The Cabin

I've had all these things to show you, gathering dust since late November, when we took a West Coast vacation through Mendocino County and up to Portland, Oregon to be with friends for the Thanksgiving holiday. There are so may moments worth recounting that I expect this will come in several parts. It all started when Miriam invited us to come stay for a weekend in her family cabin in Comptche, a tiny tiny town just 20 miles or so from Fort Bragg in Northern California.



We headed up on a Saturday afternoon. After leaving California Hwy. 101, we drove mostly along a winding road through a sleepy hollow sort of landscape, light green and lush and rocky beautiful the whole way. We lost the light thirty minutes shy of our arrival, so that by the time we pulled into the cabin's gravel drive, our eyes were tired from squinting at road signs. We were in a forest, we figured, dark as it was by 6:30, but that was all we could tell.

My grandparents have a cabin in northern Wisconsin, perched on a hill, looking over a lake. Jungle Lake, as we fondly call it, is painted in a blue wash and decorated with vaguely Scandinavian knick-nacks, built by my dad's family in the 60's. Not knowing what to expect, as always with my California, I imagined to find the same sort of thing at Miriam's in Comptche. I woke up our first morning, to find something else entirely.








In truth, they aren't so different. The redwood forest that surrounds Comptche, at the scale of the majestic, is more impressive probably than the familiar woods at Jungle Lake. But where the cabin itself was punctuated with their families' history there--a museum of treasures collected on hikes adorning an exterior wall, lamps and drinking glasses handmade by Miriam's dad and the cabin garden tended by Miriam's mom--I was constantly reminded of the parallel traditions we kept at Jungle Lake. We have a birch cribbage table that my grandfather made from a felled log and an announcemnent still hangs in the hall closet for a pounce tournament "tomorrow morning" that we made when we were kids. Each time Miriam would explain a ritual of Comptche, I would remember one of my own. In a bit of a flood of memory, I realized how much I'd forgotten of the Jungle Lake traditions since I moved away.

They're a lot like time capsules, cabins. They envelope you in that familial slowness, where things assure you they will remain the same forever and you can just laze about in that promise. In the comfort of someone else's cabin capsule, I was able to enjoy that very home feeling. It was a perfect way to begin our Thanksgiving.

Rituals

I think I may have finally figured it out. Why I always seem to suffer that annual letdown that comes officially on Jan. 2 but sometimes as early as Dec. 26th, the pit in your stomach, the relief wrapped in boredom that is to welcome the mundane after-party of the holiday season. Luckily this year, I had an elixir. A freelance gig that paid better than most, a newly painted living room and the active ingredient: a visit from some dear friends. Gerik and Annette were the perfect pair of guests because they were so relaxed, so happy with anything you decided to take them to and because they had some other friends around to show us fun that we sort of haven't seen since Philadelphia. Our time together involved milkshakes, people. And Brunch. But even though we did lots of things last weekend, there were these little beverages on Sunday evening made from Krupnik, a polish honey vodka, that nearly stole the show.

The flame was elusive, but these were in fact ablaze.

First of all, this honey vodka is not to be found just everywhere, which makes them fairly special. And they require a little effort, more than merely a sufficient pour, which elevates them yet further. To the husky shot, you add several beans of coffee and then light the alcohol on fire. The heat serves to mildly roast the beans, while it also infuses the drink so slightly with the flavor of the coffee. It will burn for several minutes and may even snuff itself out in time. After the flame is out, the top rim is squeezed with a wedge of lemon and then some into the drink as well. The result should be consumed while warm but by sipping, not shooting and the flavor is well, roasty. Powerful notes of a substantial proof with the caramel notes of a soft whiskey, I'd say. Though we had these on a mild January evening in California, they're more aptly suited to a colder climate.

Having them fixed so carefully at a real bang of a barbeque, amid a fair amount of bustle, made me remember what I used to really cherish about my time in Russia: the ritual of food and drink, the specific rules to be followed guiding their consumption and the absolute devotion to them shared by all. I owe my own experience of krupnik to Gerik and Annette's friend Ben, whose own time in Poland I'm sure guides this persuasion of his for ritual. I'd tell you to find some of the stuff to try for yourself, but what I would mean is, you should probably just find a Polish friend to make you one.