Drink Me A Story blends tales (today about Champagne), fiction, and real-world exploration. Here’s the rundown:
Epic Rippers: Stories that f*&k. Raw, adventure travel stories. These non-fiction audio journals offer life lessons and stirring thoughts.
Sips and Shorts: Stories and interviews about drinks from around the world that have shaped culture and society.
The Library: Dive into “The Coin Chronicles,” an exclusive fantasy audiobook series. Each episode reveals a chapter of this epic saga of Gods, humans, and the coin that rules them.
Episode 55 Notes: Champagne
In 1910 Paris, the Palais Garnier hosts Le Vin Eternal, an opera honoring a divisive drink, Champagne. Masked composer Lucien Duval, scarred by betrayal, seeks revenge on the elite—like railway heir Raoul—who profit from fake apple champagne, ruining growers like Celeste Montague’s family. As Celeste shines onstage, Lucien’s red-masked “Phantom” drink spreads among the crowd. Chandeliers crash, fires erupt, and his rebellion, tied to the Champagne Riots, ignites. Celeste, caught between Raoul and Lucien, flees as the Garnier burns. Lucien escapes, leaving Raoul a menacing warning. Wine fuels a revolution, and Celeste must pick her next note.
Summary of Podcast:
*Note – This is a summary of the full episode and containers spoilers. You can always listen to the podcast above.
Introduction: A Gilded Stage, a Fiery Rebellion
In February 1910, Paris shimmered under a frosty glow, its Palais Garnier aglow with gaslight and decadence. The opera house, with its gilded columns and ornate chandeliers dripping like golden strands, hosted the premiere of Le Vin Eternal—a tribute to Champagne, France’s iconic drink that both defined and divided a nation. But beneath the opulence, a rebellion brewed, tied to the 1910 Champagne Riots, where vintners clashed with wine houses over “Phantom Champagne”—a cheap apple-based impostor passed off as the real thing. Enter Lucien Duval, a masked composer turned avenger, whose vengeance fermented into a plan that would either redeem France or burn it to the ground.
The Spark of Rebellion: Champagne’s Dark Secret
Lucien Duval watched from the shadows of the Palais Garnier, his face half-hidden by a white mask painted with curling grapevines—a gift from Celeste Montague, the opera’s star. The elites sipped Champagne from crystal glasses, unaware that Lucien’s drink, labeled with a red mask, was a snub to their greed. Ninety miles east in Ay, vineyards burned as growers rioted against wine houses peddling inferior “Phantom Champagne.” These impostors, made from apples, not grapes, drove prices down, bankrupting honest vintners like Lucien’s family.
A year prior, Lucien uncovered the betrayal: his brother sold apples to railway baron Raoul’s family, who flooded the market with fake Champagne. When Lucien confronted him, his brother attacked, leaving Lucien’s face scarred in a fiery blaze that consumed their vineyard. Now, in 1910, Lucien vowed vengeance, using the Palais Garnier as his stage to expose the corruption tainting Champagne’s legacy.
Celeste Montague: A Star Caught in the Crossfire
Below the opera’s gilded ceiling, Celeste prepared for her debut as lead alto in Le Vin Eternal. In her dressing room, surrounded by makeup artists and swirling dress crews, she gasped at a bouquet of two dozen roses from Raoul, the dashing railway heir in a velvet box seat. But her heart sank with worry—her family’s vineyard in Ay hadn’t responded in a month. Were they caught in the riots? Had their home burned?
Celeste’s performance was a tribute to their struggle, a statement against wine houses squeezing vintners dry with fake Champagne. Yet, as she took the stage, her voice soaring like silk, she felt Lucien’s absence in the music pit. She didn’t know he was orchestrating a darker plan, one where her aria would become the backdrop for chaos.
The Phantom’s Plan: Champagne as a Weapon
Lucien, the “Phantom of Champagne,” had spent months smuggling barrels, copper stills, and beakers into the Palais Garnier’s labyrinthine cellars. His “Phantom Champagne,” a fermented apple brew, was a mockery of the elites’ greed, distributed in bottles stamped with a red mask. As Celeste’s final aria reached its crescendo, the audience sipped unknowingly, entranced by her voice.
Below, Lucien moved through the dark cellars, his mask catching torchlight. He sabotaged Raoul’s carriage, knocking out the driver, and rigged the opera house’s chandeliers. At the act’s close, the chandeliers crashed, shattering bottles of his apple brew. The sweet scent filled the air as fires erupted, sparked by open flames. Screams echoed through the Palais Garnier as the crowd stampeded, their opulence shattered by Lucien’s vengeance.
A Reckoning in the Frosty Night
Celeste, horrified, realized Lucien had used her performance as a weapon. Raoul pulled her from the chaos, his firm grip guiding her to his carriage. As they sped through Paris’ frostbitten streets, the Palais Garnier burned behind them, a blackened symbol of rebellion. But the carriage raced on, ignoring Raoul’s demands to stop. When it finally halted, Raoul found the driver’s seat empty—save for a bottle of “Phantom Champagne,” a knife driven through it, a grisly warning.
Lucien watched from afar, adjusting his mask. He’d return to Paris’ underbelly, his revolution just beginning. The 1910 Champagne Riots had found their phantom—a vintner turned avenger, using Champagne to expose corruption. Celeste, torn between Raoul’s world and Lucien’s fight, faced a choice: join the rebellion or flee its flames.
The Legacy of Champagne and the 1910 Riots
The 1910 Champagne Riots marked a turning point for Champagne’s legacy. Vintners’ fury over fake “Phantom Champagne” led to stricter laws, ensuring only grape-based drinks from the Champagne region earned the name. Today, Champagne remains a symbol of luxury, but its history whispers of rebellion. Want to explore more sparkling wine tales? Check out our History of Prosecco (link-to-internal-post) for another fizzy journey!
In 2025, as Champagne sales soar, Lucien’s story reminds us: even the finest drinks carry the weight of struggle.
This podcast blends tales (today about Kava Root and Bungee Jumping), fiction, and real-world exploration. Here’s the rundown:
Epic Rippers: Stories that f*&k. Raw, adventure travel stories. These non-fiction audio journals offer life lessons and stirring thoughts.
Sips and Shorts: Stories and interviews about drinks from around the world that have shaped culture and society.
The Library: Dive into “The Coin Chronicles,” an exclusive fantasy audiobook series. Each episode reveals a chapter of this epic saga of Gods, humans, and the coin that rules them.
Episode 49 Notes: The Drug Fueled History of Bungee Jumping
A small island tribe paired a drink (Kava root) with an anxiety inducing sport (bungee jumping.) Both would go on to become popular in the rest of the world. Kava root would ease the minds of the constantly anxious. Bungee Jumping would let daredevils get the rush they needed.
