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January 25, 2003

Some hae meat and canna

Some hae meat and canna eat
And some wad eat that want it
But we hae meat and we can eat
And sae the Lord be thankit

You must forgive me if this seems a bit disjointed, it's what comes of spending Burn's night with a Scotsman, especially once said Scotsman discovered that it was my wedding anniversary. Technically my wedding anniversary isn't for another hour and seven minutes, but try telling that that to a man with a big sword and a kilt.

My parents were drafted to babysit tonight, not that they considered it a.....noun describing a thing that the government does to force you into an action not of your own choosing. "Burden" would fit right into the flow of the above sentence, but it really doesn't communicate the correct sense of "outside forces compelling one into an action not of one's own choosing" as well as the word that I would have chosen would have if I had not had hoisted the celebratory Burn's night glass of expensive scotch after consuming the celebratory Burn's night sixpack of imported ales. That word will come to me, but likely not until I've been abed for an hour or three. Words like that have a predilection for coming at inopportune times, and any time that one sits bolt upright in the wee hours of the morning, in the bed one shares with one's six months pregnant wife, and shouts "Encumbrance!"?

Well......that's an inopportune time.

We'd owed the oxymoronic Scotsman and his wife a dinner visit for quite a while now, as they had blessed us with their presence last spring, but hadn't gotten around to discharging our debt until tonight. We should have done so earlier, as the Sainted Wife thinks very highly of the Scotsman's wee gel, and the Scotsman himself fulfills my desires in a companion admirably, as all I really want out of an evening is a chance to partake of rare liquors with a male who can appreciate them equally, or can at least fake appreciation in a believable manner.

I desire that appreciation, or the the appearance thereof, because it gives me an excuse to go to the specialty beer store. Should someone want to indulge in an appreciation of a liquor stronger than that of an imported ale, it's up to them to supply it. Yes, your wines are nice, and as I learned tonight, so are your single malts, but the beverages brewed with yeast and hops define my area of expertise, and without the specialty beer stores in the Triangle my claim of expertise would be a thin thing indeed. There is really only one specialty store in Raleigh, where the Scotsman and wife dwell, the Peace Street Market. Every time I go there the wife has to look at her watch, tap her foot and finally yell before I can leave. Tonight I bought a couple bottles of Konig Ludwig Weisse, and a four pack of Greene King IPA for the festivities. This ended up being in additon to the Boddington's and Young's Double Chocolate Stout already laid in by the Celt.

Both were greatly appreciated, as was the peaty heat that the Scotsman supplied in memory of Robbie Burns. I canna recall the name of said heat for the life of me, even though I read the label twice and asked the name of the whiskey again ere I left. Why I lack the memory, I cannot imagine. But there is little better in the world than expensive scotch and a Marlboro red outside on a cold evening in January, unless it's going back inside for more scotch.

Good night to you all, and to all the wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie's that Robbie so loved. Slainte Mhath!

Update: Good Morning! Also forgot the Hobgoblin.

Posted by Bigwig at January 25, 2003 10:52 PM | TrackBack
Postscript:
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