I can understand how the need to create forces its way around the edges of a life that doesn’t seem very artistic on the surface. We can’t all spend our days splattering paint on giant canvasses, slicing off our ears, or otherwise indulging in the suffering art requires.
Still, people find a way. In our house, the atelier is often the kitchen, and the acclaim comes over dinner. “Where did you find this recipe?” diners say between eager bites of chicken morsels, perfectly cooked vegetables, and exotic spices. The cook of the evening then raises his or her chin and says proudly, “Made it up.” Dinner continues in stunned silence, except for the fork-clinky sound of eating that cannot be delayed.
One friend of mine takes things a step further. She’s still in the kitchen, but it’s more like a lab. There can be explosions. She delights in using home carbonation devices to create unusual and delightful sodas in just about any flavor you can imagine. She has messed with non-bubbly stuff as well — vinegar, ciders, that sort of thing. To my certain knowledge, there has been at least one wall-besotting explosion of sticky stuff. That’s not counting the other likely episodes that weren’t reported, or about which seismic evidence is inconclusive.
The city where she lives has moved beyond microbreweries to distilleries. That’s right; little restaurants are actually making whiskey, and people are drinking it. This gives my chemically minded friend ideas.
“Home-brewed beer? Stupid easy when you think about it,” she said. “Now, distilling. That’s something. What if I could do that?” She paused. “Aside from the fact that it’s illegal, that is.”
“Yes,” I said, imagining what kind of amber delight she might come up with if she could. “I guess any time you can say to yourself, ‘I need to get a different wood for the barrels to make this juuuuust right,’ you’re onto something.”
“Yeeeeaaaahhhh,” she said wistfully.
I sent her some links to good lawyers.♦
© 2013 Adam Barr