Transcript of Podcast:
*Note – This is the full episode and containers spoilers. You can always listen to the podcast above.
The Start of Bungee Jumping
Although Tangor had earned this view, he couldn’t stop thinking about death. The consequences of his actions terrified him. He wasn’t wrong to be afraid. The breeze was warm and pushed through the palm trees, rustling the fronds. He watched them dance. The ocean stretched, fat and glistening, beyond the trees.
The sandy beach was an hour walk, but still visible with the clear day. People gathered below him. He recognized many of their faces. Most wore traditional dress for this day. Dried palm leaves stitched together in skirts. Nothing more. Bright red flowers adorned their necks.
The woman who taught him to speak was down there. His father. His mother and siblings. The kids too, which were not yet old enough to risk their lives. But, their day would come soon enough.
Now, standing on top of the platform, looking at the hard, sun baked ground below, he wished his day hadn’t come. The blessings before hand had calmed his nerves. Still, He yearned to chew some of the bitter root and gulp down that special drink to banish his nerves all together. The threat of death was real. Many had died over the years. He saw boys jump to their deaths.
But, the passage to adulthood is one best done with a clear head. There are many mind agents one can use to cope with stressful situations. Things to help you relax. Things to help you forget. Even things to give you courage. But, it wouldn’t be right to make the jump relying on any one or any thing but himself.
As if echoing this sentiment, the thick vines tied to his ankles itched. The platform wasn’t much of a platform at all. It was a few tree branches extending from the tower and lashed together by vines.
He’d selected the vines on his ankles. He would live or die by his choice. The ground would crush him or kiss him. He still didn’t know. But, he didn’t have a choice. He had to jump.
His other fear was not clearing the platform. He needed speed to carry him away from the tower so he didn’t swing into it and impale himself on the tree branches. Tangor inhaled deep, trying to steady his nerves, knowing his life hung in the balance. Tangor ran. Tangor jumped. Tangor left the safety of the platform and dropped to his fate below.
Before his jump, Tangor had months of preparation. This rite of passage started the same way for all boys his age. He was one of four that would make the jump to either a new life or death.
He knew from the early days one boulder would not be enough to save him and the others. The experts confirmed this. The spot they’d selected was a clearing on the side of a hill. Finding a flat spot was hard. This land was mountainous. Rocks pushed up in many areas. In other areas the vegetation grew so thick that the mounds of hills were soft, fuzzy bumps on the landscape.
Beyond this clearing arching palm trees covered the land for as far as he could see. Different types of trees grew amongst them too. They’d used those woods to build the tower.
Other islands had volcanoes, but not this island. If there were volcanoes here they were long ago dormant, replaced by rolling, silent hills. But, like the volcano islands, the land was lush. The ground fertile and capable of harvesting the plant they traded worldwide.
On this island, the plant is ceremonial. It has been for over three thousand years. But, in other parts of the world, they consume this plant for its calming properties. It’s an anxiety reducer. It’s also an alternative to alcohol. For a blip of land stretching less than 40 miles from North to South, it has a massive impact on the world. In more ways than its drink too.
This island was a good spot to find boulders, like the one they’d found. A good boulder, although not necessary, could provide security for what they had to do. It was something to build your tower against. When you build into the air you need materials capable of bending but not snapping under force. You also need a strong base. A firm spot to secure your tower to the ground.
So, despite the boulder, digging still needed to happen.
Tangor scooped out the Earth. It smelled salty from the ocean and sweet from decayed tropical plants. This island is also a place of growth or death by tradition.
Tangor had a reputation to uphold. The others too. There were four of them partaking in this ritual. But, Tangor felt more pressure than most. The people of his tribe, the Tabi people, still talked about his father. In the 1950’s David Attenborough started a chain reaction of events that ended in a visit from Pope John Paul II. Then Queen Elizabeth II. It was the Queen’s visit which created excitement through the tribe. Because Tangor’s father had escaped death by inches, much to the delight of the Queen.
Tangor ‘s people didn’t value such things as fame. But, it didn’t stop his father’s shadow from growing. After all, this yearly ritual was a big deal. One of the biggest. An old tradition during harvest season. And on an island this small, inhabited by less than 17,000 people, word traveled. Tangor had to prove he could do what his father had done. Tangor was also out to prove he was a man, not a boy anymore.
So, Tangor dug until he dripped sweat into the dirt he shoveled out of the hole. Then him and the boys planted two vertical poles into the ground under the watchful eyes of the experts. The poles were twenty foot long. They were Banyan tree trunks. It was a large tree and a strong tree. It took all the boys to plant the two trees into the ground.
One they leaned up against the boulder and buried it. They lashed the tree to the boulder using thick vines. The second tree got planted into the ground six feet away. They secured this one too with vines. They tied the vines to nearby trees and pulled them in opposite directions to balance the load.
Tangor knew this day was coming for a long time. It was a day he looked to with dread and excitement. A day of change. Under the guidance of experts in town, he and the others gathered supplies for months. Most of what they needed was near the boulder.
While his father had done 70 feet, he wanted to jump from 90 feet. He’d talked the others into it, even though they looked scared. He could see fear on their faces. He knew the words their hearts spoke. But, he also knew that part of why they were here was defying those feelings. Having the courage to do things you’re afraid of, but know you must do, turns boys into men.
Tangor sought to escape the shadow of his father and transform himself. This was the only way he could enter manhood feeling like a man. His dad understood this and didn’t object. Nor did the experts in town, despite their concerned gazes, who went to work helping him plan. Soon Tangor would defy death or meet it.
On the day of choosing, if he didn’t select the right vine, the final vine, he would fail. At 90 feet, coming in head first, he hoped he would die if things went wrong. Over the years, he’d seen some who lived, their bodies mangled for life. The terrifying, crumpling of bones on the ground still haunted him. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to live a cripple. A stunted man. No, Tangor had already told himself he would either die or live a full life. There wasn’t a half measure.
So, with the help of the experts, him and the others found the vines they needed for the structure. Although the final selection of vines would take place a few days before the ritual, they needed vines for the tower right now. They needed to hold the creation in place. Because 90 feet is a long way up.
The wind would buck him around. His own exertion would also cause the structure to move. The vines would help the tower from collapsing with him on it. The last thing he wanted was to plummet to his death before he even reached the top. The best chance he had at surviving was the jump. And it was a jump he could make only if he stood at the top on the platform.
Tangor and the others collected all types of wood. The island has a diverse climate and more than palm trees grow here. Ironwood’s uncommon strength makes it valuable for the platform. They weren’t there yet. That would be at the top.
