This one was epic.
I stood, unsure, a barrel before me, waist high, a glass in my hand and then whoosh! and splat! and suddenly I am in a scooby-doo/sesame street animation tunnel of tubes and vines and roots, except that each one is the seuss-chute whereby the world of platonic forms lets out into our world the great multitude of delicious things that haunt whiskey barrels. An unblemished papaya cradles in its scary seed-pocket a steaming roasted chestnut that longs to be reunited with the smoke of a Jurassic brush fire but pines in vain because its fate, like the fate of the swirling multitude that stretches my Huxleian reducing valve is to disappear amid fumes and language, never to be known again.
Or in other words, dammit, Adam, what was this whisky and dammit, North Carolina, your sons and daughters are thirsty and curious.
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