I grew up in Kentucky. Kentucky is famous for three things:
1. Horse racing
2. Basketball
3. BOURBON
I love bourbon. I am the daughter of a man who loves bourbon. I am married to a man – Carter – who was taught by my father to love bourbon. Carter’s parents drink gin. My family is genetically intolerant to gin. Allergies? I wish.
Give gin to any member of my immediate family and they will either: a) run in circles around a vehicle chasing an imaginary dog named Bingo; b) tell everyone in the vicinity the harrowing tale of their first gynecological exam and how no matter whether there are pot holders shaped like chickens on those stirrups or not, it’s still proof that God hates women and that’s why God gave them uteri; or c) start shrieking the lyrics to “Modern Major General” from “The Pirates of Penzance” and pick a fight with anyone who tries to turn the music up louder to drown them out. All of these scenarios generally end with us locking ourselves in the bathroom and refusing to come out until everyone individually apologizes for the horrible things they’ve done to us and promises not to murder us when we exit. For the record, none of these things happen to Carter’s family when they drink gin. They’re the lucky ones.
But back to bourbon. Bourbon? Oh, you mean the nectar of the gods and proof that the universe wants us to be happy.
Bourbon must be made from a grain mixture that is no less than 51 percent corn. It must be aged in a new, charred oak barrel. From there the method and the madness both get sticky. Every distillery has its own recipe. Every brand, every barrel, every mix has its own distinct flavor. Some are subtle; some are remarkable. But it is an amazing substance. If you’ve not tried it, I recommend you do so as soon as you are able.
But this is not a plug for the merits of bourbon or why bourbon is mothers’ milk or how bourbon will change and sophisticate your life. This is a lesson.
There are two ways to drink bourbon: neat or on the rocks. Period. Note: We’re not talking about mixology here. That is a story for another day, friends. We are talking about mixing. You know, the thing that people who aren’t growing heirloom basil and making their own sour mix do?
“But what if I like it in Sprite?” You’re not doing it right.
“But I like it in ginger ale.” You’re not doing it right.
“But I like it in Coke.” You’re defiling it and don’t deserve to drink it ever again. That’s what Jack Daniel’s is for.
This brings me to an interesting point. Bourbon is a whiskey. But not all whiskey is bourbon. Whiskey, like Jack Daniel’s, is perfectly acceptable mixed. I recommend it with lemonade. Whiskey is also good in ginger ale and Sprite. If you’re into it, I’m sure whiskey also mixes well with Coke.
But bourbon mixes with nothing. I repeat: neat or on the rocks. The choice is yours, but there is no option “C” for “Other.” I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you, but there just isn’t. I’m sure you could get away with it in most places of the world, as long as there isn’t a Kentuckian at the bar with you. However, if a Kentuckian hears you order a Woodford Reserve and Coke, they will call you a heathen jackwagon and slap the glass out of your hand because they would rather give that liquor back to the earth than allow it to cross your lips tainted by battery acid. Yes, it’s that serious.
Carter and I were at a resort bar in South Carolina this summer, having some chicken fingers and splitting a bucket of Yuengling. On that fateful day, we happened to overhear a man schooling a young college kid about bourbon. My ears pricked up because it is one of my favorite subjects. (In this order: “Harry Potter,” Lola [my labradoodle], bourbon, the zombie apocalypse, why “Game of Thrones” is the best show on television, and how Carter and I are Troy and Abed from “Community” [in that order as well].)
Man: You see, Son, bourbon is a delicious liquor. It’s smooth and sweet, sometimes with a kick that will bite you in the ass.
Poetry.
College kid: I’ve never had it.
Man: You’ve never had it? Well, you need to fix that right away! You got your ID on you, right? Francine, get this boy a drink on my tab. Make it a Woodford Reserve and Sprite.
I nearly had a stroke. Literally. I nearly had a stroke. It was going so well until the end! I told Carter that I was going to say something. He said to leave well enough alone. I never do that. He remembered that fact. Then he remembered that he finds it titillating when I am forced to deliver any variety of my “This is not how you run a business” speech. I prepared my opening remarks.
I felt my stomach go all knotty as I watched the deep caramel of that perfectly aged Woodford splash against the ice in the glass.
Then I felt it go all vomity as I saw the fizzing of the Sprite, diluting and defiling all that goodness. I couldn’t take it anymore.
Me: Sir? Where are you from?
Man: Michigan! And yourself?
Me: I’m from Kentucky.
Man: Oh! Well, then you probably know all about this!
Me: I do.
Man: Well, then you can tell this man that I’m right! In Kentucky, Woodford Reserve is the well bourbon.
Me: I’ve never seen it in the well. Most people consider that to be on the top shelf.
Man: Well, when I was in Kentucky, Woodford was in the well.
Me: Where?
Man: The Kentucky side of Cincinnati.