So, they were using Ironwood now to fill in the space between the two long poles they’d planted. They lashed together branches and bits of wood. Then added a cross piece of Tamanu wood. The cross pieces would form rungs they could climb. They didn’t bother cutting them to size. They followed the old traditions. The Tamanu wood extended beyond the structure and made the tower look like a bristle brush.
Then more branches, cleared of leaves and weak spurs, filled in the space between the poles. The structure took shape. The structure grew. The structure would mean life or death for these boys. For that reason they took their time building, making sure to do it right.
As they built, the rest of the tribe continued on with daily life in the shadow of the growing creation. They worked the fields, for it was harvest time soon. The yams were almost ready. They gathered roots too from that medicinal plant that they exported to the world. They watched the tower grow, marveling at its height and guessing with one another how tall it would get.
When they finished the tower was so thick from the vine lashings and sturdy branches stuffed into the structure that you couldn’t see through it. It was a solid tangle of branches. A wooden platform was at the top. Off of the platform were arms angled downward. These are what the divers would walk out on. These would be the last steps of safety before the ultimate plunge.
Finally, the day of the choosing came. The selection of Liana Vines from the forest. The Liana Vine is a thick, flexible vine. These vines take to the air, climbing up trees and twisting around each other. They form a tangled network of thick vines. Some even grow up to 300 feet long. It’s what Tarzan swung around on in the movies. And because of their thickness and strength, you could do it.
Each diver had their own vine, since the length was dependent on the diver’s height and weight. Tangor and the others stripped the bark from the vine as a way to improve elasticity. Beneath the bark the vine skin was white and slimy. That dried out by the next day though, when the experts came around to inspect their equipment and tower.
Final adjustments got completed and the tower, and divers, were ready. Tangor slept restless, tossing and turning and listening to the insects chirp. He crawled out of bed in the morning, tired and his nerves a coil of steel. The men met him at the tower. Some of the boys in town too. They blessed the tower. They blessed the boys. They chewed on roots, using their saliva to activate the ingredients. Then mixed the gnawed roots with water. They offered more blessings to the spirits and drank.
The diving boys did not drink. The diving boys could not drink. This drink was too potent, too deadening, and they needed all their wits about them if they were going to survive. This was a rite of passage earned by mustering your own courage, not sapping the courage from a plant.
So, Tangor climbed as the tribe watched and the drums beat. He heard the cheers but they were soon lost to his focus. Over his left shoulder he carried the thick vine he would live or die by. His heart pounded in his chest and sweat made his hands slick. He feared slipping and falling to his death.
But, he made it to the platform. He was there alone. He had no one to help. He secured the vine to his feet, hoping the knot he tied would hold. Then he stepped off of the platform and onto the arm. The arm was sloping downward, giving him a chance to gather momentum before his dive. He started to run. The sides of the tower fell away and the end of the tree branch was in sight.
One more step and he was at the end. He leapt as far out as he could, hoping he’d given himself enough space. Then he dropped head first. The ground rushing at him and the world around him a blur. Closer, and closer the ground came. He wanted to scream in fear. But, he watched in horror instead, hoping the vine would hold. Hoping the vine was the right length.
He was almost there.
Then…he lurched. His body jolted. He flew backward, returning into the sky. The spirits had protected him. His heart burst with joy and all his tension released as the up and down bouncing slowed to a stop.
Others were grabbing him then and cheering. He felt their hot hands on his skin as they lifted him and undid the vine at his ankles. They hoisted him into the air and chanted. He’d done it. He’d made the leap. He climbed as a boy and rose as a man. He saw his dad smiling. His mom too. He’d done them proud.
Just like so many prior generations of boys from the Island of Pentecost, one island in a smattering of 83 islands that make up the sovereign nation of Vanuatu.
Pentecost is a small but mighty nation. It’s the primary producer of the Kava root, a plant that is harvested and turned into a tea. For over 3,000 years the plant has been drank for ceremonies, negotiations, and meetings. It’s also drank for its calming effects and ability to help with stress, anxiety, and insomnia. In the US, Kava bars have even popped up as alcohol free alternatives.
But, besides the Kava root, Pentecost is known for an annual harvest and rite of passage ceremony for young boys called “Nanghol.” (Na-gol) Or land diving. It is the original form of bungee jumping and where the extreme sport started. Only they didn’t use fancy ropes and safety harnesses. They used vines they found in the jungle and a tower, built from sticks, reaching 70 to a 100 feet in the air.
This ceremony brought BBC and David Attenborough here in the 1950’s to document the experience. Which then brought the Pope and the Queen of England to also witness the brave ceremony.
Kava root for anxiety paired with an anxiety inducing right of passage for boys…now those two things sound like they go hand in hand.
This podcast blends tales (today about Post Malone and Rose wine), fiction, and real-world exploration. Here’s the rundown:
Epic Rippers: Stories that f*&k. Raw, adventure travel stories. These non-fiction audio journals offer life lessons and stirring thoughts.
Sips and Shorts: Stories and interviews about drinks from around the world that have shaped culture and society.
The Library: Dive into “The Coin Chronicles,” an exclusive fantasy audiobook series. Each episode reveals a chapter of this epic saga of Gods, humans, and the coin that rules them.
Episode 46 Notes: Post Malone and Rose Wine
Elliot found himself in dire straits and turning to the one thing, and the one woman, that he should have avoided at all costs. The harrowing tale of a man who walked into a gambling joint filled with forgotten memories and past love and changed his life forever. Along with him every step of the exciting journey, is rose wine.
Transcript of Podcast:
*Note – This is the full episode and containers spoilers. You can always listen to the podcast above.
Stupidity brought Elliot here today. Stupidity might even get him killed. If he was unlucky he’d end up at the wrong end of an anchor, sitting on the sand at the bottom of the lake. This was Sunflower Cove, but there were no sunflowers here.
Sunflower Cove was a paper town and rotten, stinking smoke belched into the air 24/7 from the paper mill. The smell coated his skin with its stench that was a mix between rotten eggs and musty books. The mill employed 75% of the working age people in the town. A smattering of tiny shops employed the rest. The unemployables were drunks or fentanyl addicts.
Most of the business were on the main strip, a six block downtown with the following:
Two gift shops, a pet parlor with boarding services, and three gas stations. Three salons. Five restaurants. Eight bars. And a single tarot card shop.
Sunflower Cove was a two stoplight town. The first was when you entered town. You came around a sharp curve and hard braked in surprise at a sudden, appearing stoplight. The light sat at a four way intersection. There was a 7-11 on one corner, a wine shop opposite, and a strip club next to that.
That corner was the most lively corner in town.
