Toothpick Swords

Surprisingly sharp...sometimes.
putthison:

Via Kottke and nyer photo booth, bootleggers’ Cow Shoes:


A new method of evading prohibition agents was revealed here today by A.L. Allen, state prohibition enforcement director, who displayed what he called a “cow shoe” as the latest thing front the haunts of moonshiners.
The cow shoe is a strip of metal to which is tacked a wooden block carved to resemble the hoof of a cow, which may be strapped to the human foot. A man shod with a pair of them would leave a trail resembling that of a cow.
The shoe found was picked up near Port Tampa where a still was located some time ago. It will be sent to the prohibition department at Washington. Officers believe the inventor got his idea from a Sherlock Holmes story in which the villain shod his horse with shoes the imprint of which resembled those of a cow’s hoof.

putthison:

Via Kottke and nyer photo booth, bootleggers’ Cow Shoes:

A new method of evading prohibition agents was revealed here today by A.L. Allen, state prohibition enforcement director, who displayed what he called a “cow shoe” as the latest thing front the haunts of moonshiners.

The cow shoe is a strip of metal to which is tacked a wooden block carved to resemble the hoof of a cow, which may be strapped to the human foot. A man shod with a pair of them would leave a trail resembling that of a cow.

The shoe found was picked up near Port Tampa where a still was located some time ago. It will be sent to the prohibition department at Washington. Officers believe the inventor got his idea from a Sherlock Holmes story in which the villain shod his horse with shoes the imprint of which resembled those of a cow’s hoof.

I’m making tonic

I called the health food store.

“I’m looking for something…forgive me if I say it wrong…sin-choan-uh…kin-chone-uh…it’s spelled c-i-n-c-h-o-n-a. It’s a powder or a bark.”

“Yes.”

“Can you order a pound?”

“Yes.”

“Can you order a pound of citric acid, too?”

“Sure.”

My wife walked in. “Why are you ordering bark?”

“That’s where the quinine is.”

Maybe I was always like this, or maybe there was some transformational moment earlier in my life, but I want to make things. I want as few steps between me and what I consume or use as possible, and I want my hands in all of it. 

This is where you start thinking I’m a luddite. This is where you imagine I’m part of the idle middle class, so burdened by invasive technology and so bored of convenience that I can’t help but romanticize a time when not everything was available already put together.

This is where I reject that, but not with the usual handwringing “we don’t make anything anymore” line or the old classic “we’re disconnected from what we consume.” This is where I say it’s just fun to make things. It’s a challenge. It’s hard. The stakes are low and the reward is high. 

I want to make tonic so I know I can make tonic (and so I can avoid HFCS and the higher prices of real-sugar tonic). It’s a matter of time before I try to make bitters. I’m sure I’ll get it wrong, but eventually I’ll get it right. 

This is also making-as-guilt-avoidance. It’s easy to pour a drink and the satisfaction of a simple bourbon neat is nothing I want to be without for very long. It’s a simple exchange, though. I spend money on whiskey, I drink whiskey. With a more complex drink, the satisfaction is higher if I’m the one mixing and consuming. I spend money on ingredients, I mix the ingredients, I drink. So mathematically, a drink that I assemble from ingredients I assembled would provide even more pleasure. I can’t not make tonic. It’s science.

I should clarify that I’m not going to stop enjoying simple drinks. There’s a time and a place for everything (that time is usually “after 6”). The enjoyment from drinking is one we all have experienced. But the enjoyment of making something isn’t. They are two joys I want to combine. Each drink can be a reward. I want to make each drink a prize as well. 


Buster Keaton for Smirnoff Vodka.
Photographed by Bert Stern.

Buster Keaton for Smirnoff Vodka.

Photographed by Bert Stern.

(Source: becketts, via splitsider)