I can make blackberry jam a whole hell of a lot better than I can hold my alcohol.
Last week I spent a couple of days camping in Covode [that miniscule town directly south of Punxsutawney, PA]. It’s such a beautiful, zen-like place. I love Covodea. It’s a few dozen acres of second-growth forest filled with white oaks, weed pines, ferns, Indian pipe, huckleberries, and blackberries. Dave and I put those blackberries to good use. We collected a few pounds with much pain [thorns aplenty made our picking quite uncomfortable] and when we returned to his house in Pittsburgh we tried our hand at making jam. Success! Albeit Dave and I were jam-making virgins, our product came out rather delicious. This is what I had for breakfast the following morning:
Last Saturday, Sarah and I went up to Ann Arbor to visit our Matty-Matt. I needed a nachos fix…and Matt is always the one to freely give me my poison. MMmmmm, nachos. After dinner, we headed back to his apartment to wait for Benjamin and have a martini. Since I average about one alcoholic drink a month, the generously poured martini hit me as if I drank a fifth of vodka. Then we four headed to a local brewery to hear a couple of jazzy-experimental musical groups and see an art show at the same establishment. The art was a big thumbs down, the music was acceptable, but the beer was helpful. After Lightweight Lindsay consumed a couple more beers, everything was wonderful.
At one point, Ben and I decided to take a closer look at the art and to find out where a supposed greenhouse was [the sign outside the brewery claimed there to be a greenhouse inside as well]. We found the greenhouse—a defunct greenhouse that only contained the ghost of plants past and the drum set of the preceding band. Disappointed, we staggered [okay, I was the only one staggering but it sure looked as if everyone else was, too] to a small cluster of black and white photos with inverted colors. They pretty much looked like blown-up negatives of kid’s attempt at art. I was making facetious comments about them as the artist walked up to Ben and me… oops. He must have not heard me, but I couldn’t help giggling. Then Ben chortled, then I giggled, the artist asked our opinions, I giggled, Ben chortled, and somehow we snuck away. Damn, I was inebriated.
The rest of the evening consisted of me needing to find a restroom, playing Trivial Pursuit without the board or pie pieces, learning euchre, making a fool of myself, and lots and lots of laughing. Fun was had until I woke up at 6a.m. with a horrible hangover. The end.
This is what Matt looked like at his first sip:
This is what Matt looked like after many sips and a few hours of putting up with me [note the decline of alcohol sophistication from blueberry martinis to a six-pack of Molson]:
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