It was also the corner where Eliot had been before he started the long, lonely walk home. He was getting some quality time in at the strip club. But, it isn’t what you think. Eliot was visiting his daughter, who worked there, as a bartender. Once more he had failed to convince her to get a new job that didn’t involve lusty gazes from drunks. She hurled insults at him, telling him to get out because she had work to do. After all, no one takes the man who pulled a nine of swords serious. He’s a marked man. A man to avoid at all costs.
In the basement of the strip club there is a gambling join. Pound three times on a steel door, show you have the money to gamble, and you’ll get into the room. All very illegal of course. Filled with people unlike Eliot. People that have money go there. People with pressed, collared shirts and cigars dangling from their mouths. People that spent their days under bright florescent lights manipulating spreadsheets or sending emails.
A man that went by the name of “The Dealer” runs this joint. The Dealer ran Sunflower Cove. He owned most of the real estate on the strip and his gang kept the town in line. No one ever saw him either. No one knows what he looks like or who he is.
He won the gambling joint in a card game many years ago, against the prior owner, who was a betting man. The prior owner vanished without a trace and was never seen again. The Dealer took over ownership. Within a few years, he’d purchased most of the town’s real estate and completed his stranglehold on this tiny community. That was twenty years ago, give or take a few months.
The Dealer’s henchman ran the gambling joint. A short, weasely guy in glasses with a tucked in collared, plaid patterned shirt did the books. He gave the loans. He set the terms. The muscle around him took care of the rest. This was not the sort of place Eliot should be. But, he was in a bad spot. And desperation causes mistakes in judgment.
His wife hated him. His daughter too. And he had pulled the nine of swords. He was a blight on this town and if his luck didn’t change immediately, he was in trouble. For that reason, Eliot thought he needed to change his luck. So, he paid for a seat at the table with the last of his money. He scanned the tables. He saw the drink. He saw the woman. He recognized her immediately. His eyes settled on her appearance as he approached the table. She looked the same even with all the years that had passed. Diamond pendants hung heavy from her ears and pulled them down. Her red dress hugged her body and glittered in the dim light when she moved. She smoked a cigarette and the smoke curled around her as she exhaled.
“Hi, Elliot.” She ashed her cigarette. He saw a lipstick stain on the paper.
“Scarlett.” Elliot set his stack of chips on the table. “$500.” His last $500. Elliot swallowed down his fear.
Scarlett’s long red hair came down past her shoulders. It moved when she inclined her head toward him in greeting. A smile flashed across her face. “Nervous, Elliot?”
“What…me…no way.” He pulled at his collar. He wasn’t nervous. He was terrified. He was down to his last $500 and he’d pulled a nine of swords.
She took another long puff of her cigarette and added the smoke to the cigar smoke in the room. “It’s been so long Eliot since we’ve seen each other. No need to be nervous.” Her long fingers and soft hands, which burned into his memory, stretched and wrapped around her drink. She sipped it.
“Still the same drink.” He nodded with his head toward her wine glass.
“Some things never change.” She winked.
Eliot smiled back, feeling more at ease now, than before. That worried him. It had been a long time. So long ago that he wasn’t married yet. He didn’t have a daughter. He was a single guy looking to have fun back then. That’s what made him nervous now.
The game was poker, 5 card stud. A classic game for a classic meeting. Eliot drummed his fingers on the poker table as Scarlett reached for her stack of chips. She flung two into the pot and started the ante. Elliot matched her.
The dealer laid two cards each in front of them, one face down and one face up.
Scarlett had a four. Elliot a king. His heart thundered in his chest. It was a promising start. He looked at Scarlett.
“How have you been, Elliot?” She asked, as she counted out some chips and tossed them in the pot.
How could he sum up all those years in a sentence? It felt like so long ago, and it felt like yesterday. The old feelings started flooding back and he pushed them aside, burying them, as he thought about his wife.
He matched her bet. He had to. The dealer dealt them each another face up card. Scarlett added a three to her four. Elliot added a seven. He was down now and it was her turn to bet again, which she did. Elliot matched.
The dealer laid more cards. More betting by Scarlett. This time, though, Elliot hesitated. The chances of winning this hand were low. He looked at her and met her gleaming, beautiful eyes. He smirked. He folded. She leaned across the table, keeping eye contact with him the entire time, and scoop up the chips.
“What have you been up to?” Elliot tried to talk about something that wouldn’t distract him.
“Father died a few years back. Mum is in a home. Losing her mind. How are you?”
Elliot gulped. “Doing great.”
“I want to know how your life has improved since we last talked. Tell me everything.” The way she said the word improve made him flinch.
How do you go from talking to someone every day and then never seeing them again? Elliot choked up. He didn’t know. The situation back then had been difficult. “I never knew. It wasn’t my choice.”
“That’s right.” She said sternly. “That’s why we didn’t stay together.”
Scarlett shifted in her seat and leaned forward, putting her elbow on the table. Her hand gripped one of the diamond earrings and played with it. “Neither of us chose it. But…maybe we can choose it now.”
The dealer saved him from responding. The game went on like this hand after hand. Playing and betting. Elliot winning some and losing others. Small talk between the hands.
Several hours later, Scarlett was asking for her third drink and Elliot felt worried. Scarlett was getting more bold. He had to get away. He needed a break. “I need a drink.” He mumbled, pushing himself away from the table and making his way to the bar.
“I’ll come with,” Scarlett chased after him.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” he said.
Her hand was on his back. Her eyes gleamed. “Good choice.”
He turned and stepped back, trying to put some distance between them. She stepped toward him though. “I lost my father this year. It’s hard and I’m sorry for your loss.” He hoped death would cool things off a bit, slow the pace.
Her hand was on his chest. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Are you doing okay?”
He could smell the lilac of her perfume. The heat from her body pressed against his skin. He gulped. His head swam. He gave a weak nod and willed his drink to arrive sooner.
His willpower was fading, but he needed to focus. He needed to stay strong. He needed to win the game. He knew what would happen if he lost.
The Dealer had a nasty reputation in town. Elliot did not work at the paper mill. Elliot had a small business in town, but it wasn’t doing well. He rented a tiny shop next to the Tarot Card Shop and paid rent to The Dealer. He could not afford next month’s rent. When debts were unpaid The Dealer sent in the muscle.
He’d heard the stories, although he’d never seen them work. The threats were mild at first, and they might smack you around a bit, leaving bruises in spots that didn’t show. They would come back the next week looking for their money.
If you still couldn’t pay, things got more serious. Most people didn’t need all their fingers to work. They would break a finger every day until you paid. And when they ran out of fingers they would start on your toes. After the toes they would break your arm. If you couldn’t pay after they broke your arm, they would tie you to an anchor and throw you into the water.
Elliot needed to win tonight. If he didn’t win…he shuddered at the thought of it. His drink came and he rushed away from Scarlett, trying desperately to put space between them. He was a married man after all, even if things were bad.