(So…not Kentucky?)
Me: What’s your favorite bourbon?
Man: Basil Hayden’s.
Me: Excellent choice.
Man: Yeah, I like to drink it with ginger ale.
At this point, Carter was digging what fingernails he has into my arm to try to get me to shut up before I said something like “Sweet sin crackers, you would dare defile a small batch Basil Hayden’s with Schweppes?!?!?!?!?”
I didn’t say it. I did, however, stare blankly at him like he had lobsters crawling out of his nostrils.
Man: What’s the best bourbon you’ve ever had?
Me: Well, I’ve had a lot that I like. But I got a sip of the Pappy Van Winkle’s 20-year one time that was pretty spectacular.
Man: I bet that would be great in Coke.
At this point, I began to pound my forehead on the bar. Carter told the man that I was borderline nutso and asked if he would please excuse my behavior but that “Coke” was one of my trigger words and he needed to get a jellyfish to sting me right away to snap me out of it (because he’s sadistic like that).
OK, that didn’t happen. But I did stare at him for a while. He turned back to his audience and continued on about putting Eagle Rare in his lemonade and how it was such a refreshing summer drink. (Jack Daniel’s and lemonade is a refreshing summertime drink. Eagle Rare needs no help from Crystal Light. It’s not supposed to be refreshing; it’s supposed to be divine.)
I didn’t school him. I wanted to, but I didn’t. Because I’m elegant. And also because it looked like a losing battle: If a person grows to the age this man was and believes that Sprite is God’s gift to Basil Hayden’s, I should probably leave well enough alone. And because, in order to do that schooling properly, I would have needed a bourbon in my hand, which would have meant that I would also have needed to be put to bed immediately following that conversation. (I don’t day drink a lot.)
I did, however, take to Facebook. It was funny how people reacted. I got more “likes” on that status than on the picture of my brand spankin’ new engagement ring. People were rallying, urging me to go back to the bar and set this guy straight. They wanted me to correct the error in his ways, to put him on the path to rightness. OK, OK, all of these people were from Kentucky. If you still don’t get what the big deal is, it’s OK – my friends from other states didn’t get it either. I’m sure you’re asking: Why do we care so much?
I’ve done a lot of thinking about Kentucky. We’re kind of the forgotten state. Sure, people remember who we are for one month a year in March – but only for our basketball teams – and then we vanish from their minds like Brigadoon. People may pick up a bottle of Old Forester or Wild Turkey and read the words “Real Kentucky Bourbon” and remember where Kentucky is on a map from their fourth grade geography bee. They may tune in for the Kentucky Derby and ponder the irony that a state known for backward politics and even more backward people hosts an event at which Queen Elizabeth II makes fairly regular appearances. They may remember any of the myriad of famous people who called or call Kentucky home: Muhammad Ali, Wendell Berry, Daniel Boone, James Bowie, George Clooney, Johnny Depp, all of the Judd ladies, Barbara Kingsolver, Abraham Lincoln, Mary Todd Lincoln, Patty Loveless, Loretta Lynn, the McCoys of the Hatfield-McCoy feud, Thomas Merton, Bill Monroe, Nappy Roots, Colonel Harland Sanders, Diane Sawyer, Ricky Skaggs, Hunter S. Thompson, and many others.
People may remember Kentucky for a brief moment, but, for the most part, the world doesn’t give the commonwealth too much thought or space. And I think it’s a shame. It’s one of the most beautiful states in the country. It boasts some of the friendliest people in the world.
It is as backward as it is hopeful.
It is as backwoods as it is modern.
It is one of the only places left, I believe, where you can see men in Armani sitting at picnic tables at the State Fair eating pulled pork on their lunch break next to people who are first generation college graduates from coal country. It is a place where it is still good and right to be proud of your state simply for the fact that it is yours. We are Americans, but, more specifically, we are Kentuckians.
So why do I give a rat’s ass what you put in your bourbon? Because it’s something my state has to brag about. It’s something that is made against one of the most beautiful backdrops in the world. It’s something that I identify with home.
I’ve been homesick and it’s been a rough day. Sometimes you just need to reconnect, even if it is only on paper. I may have moved away. I may have a driver’s license from a different state now. I may never live in Kentucky again. But I will always call and classify myself as a Kentuckian. Because it still means something to be a Kentuckian.
Tonight, I plan to pour some Angel’s Envy (one of our wonderful liquid wedding presents) on the rocks. Maybe I’ll finally write that short story I’ve been skirting around – the one about a woman who leaves Kentucky for love and finds herself in a different state. She still says “y’all,” makes sweet tea every Sunday, and wears a hat on the first Saturday in May. She still cries like a baby when she hears a crowd sing “My Old Kentucky Home.” And whenever she gets homesick, she pours a little bourbon in a glass and thinks of what a good home it is.
-Katie Pilkington
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