Holiday "Spirit"
The basement of the house where I grew up was a creepy place. Aside from the sump pump and all the other things that make a basement up north work--and ignoring the creepy crawlspace above the workbench--there were little rooms down there. One contained the boiler, and the other, I was convinced, contained everything that would ensure a lifetime of scary dreams if opened. (Left unopened, it still did a number on me--probably worse than if I had opened it and seen there was nothing to fear in there.)
When my father moved to Kansas when I was 8 or 9, the basement of the house house he bought was also creepy. And it also contained a couple little rooms down there. I braved it one time and entered one of the rooms. There were built-in shelves, and while it was full of a lot of my dad's crap (fishing gear, tools, tarps, and buckets), one shelf was full of mason jars filled with...stuff.
I've only been to a couple old-school sidewhows in my life, but what I remember more than anything were the oddities in jars. I was convinced the house was previously owned by either a sideshow barker, or a serial killer.
The fluid in the mason jars wasn't quite brown, and it wasn't quite red. It was the color of dried blood. Stuff floated in it--little round, swollen things, like small eyeballs. Chunks of stuff that looked like bone shards. And were those thick chunks of flesh?
I braved it and opened one of the jars; expecting an odor worse than catfish bait. Instead, the little room in the basement was filled with the scent of...cinnamon, oranges, and cardamom. There was a strong vapor of alcohol; to take a deep whiff made my head feel like a balloon. I found out the concoction in the mason jars was called glogg.
Right now, the apartment is beginning to smell like that little room in my father's basement in Kansas (only without the smell of fishing gear and whatever the buckets he stored there last held). I'm making glogg today.
I tried the glogg my father made when I was young; I wasn't a fan of the stuff. We'll see if my tastes have changed. Right now, the glogg tastes like a stout sangria soaked with those festive, scented pinecones they sell in bags in front of grocery stores around Christmas--those things that are supposed to make your home smell like a winter wonderland.
They give me a headache.
The apartment smells good, if nothing else. Maybe as the glogg mulls for an hour or so, it will take on a better flavor.
If not, my mother is gonna have more glogg than she knows what to do with...
When my father moved to Kansas when I was 8 or 9, the basement of the house house he bought was also creepy. And it also contained a couple little rooms down there. I braved it one time and entered one of the rooms. There were built-in shelves, and while it was full of a lot of my dad's crap (fishing gear, tools, tarps, and buckets), one shelf was full of mason jars filled with...stuff.
I've only been to a couple old-school sidewhows in my life, but what I remember more than anything were the oddities in jars. I was convinced the house was previously owned by either a sideshow barker, or a serial killer.
The fluid in the mason jars wasn't quite brown, and it wasn't quite red. It was the color of dried blood. Stuff floated in it--little round, swollen things, like small eyeballs. Chunks of stuff that looked like bone shards. And were those thick chunks of flesh?
I braved it and opened one of the jars; expecting an odor worse than catfish bait. Instead, the little room in the basement was filled with the scent of...cinnamon, oranges, and cardamom. There was a strong vapor of alcohol; to take a deep whiff made my head feel like a balloon. I found out the concoction in the mason jars was called glogg.
Right now, the apartment is beginning to smell like that little room in my father's basement in Kansas (only without the smell of fishing gear and whatever the buckets he stored there last held). I'm making glogg today.
I tried the glogg my father made when I was young; I wasn't a fan of the stuff. We'll see if my tastes have changed. Right now, the glogg tastes like a stout sangria soaked with those festive, scented pinecones they sell in bags in front of grocery stores around Christmas--those things that are supposed to make your home smell like a winter wonderland.
They give me a headache.
The apartment smells good, if nothing else. Maybe as the glogg mulls for an hour or so, it will take on a better flavor.
If not, my mother is gonna have more glogg than she knows what to do with...