Back at the table, reality set in once more. The game. His stack of dwindling chips. His beautiful opponent and their history together.
“I never expected to see you here again.” He said to her.
She smiled. “Who did you expect?”
He shrugged. “No one.”
“Ahh,” she leaned in. Her lips glistened in the light. “That was silly. You should have known I’d always return for you.”
“I’ve thought of you often.” His heart thundered in his chest. He couldn’t do this. Not now. Not like this. It wouldn’t be right. The cards got dealt. One face down and then one face up. A seven of spades. He threw in chips.
“I’ve never stopped thinking of you.” Scarlett called his bet.
Another card dealt. A four. The possibility of a straight. But, it would be tough to make. While Scarlett had a pair of threes. She bet and he called.
Rose Wine and Tarot Cards
Then another card fell, as a rising chill crept through his spine. He knew what he was going to do. He knew it and he didn’t know how he felt about it. A six stared at him. So, he had a seven, a six and a four. He needed a five, and then either a three or an eight.
1 in 65,000 odds.
They were long odds. He took a drink from his wine glass. It was crisp and refreshing. He looked at it.
“Good, isn’t it?” Scarlett flicked her eyes at his drink.
“Yes, it is. You have good taste.”
“Always.” She smiled at him. “And I always get what I want to taste.”
Elliot gulped. Elliot took another drink. Elliot looked at the cards again. She was still up on him. They both threw more chips in the pot and the dealer laid down more cards.
It was an eight! Good Lord, an eight! The straight was in sight! He had a chance. He needed a five. A five. That was it.
Meanwhile, Scarlett still had her pair of threes. It was a weak hand, but it would be a winning hand unless something changed. Something was going to change. He looked at his hand. All he needed to win was a four, a five, a six, a seven, or an eight. The five would give him a straight and every other card would give him a pair larger than her pair of measly threes.
His 1 in 64,000 odds were much better than that. These were great odds. These were winning odds. These were odds to bet the house on. So, when she placed her bet, Elliot not only called but he also raised. He went all in. He could live with certainty, but the unknown killed him. He had to know the outcome. Did he win and survive. Or, lose and end up in the crosshairs of The Dealer.
Scarlett’s eyes widened when he pushed all his chips in. She let out a very soft and almost imperceptible, “Ohhh.” Then she took a sip of her own drink. She stood. Her hand lingered for a second behind her stack of chips and then she pushed them into the pot, matching his bet.
“My odds are better.” Elliot exclaimed in glee.
Scarlett’s eyes narrowed and a vicious smile cut across her lips. “But, I remembered something that you didn’t?”
Fear gripped Elliot. What had he forgotten?
“You drew the nine of swords.” She whispered, her voice carrying quiet through the smoke of the room and hitting Elliot like someone’s fist.
“The nine of swords.” He whispered, dejected, as the realization dawned on him. He’d forgotten all about that. The nine of swords. It’s no secret by this point that Elliot was a bit of a risk taker. It’s also no surprise that this was the first time in twenty years he’d ended up in this gambling joint.
His luck was running low, and that stark reality was emphasized all the more by his recent Tarot Card Shop visit. Since his office was right next door, it was easy on slow days to pop over and talk to Madame Plentia. But, his visit last week revealed an uneasy omen. He’d pulled the nine of swords – a figure kneeling on a bed with nine swords hanging on the wall behind him.
It represents a person overwhelmed by his or her own thoughts. Someone caught in the mental anguish of their own mind. It’s a call to seek mental help. To address one’s mental health. And to understand how many of one’s worries are internally, not externally, created. It’s a challenging card to pull, and on the eve of this card game, not a good card to pull.
He was already an emotional wreck. Twenty years ago the rules of the bet were clear, when his father had faced off against Scarlett’s father. The dispute between the two business men had ended in this. Sunflower Cove wasn’t big enough for them both. One would have to go elsewhere and start over. So, they made a bet.
The loser would get banished for two decades. Each year, the winner would deposit 5% of his or her wealth into an account controlled by the dealer at this table, the only other living person in on the deal, and a lawyer in town.
At the end of 20 years, the dealer has all the winner’s wealth. The challenger, if the loser or an heir of the loser chooses to show up, has a chance to win back what got lost years ago.
So that’s how Elliot, better known in town as “The Dealer,” ended up at a poker table across from his high school girlfriend and the daughter of his father’s vanquished opponent. Twenty years ago to the day, his father had won this gambling joint, and this town, in a bet. That victory had crushed poor Elliot, as Scarlett and her family got banished from town. He lost his first love. His true love. He married a woman whom he did not love.
Today will determine who won for the next twenty years and who disappears into poverty.
She raised her glass. “To the nine.” She gulped, her eyes lusting. “I’m going to own you.” Then her face saddened and tears formed in her eyes. “But, you’re married now, aren’t you.” She trailed off.
She sat and took the rest of her drink in a single gulp. She motioned to the dealer and he flipped a card face up in front of him.
He stared. He slumped back into his chair. A nine. The dreaded nine of swords come to haunt him in the worst of ways. He didn’t see the dealer flip Scarlett’s card, though when he looked up he saw that she’d gotten another three.
She had three of a kind. He had nothing but the nine staring up at him. Haunting him. Destroying him.
She rose without a word and walked to the bar. Elliot did not move. His life was over. Twenty years from now he’d be fifty eight. His wife hated him. His daughter was an adult. He’d likely be leaving town alone.
Post Malone and Rose Wine
Elliot looked up to see Scarlett standing over him. He smelled her perfume. He watched as she leaned in close. “Do you still love me?” She whispered. Her lips were getting closer. They were bright red and inviting.
“Yes,” he cried out. “Yes. I love you.” He pushed his head up toward her. He closed his eyes as she grabbed the back of his neck.
Then he was kissing her. Her lips were smooth as glass. They were colder than he expected. He reached for her but grabbed nothing. His eyes opened in surprise.
“Your love means nothing when you have nothing. It would have meant everything when you had everything.” She pressed the glass wine bottle she held into his hand, the bottle he had kissed instead of her lips. “Here, something to remember me by. See you in twenty years.”
Then she walked away, taking her trailing lilac scent with her, and leaving Elliot sitting there holding an empty bottle of Maison No 9. The rose wine, that Post Malone named after the nine of swords tarot card. His favorite card in the deck.
This podcast blends tales (today about the Boston Tea Party), fiction, and real-world exploration. Here’s the rundown:
Epic Rippers: Stories that f*&k. Raw, adventure travel stories. These non-fiction audio journals offer life lessons and stirring thoughts.
