They say it is an art... or perhaps a way of life
Mother has a portkey to Lesvos, and on friday morning I took it for the sole purpose of purchasing as many different varieties of Ouzo as I could find. I don't know why muggles need so many different kinds of liquorice flavoured spirits, but there were literally hundreds to be found.
I had trouble choosing, but ended up with five different ouzos: Ouzo Giannatsi from Plomari, which is distilled in an old-fashioned wood burning kasani; Ouzo Pitsiladi, another excellent distilled ouzo found only at the ouzerie in Keratsini, Pireaus; Mother's favourite non-Mytilini ouzo found in Brettos from the distillary on Kydatheneon street in the Plaka of Athens; Barbayannis, which is most famous of all the Plomari Ouzo (some say it is the best but really is just the strongest); and lastly I purchased Ouzo Plomari of Isidorou Arvanitou because it is the only bottle of ouzo I could find that has a cork in it.
I think perhaps I will write a letter to someone, roll it up, place it inside the empty bottle of Ouzo Plomari and float it out to sea. It may take years to find the other person. What a mesmerising thought... a bottle, floating, waiting to be found, maybe eaten by a fish in the process, only to be spat out and drift away again.
One really needn't become drunk if one drinks ouzo slowly, thinned out with water, while eating bits of fruit and cheeses. Instead, a pleasant shroud of near-ambivalence numbs the entire mind and body, while the sunrise.... the amazing, amazing sunrise ....crests on the horizon, casting the sea in a roiling, boiling red that nearly sizzled the back of my eyes.
I just checked my mirror to see if my eyes were burnt. They are not. My mirror says I am "handsomely disheveled".
I actually do not know where my socks have gone and find that I don't care, either. My feet are buried in the sand and I swear I can feel each and every teeny, tiny, singular grain of mica digging into my skin.
They are all crowding in to love me, of course.
I had trouble choosing, but ended up with five different ouzos: Ouzo Giannatsi from Plomari, which is distilled in an old-fashioned wood burning kasani; Ouzo Pitsiladi, another excellent distilled ouzo found only at the ouzerie in Keratsini, Pireaus; Mother's favourite non-Mytilini ouzo found in Brettos from the distillary on Kydatheneon street in the Plaka of Athens; Barbayannis, which is most famous of all the Plomari Ouzo (some say it is the best but really is just the strongest); and lastly I purchased Ouzo Plomari of Isidorou Arvanitou because it is the only bottle of ouzo I could find that has a cork in it.
I think perhaps I will write a letter to someone, roll it up, place it inside the empty bottle of Ouzo Plomari and float it out to sea. It may take years to find the other person. What a mesmerising thought... a bottle, floating, waiting to be found, maybe eaten by a fish in the process, only to be spat out and drift away again.
One really needn't become drunk if one drinks ouzo slowly, thinned out with water, while eating bits of fruit and cheeses. Instead, a pleasant shroud of near-ambivalence numbs the entire mind and body, while the sunrise.... the amazing, amazing sunrise ....crests on the horizon, casting the sea in a roiling, boiling red that nearly sizzled the back of my eyes.
I just checked my mirror to see if my eyes were burnt. They are not. My mirror says I am "handsomely disheveled".
I actually do not know where my socks have gone and find that I don't care, either. My feet are buried in the sand and I swear I can feel each and every teeny, tiny, singular grain of mica digging into my skin.
They are all crowding in to love me, of course.