig the dragon, who is the source of the enchanted mist, in efforts to return everyone’s memories and eliminate possible treachery of his foes, the Britons. In true memory-plot-device form, secrets are brought out into the light slowly as the novel progresses with a climax in ultimate Lady of Shalott fashion, endless wretched melancholy.*
Once again the familiar dance of ignorance and bliss echo within the hearts of our heroes and heroines as truths and histories surface like a floating corpse. What does one do when one finds a rotting body? Surely your perspective on life must change and that dead bodies whether figurative or real are better suited to being buried in the earth rather than floating in the water. Maybe we should seriously consider the possibility of altering the phrase to forgive and forget into its more placid reverse: to forget and forgive.
*I truly loved the book if you can’t tell. No really I did.