Sips and Shorts: Stories and interviews about drinks from around the world that have shaped culture and society.
The Library: Dive into “The Coin Chronicles,” an exclusive fantasy audiobook series. Each episode reveals a chapter of this epic saga of Gods, humans, and the coin that rules them.
Episode 43 Notes: Boston Tea Party
A story of graft and shady political dealings where the only ones to benefit were the rich and powerful. They lusted after Eleanor’s golden chest. Her chest would make them tons of money. But, that was only if everyone played their part.
Unfortunately, for the politicians and corrupt businessman involved, a tiny group of lower class citizens would not play their part. Instead, they would do something that changed the entire course of the world forever.
Transcript of Podcast:
*Note – This is the full episode and containers spoilers. You can always listen to the podcast above.
What Started The Boston Tea Party?
Eleanor’s chest swelled in all the ways that Elihu had wanted it to swell. Eleanor was sitting next to her two sisters and they were all in trouble. It was a good thing they had each other, because the water was freezing this time of year. A person could die if they were exposed to it for too long. And all Eleanor could do was look on as the men approached and began climbing on top of her.
Months ago and a thousand miles away Elihu didn’t know that his attempt to save Eleanor, was actually going to cost her everything. He was with Lord North, a noble born member of the British Parliament.
“There are ways we can help,” Lord North said. “We can make sure that you are taken care of.”
“I’m listening.” Said Elihu. And he was. They were in trouble, although few were speaking about it. A culture shift and instability in India were causing problems. They were bleeding money. Hemorrhaging it like a leaking boat.
“I’d just need some support from you. A little help to make sure things go smoothly.” Lord North continued.
Elihu understood. Politicians were always the same. Their business was lubing the wheels of economic growth. They were grifters, a nasty part of society, but necessary. “Consider it done.”
And with a handshake and a head nod, the two men parted ways. Lord North had work to do in Parliament. Elihu had money to make.
The year was 1773 and there was a new territory ready to be carved up. Money could be made and Lord North was almost frothing at the mouth with the possibility. This territory was resource rich and expansive. But, it was still in its infancy, and the British Empire was a global power on a level that a puny state like the 12 colonies couldn’t fathom.
And Lord North wasn’t entirely wrong. But, some of the greatest accomplishments in the world were made by people who were too ignorant to know the limitations of their abilities. They stretched and achieved what no one thought possible.
People like George, a shoemaker, which placed him in the lower class of society. He was a nobody. A cobbler. And he was currently taking part in his weekly ritual. It was his Thursday activity. That was the only day he’d permit himself to spend a penny and sit around sipping that hot, strong beverage with people he was nowhere near as smart as.
Thirty-one year old George was a hard worker and life wasn’t easy for him. Making ends meet meant working long hours, and he often went back to his bed in a cramped boarding house with his body aching. His fingers and back always hurt worst of all. Some days his fingers were so swollen and sore that he could barely bend them. It’s for this reason, that he took great joy in his Thursday afternoon ritual.
His guilty pleasure involved visiting a house about halfway between his shoe shop and the boarding house he slept at. He was there to get a thought for his penny in addition to a hot drink. Especially in the winter time, like right now, in December, he appreciated the hot drink. It helped warm his hands, which were stiff from a full day’s work.
But, the conversation was good too, mostly because it involved a bunch of really smart people. George went to listen to intellectual discourses. These houses were modeled after their European counterparts, even including the same drinks they drank there. Intellectuals would gather and talk in caffeine fueled rants about all of the world’s problems and how to solve them.
But, the thing was…they actually were solving those problems. It wasn’t hyperbole.
Because this was when 12 colonies were all that existed to represent a country. Hell, there wasn’t even a country yet. This small smattering of cities was trying to figure out its identity, to itself and to its big brother – the British government.
They were battling things that Britain would not understand. They were starving to death, struggling with poverty, pushing Westward in a slow, dying grind of rattlesnake bites and dysentary. They were leaving their blood on the land and marking it as their own. They were marking themselves as something distinct from their brothers.
This is why their brothers, men like Lord North, born into riches and always at the top of the system, could never understand the life of someone like George. They weren’t thinking about George. George was the man that shined their shoes when they talked about million dollar deals. George was a nobody.
And he knew it. But, he didn’t care. Because George, like each one of us, was uniquely positioned in history. He was part of something that can elevate a human to something beyond him or herself.
That’s what he was starting to realize when he sat at the house today, sipping his hot drink, and listening to the angry, intellectual discord about a new tax passed on to them via the British Parliament, spearheaded by a man named Lord North. In fact, drinking the drink he was, seemed like an act of defiance in and of itself.
In many ways it was.
It was not British. Not at all. So, it was a middle finger to their increased tax, to their pirating of wealth and treatment of these individuals in this new country as slaves to the empire, not as partners.
This drink made its way to New York from the Dutch. It was European. It was elevated and sophisticated. It was enlightenment and intellectual freedom. It stood for everything that the British weren’t giving them. Plus, on top of that psychological domination, was the pain they inflicted with money.
The British didn’t care about the petty squabbles and words of these people. They could always just crush them with their superior military might. They cared about money and power. That was the language they spoke. So, buying this hot drink spoke to the British in a way they understood. It said, “we’re not going to give you any more of our money.”
And the British listened. Then they acted. They increased taxes. Which only made these people angrier.
Which made them gather in secret and drink another hot drink besides tea, which reinforced this other drink as a symbol of rebellion, intellectual freedom, and change.
Boston Tea Party Tensions
Tea was a drink of the sophisticated. The wealthy. The status quo. The followers. The elite.
This other drink was rebellion and led it part to the Boston Tea Party. This drink had a deep, rich complexity to it. It went to your brain in ways that tea never could.
And this was the real reason George was at the house today drinking this hot drink on Thursday, like he did every Thursday. But, what had made the last few Thursday different than the ones prior was that he was meeting with a small group of others who had, had enough of taxation without representation.
George had no right to be in that room besides the fact that he had the courage to stand up for freedom, when others, more wealthy and nobler people, wouldn’t.
For this, he was enlisted as a boatswain. That was his role. Everyone involved on December 16 had a role. That was part of why it worked so well. Flawless execution. Each person had a job and they all did their jobs. Together, they achieved total destruction.
On December 16, 1773, on a chilly day, with the freezing water surrounding them, George and others climbed on top of Eleanor and her two sisters, who were floating in the Boston Harbor. They moved with intention and efficiency because they had a very clear purpose.
They operated in unison, grabbing the chests on board and methodically dumping all of the tea inside into the harbor. More dissenters were below using oars to ensure that all of the tea was pushed below the surface of the water and ruined.
Their orders were clear. Destroy every ounce of tea on board.
