Whiskey and Honey
by Bella Rum
After writing the following post, I received so many visitors to The Red Umbrella who were searching for a whiskey and honey recipe that I posted two here. Check them out.
This is turning into a whining blog. I’m still sick and since that’s what’s going on, that’s what I have to write about.
The Brother is sick also. He called a few minutes ago and said that he remembered Mama and Dad always saying that honey and whiskey would make you sweat, and eventually heal whatever ails you. I said, “Funny you should say that because I wanted a little honey to put in my hot tea the other day, and couldn’t find any in the house, and oh, by the way, I don’t have any whiskey either.”
To that, he said, “Well, bring yourself over here, baby, cause I have plenty of both.”
So, still in the same grungy sweat shirt and long tailed tee shirt and pajama bottoms that I had on yesterday, I walked across the back yard to his house and got some Jack Daniels and two pint jars of honey that a bee keeper friend of his gave to him. Yes, he has a friend who keeps bees among other things.
I believe The Brother knows everybody in the entire world, from every walk of life. I swear. It’s a fact.
I digress. So, I grabbed my two jars of honey and my Jack Daniels, and told him a quick story about The Husband’s step-father.
The Husband’s step-father was a very religious man. He attended church for years without missing a single Sunday. After enduring a blizzard on Saturday night, dumping several feet of snow, he would still manage to make his way through the snow to the church on Sunday morning to make sure they were not open before he could satisfy himself that he would not miss a service. He received a little pin to commemorate each year that he did this. He pinned it to his suit jacket which he wore every Sunday. As the years rolled by, each new pin would attach to the previous one. After many years had passed, he took great pride in what had grown to be a very long chain which dangled way down the front of his suit coat. When they tried to talk him into giving up wearing the long chain in lieu of a single pin that represented twenty-five years, he adamantly refused.
Needless to say, he was a teetotaler. No one ever saw or heard of alcohol ever passing his Baptist lips. Imagine our surprise when we saw him on the evening news, one of a half dozen other patrons of the ABC store who had the bad luck to be purchasing their supplies when an armed robber came in, and forced everyone to lie prostrate on the floor while he emptied the cash register. And, of course, it was all captured on surveillance The Husband and I were flabbergasted. The Husband’s mother explained that, “Of course, he did not drink at all, however, for medicinal purposes only, he did have a habit of taking two tablespoons of peach brandy every night at bedtime.”
At any rate, I came home and mixed the Jack Daniels with the honey and took three teaspoons. It tasted like turpentine and sugar to me. Not something all that enjoyable. Peach brandy sounds better. I’ll let you know about its healing properties tomorrow.
By the way, when I told Dad what I was doing, he told me if I really wanted something that would work to look in the cabinet over the oven for the grain alcohol.