It’s Sunday night. If you’re anything like me, and innumerable other poor insufferable bastards your mind is now spent pouring every moment of your weekend trying to remember where the time went, what did you do, have you really spent the last 11 hours on that couch? Then there’s that other thought, that lingering dread, that grim cloud of despair that threatens your next 5 days—a combination of the known and unknown sufferings to come. Or maybe you like your job, in which case, bully for you—self-fulfilled prick. At some wicked hour you’re going to be awakened by some unnatural thought. You will roll out of bed, stagger through your morning without being able to enjoy the beauty that is your breakfast and coffee. You will drive (in the snow, in my case) to the office complex, the job site, the sweatshop. You’ll bleed for 40 hours as the phones ring, the shitfans spray, the meetings drone and the whip cracks. Why, dear god why?! Why do we dedicate so much of our lives to something that we find so dreadful, even possibly loathsome? The short answer—we need shit.
I’m going to really try my best to avoid a rant (rampage) against crass consumerism here; for the sake of your already tormented minds and for the sake of space. Also, it doesn’t contribute to my point. The point is, that we work, because we need to make a living. Maybe some of us legitimately hate our jobs, maybe some of us love them, me, I find it far more tolerable while doing it than warrants my present dread. I do it though, admitted, because I need to. I do it because every two weeks a bunch of numbers show up on this website saying I can pay people money that I owe them for that piece of paper I paid way too much for. That website also says I can eat stuff, and drink some nice booze. If you couldn’t tell I’m rather fond of booze. Which brings me to my next point: sometimes there are, emphasis on sometimes, little unexpected perks that make your work go from something you bleed at for 40 hours per week, to a part of your life. There are times when there’s a reward, be that intrinsic or otherwise, that make Sunday night’s dread perhaps seem a bit unfounded. When you’re able to make a little impact in someone’s life, when there’s leftover pizza up for grabs in the breakroom, or when you go that extra mile for someone and they go out of their way to thank you. These are nice moments. Small joys, surely, but without them the shitfan keeps humming endlessly.
Where am I going with all this? Did the title not give it away? One of those small joys happened for me over the holidays, when my team at work went out for a nice dinner and exchange of gifts. Many of the gifts were alcoholic (ahh, numbing the stress), my boss kindly bought me a bottle of Baker’s bourbon. Working with people that you enjoy the company of is quite nice in and of itself. When they give you good bourbon? Small joy. To the point, what of the bourbon?
Baker’s bourbon is a Beam brand project, one of their premier line, running at 107 proof after spending 7 years on oak absorbing, let me tell you, some lovely flavors. Perhaps that’s an understatement. You see, the first whiff of Baker’s is warm, round, almost thick and chewy, if your nostrils can detect that. There are luscious notes of caramel, honey, and an almost cedar like woodiness with some dark and rich spice notes. I’m pretty sure this would for some manly cologne. Ah, and to taste this. Rich chewy molasses cookies are the predominant flavor with a bit of allspice, a touch of dark fruit and a hint of vanilla—the best way I can describe this is simply lustrous. The finish reveals that vanilla that had but hiding just beneath the surface and sinks softly down warming, melting away the tension, the fear that goddamn grim menace of tomorrow.
What it is all for? It’s for those small joys, that leftover pizza, for those people who make work tolerable, and that special bottle every other Friday that lets you stop the droning, stop the bleeding—lets you reap your just rewards.