They took Eleanor’s chest, all of her chests in fact, and dumped all of the contents into the water This ensured that men tied to the India Tea Company, men like Elihu Yale, one of the major donors to Yale University and the one to give his namesake to the school, and corrupt politicians like Lord North, who had brokered the tea tax act lost all their money and knew that these 12 colonies were done being pushed around by the rich and powerful.
And when Captain O’Connor tried to pocket some tea in a vain attempt to keep it safe, as a way to resist the attack, George tore his coat pocket in order to get the tea. No tea would survive because this was a statement to Britain and King George.
342 chests in total spread across three boats.
Over 100,000 pounds of tea.
All destroyed.
Worth over $1.5 million in today’s prices.
But, it was never about the money for the Sons of Liberty. It was the stand, the intellectual aspect of it. Which was no doubt talked about in circles at houses through Boston and other places in the new world.
And we all know what happened after the Boston Tea Party and how it became the first act of rebellion that started a revolution and created a brand new country build on principles that no other country had ever been built on.
We’re here to talk about the drink, not tea, that was a catalyst for the destruction of all that tea. And a man, George Hewes, a simple cobbler, who is an embodiment of America. A poor immigrant who came to the shores of North America with a dream and hope. Who lived with conviction and, despite his humble life, would be involved in The Boston Tea Party, The Boston Massacre, and several other important events in the American Revolution.
Coffee.
What Was The Boston Tea Party?
An inadvertent catalyst to the Boston Tea Party and the American Revolution, hence, the founding of America.
Over a period of three decades leading up to the American Revolution, the colonies thirst for coffee was growing. Demand for coffee was expanding and demand for tea was shrinking.
That’s part of the reason for the tea tax.
That’s also why the Americans didn’t care as much about destroying all that tea in the harbor.
They were coffee drinkers.
The British thought they were doing something that was hurting the colonies, punishing them, and keeping them in line, but the British were too far from their subjects.
They’d spent too much time in their comfortable mansions, in their little bubbles, surrounded by people that did not represent the vast majority of people. Had they been more in touch with reality, they would have seen that Americans were drinking coffee to differentiate themselves from the British.
They wanted nothing to do with them.
They wanted to be different.
The choice to destroy the tea in the harbor had more to do with getting the courage to fight back than it did with losing a way of life that was distinctly British.
Yet, the hubris of the wealth is that everyone wants what they have. They thought they were worth replicating.
And poor Eleanor paid the price, sitting in the harbor with her sisters, the two other boats carrying tea from the India tea trade to the colonies.
With all that being said, I’m not saying there is anything wrong with tea. But, I am saying I love coffee. Even more so now that I know it represents America.
I drink. I tell a story…and I hope that most of it is true. This podcast blends tales (today about Seedlip), fiction, and real-world exploration. Here’s the rundown:
Epic Rippers: Stories that f*&k. Raw, adventure travel stories. These non-fiction audio journals offer life lessons and stirring thoughts.
Sips and Shorts: Stories and interviews about drinks from around the world that have shaped culture and society.
The Library: Dive into “The Coin Chronicles,” an exclusive fantasy audiobook series. Each episode reveals a chapter of this epic saga of Gods, humans, and the coin that rules them.
Episode 42 Notes: Planting Seeds
Agnes worked daily to make sure the farm and her family survived for another day. This was an age of hard times. This was a time of keeping your head down and doing the work. In persisting, she became part of a hard working culture and embodied the concept behind a modern day drink.
Transcript of Podcast:
*Note – This is the full episode and containers spoilers. You can always listen to the podcast above.
History of the Seedlip
Agnes woke before the sun rose and the rooster cock-a-doodle-dood. The crisp air, not yet touched by the warm morning sun, was making her want to stay in bed. The cold seeped into her body and tightened every muscle. She was already sore and this wasn’t helping. Throwing off the covers was always the hardest part and it took her another three minutes to do. She lay there, in a wool nightgown, knowing she had to get up for her family. She had to get up and start her day for her kids. For her husband Thomas. There was work to do and time did not care how tired or cold or sore she was. Time would continue ticking away despite her wish to pause it and slip out of the stream of life for a few minutes to catch a breather.
When the cold became unbearable, and the desire to move, finally stressed her out enough to do, she sat up, squirmed to the edge of the bed and stood, emitting a long, labored, sigh into the dry air. Her nightgown was over her head then and falling in a heap on the drafty floorboards. She slipped on her thick stockings, the thickest ones she had and then pulled on a heavy dress.
She went to the window next and squinted to see through the frost, dark pane of glass. A blast of cold air from the drafty window hit her face as she got close and goosebumps ran down her spine and made her shiver.
She turned back to her bed, which was already empty. Thomas wasn’t there. He was gone, like he always was at this time of day.
This was a farm and there were always things to do. Sleeping was a luxury not given to those that want to create life where only dead things once exists. The move from dead to living, from nothing to something, required a lot of energy. That was evident in all of their hard work.
Agnes lit a candle and used its soft glow to find her way to the kitchen. Once there she brought the fire embers in the hearth back to life and added more wood. She put a kettle over the fire filled with water then went to the pantry. She grabbed bread then went outside to grab cheese and butter. As far as Agnes was concerned, the only good part about winter was being able to store food outside in the shed so they’d keep longer.
Then she set the table, cut the bread and let the butter out to soften. The rest of the family would be joining her soon for breakfast. The sun was starting to rise now and their rooster finally greeted them with his morning wake up call. She heard the cows in the barn mooing. The pigs would be awake soon and hungry, so she put on a pair of heavy boots, pulled on a warm coat, and went outside to feed them, dumping dried husks and rotten vegetables into the pen.
Back inside, the table was full. “Morning.” She said, as she peeled off her coat and shook away the layer of cold. Next she took off her boots, which were covered in a thick layer of mud from the soft ground. Things were no longer frozen. Things were thawing. The family was already helping themselves to food. The water was boiling now too on the roaring fire and she ladled some into a mug, adding some coffee beans.
“Can we go outside and play today?”
Play. They hadn’t really played outside in a long time. The winter had been harsh. Very harsh. It was a cold winter. A hard winter.
Then it dawned on Agnes that today would be a good day to play. That also meant it would be a good day to plant. She had been so focused on surviving the winter that warmer weather snuck up on her unannounced, and, as she looked outside now at the early morning hours, she realized it was going to be a clear, beautiful day.
Ice was already melting, falling in pitter patters to the ground, and glittering as it caught the sunlight. Her eyes went back to the front door and her boots. Her boots that were covered in mud. Mud that had come from the soft ground.
