(This is for http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/04/08/flash-fiction-challenge-the-cocktail/)
The nice thing about Vermont is that when you want to go all local and organic it doesn’t actually hinder you in any real way, except maybe money.
Local organic beer was always my favorite way to save the world and my local economy. Local wine clawed its way into a microclime near me, and it was good but an entire bottle of red wine was far beyond my recommended daily allowance. (And how local organic Vermont-y it was to hang my head out my friends Volvo window as we bumped and jostled down the dirt roads home, already dreading the return trip in the morning -but not too early, to fetch my Subaru.)
And now the righteousness has been extended to local organic GIN. My toilet paper is dry and unbleached, my paper towels are lacking all wit and a fair bit of their absorbency powers but dang it this is my new new most favorite way to save the planet. No longer do I have to stumble over where to pitch my dollars, should I support this ad with the James Bond look-alike or? Well, Bond-guy seems about the limit of gin advertising creativity.
It was a G&T I poured the night that I tucked my kids into bed and my husband wasn’t home. The night I was alone in the kitchen with the liquor cabinet and all my sundry aids to virtue, the night that I was alone in the kitchen with my thoughts streaming constantly to a local mother that I had met just once at a Pampered Chef party, the night that I was alone in the kitchen arranging all of my blue willow plates so that the swallows were like a squadron of naval aviators all in perfect formation swooping across the plate rack, the night that I was alone in the kitchen alphabetizing the spices and grabbing order god damn it, taking that order and hauling it to heel.
We will be ordered and we will do things to save the world. They will be small and mostly indulgent things but they will have lasting effects, and it’s really about the children, the children that are inheriting this mess. The children who can never do anything so bad or wrong, the children that we tuck carefully into our Volvos and beneath flannel sheets and raise free and wild in this place with the cleanest air and the most local organic-y options imaginable.
The night that I tucked my kids into bed and somewhere up the bumpy dirt roads from my house, the woman that I met briefly at a Pampered Chef party was in a place I dare not imagine, not tucking her child into bed, not tucking him in ever again. Against all order, and the time wasn’t frozen like the lovers on a blue willow bridge, and it was a spill that a 100% recycled paper towel couldn’t clean and it was an ache that local organic gin barely touched.