Planting Seeds With the Seedlip
Agnes’ pulse quickened. Spring. It was here. It was time to plant. After the stalls were mucked and the cows milked she would pull out that old, familiar straw woven basket of hers, fill it with seeds, and start planting. That was the next step. Yes, that was it. The fields had already been tilled. It was possible to do that over the last few weeks and, as if reminding her of that work, she felt the ache between her shoulder blades from gripping the walking plow and fighting to keep it steady as their workhorse trudged along.
She had to start the planting now. They had a large farm with a lot of acreage and walking it all by foot would take a long time. There was so much to do. She drank her coffee absentmindedly as her mind raced.
Thomas had kept seed at the end of last season so they were all set to get started this spring. She loved him for his planning and made a point to tell him that now as she thought of it. He smiled the way he always smiled, with love in his eyes.
There were the usual challenges, of course, with planting. Like getting all the seed in the ground right after the last frost and before things got too hot and the ground dried out too much.
After getting the kids dressed and ushering them outside, Agnes went to the barn in search of her tools. She found the sacks of seed that Thomas bought. She also found her basket, the basket she made herself with straw. It wasn’t very deep, only a couple inches, and it had a large flat bottom.
Agnes dumped some seeds into it, pressed it to her hip for easy carrying, and went to the fields. She looked out at the dark, rich dirt. She could smell it. Smell the Earth itself and all the living organisms crawling around down there. Today, was a new day and the Earth smelled new.
So, she walked. She picked at the seeds, which were easy to grab in the shallow basket, and spread them across the soil. It took her thirty minutes to walk one row, casting seeds to the left. To the right. And in front of her.
At the end of the field she turned and looked back. Already the birds were gathering. They were circling above and watching her. They were dive bombing in interspersed, missile like attacks at the soil, hitting the dirt, pecking feverishly for seeds. Then scattering.
Agnes sighed. The never ending battle. Nature trying to undo her work, not by any malicious intention, but just because nature wants to survive. Life wants to survive. And sometimes the survival of some means the death of others.
Agnes looked in front of her. There were more seeds to plant. She walked. Casting seeds to the left. To the right. And in front of her. At the end of the row, she turned and started a new row. Casting seeds to the left. To the right. And in front of her.
The ground was uneven from her tilling and some of the soil had clumped up in large, earthy clods that would melt in the rain. But, now they were hazards and she found herself tripped up several times, even once spilling her seeds. This caused a chorus of chirps as the birds excitedly spread the message to one another.
“Look at this! Look at this!” They chirped. “She fell. She fell…and we’re going to eat well today because of her mistake.”
But, Agnes stood after she fell. Agnes went back to the barn and scooped out more of the seeds that Thomas had bought, putting them into her straw basket, and continuing on. Agnes kept going because Agnes knew that mistakes happen. Not every day goes your way. In fact, a lot of days don’t. The birds will come. The birds will feast. But, even their gluttony and desire for a free meal is no match for hard work. Hard work will persevere. It could be in a season or a decade. Hard work, will persevere.
So, Agnes put her head down and kept planting, making sure to be more careful with how she walked moving forward. Casting seeds to the left. To the right. And in front of her. She liked that her work made Thomas proud. She smiled at him. Her husband. Her love.
She planted seeds all day and only quit when she couldn’t see the ground anymore. Then, she hung up her basket in the barn, locked the doors, and went inside to make dinner.
The days repeated like this. She woke in the morning while the world was still dark and went about helping her family survive for another day. Spring was a notorious time for afternoon thunderstorms, and there were many days she worked with haste against the incoming storms. She saw them forming on the horizon, readying themselves like an assembling army, the clouds building and turning black, swirling violently, and preparing to crush her afternoon.
She raced again nature. She fought back against the birds, who were always looking for a free meal. And she got stronger and more sure footed every day, never falling again in the fields, as she planted.
Casting seeds to the left. To the right. And in front of her. She keeps her head down. She does her work. She moves through the acres and acres of farmland all on her own.
It had been a cold winter. A hard winter. The winds had cut across the dead cropland without anything to stop them and tore into their tiny house, threatening the lives of them and the kids. It was a harsh winter, and the thing about harsh winters is they always take a piece of your soul. In this instance, they took her love. They took her Thomas. They stole his soul and left her all alone to care for two kids and a large farm. And Agnes was doing all she could to survive.
But, that was in the past and she had little time to think about her loss, although she still talked to Thomas often, since she had no one else to talk to. Spring was here and that meant sunshine and green grass and flowers and honey bees.
Spring was a time to plant seeds and put in the work to nurture them until they took shape.
There is a season for everything and now is your season to grow. To plant your seeds like Agnes was planting her seeds. To work them into the ground.
This isn’t a time to harvest. You have nothing to harvest.
Now, is a time to grow. To plant your seeds of ideas and hard work and progress deep into the fertile soil of life. To keep your head down, despite the rainstorms and cawing birds trying to dive bomb your crop and destroy your hard work. Keep your head down. Plant your seeds now and care for them. Focus on nothing else. You’ll be surprised how big your harvest can get when you focus only on growing and leave the birds to themselves and the thunderstorms to keep raging.
Those things will always be there. But, they don’t know what you are capable of. They don’t know that they can’t stop you. Nothing can stop you.
So, it’s time for you, just like Agnes did, to pick up your straw basket and plant your seeds. To progress and move forward your own life and the world we live in.
Keep your head down. Walk your fields and keep planting. Keep drawing from your basket.
Your basket, like Agnes’ basket. A very famous basket that is steeped in focus and hard work and perseverance and winning, even against long odds. A basket called the Seedlip.
Seedlip
Which, is also the name of an herbal distilled, non-alcoholic drink called Seedlip. A drink that is a perfect drink when combined with planting and nurturing your own seeds. Many people say new year, new you. But, fuck that.
That’s not at all true. It’s time to be you. Time to unlock that beautiful being within in you that can be more, do more, and achieve more. And if you’ve been on a journey this dry January, I’m proud of you. Keep going. And let’s cheers to you keeping your fucking head down with some Seedlip.
“Anyway, I’ll Drink to That” is a Boozn Sam’s production, exploring the fun, quirky, and fascinating tales of drinks (Wiseacre Brewing in this episode) that define culture, history and the world. Every drink has a story to tell, and I’m going to tell it…as true as I can. Hosted by Sam, from Boozn Sam’s. Saddle up with a good cocktail and give me a few minutes of your time for a mystery surrounding a drink that changed the world.
Episode 40 Notes: Getting Crunk with Wiseacre Brewing
I talked to Kellan Bartosch, cofounder of Wiseacre Brewing, and two members of the sales team – Jay Spear and Taylor Lewis. We talked about the evolution of the beer industry, how technology has compressed progress, . We discussed the full lineup of beer, seltzers, and NA drinks that Wiseacre Brewing has.
