ode to a cocktail glass

Yesterday I treated myself to a glass.

Not a glass of whiskey or wine. Just a glass.

While at the Goodwill searching once again for a minifan for the bathroom that's got no circulation or fan, which incidentally I did find, I stopped in at dishware to peruse the glasses.

Because I have three glasses. One's a large martini glass, the other a nondescript standard drinking glass left behind by a vacating tenant at my old job and one a Lagunitas brewery pint glass won in a pub raffle.

FYI, I also have three large dinner plates … two medium plates … three soup bowls … two big bowls … and a partridge in a pear tree.

Well, maybe not the partridge.

That there's the extent of my dishware. Save for the two big bowls, none match. I pick up individual pieces I like and into the collection they go. Which is how I prefer it. It's the gene on the dad's side that demands we be different and unconventional. Cannot be helped. Not without a gene-altering procedure. I'll pass.

So, rye whiskey fan that I am, it could no longer do to continue drinking it directly from the bottle straight from the bottle with a straw from a totally inappropriate glass.

So I got myself a dedicated cocktail glass.

Not as easy as it sounds.

Turns out I have a natural feel for this sorta thing. The art of drinking let's call it. Akin to the art of cigar smoking.

I don't smoke cigars but I resonate with and fully appreciate the art that it is. The choice and feel of a fine cigar. The right cutting tool that feels good and solid in the hand, like it's an extension of you.

A good ashtray upon which to rest the cigar that elicits an emotional response when you look at it. I really get it. And if I did smoke cigars, I'd put thought and care into each individual item that collectively combine for a rich and fulfilling experience.

So what a cigar is to them the cocktail glass is to me.

I must've spent an hour in that goddamn glasses section picking up and examining each and every candidate!

Studying the pattern. Cradling it in my right hand. Grasping it toward the top between my thumb and two middle fingers as I envisioned lifting it from the funky little table beside my stuffed chair where I like to write sitting Indian style with my laptop on a board on my lap.

I could hear the ice clinking … imagine the warm amber of the rye whiskey … detect the aroma as the glass is lifted to my lips.

It was a tedious, time-consuming but worthwhile process of elimination.

Some glasses felt too wide for my hand in its natural comfortable grip … some too bottom heavy. Others too lightweight, insubstantial; they could not bring dignity to the drink.

Some had no character … others were too large for the cocktails that are my preference … or in blues, greens or browns, which could not highlight the color of the spirits.

Eventually said and done and subjected to my discerning senses (and sensitivities), the one that survived the cuts is this. Introducing my one cocktail glass:

Now the cell-phone photo doesn't do it justice, it appears cloudy when it in fact it's crystal clear plus the pattern cut does not show up well so I drew up a little AppleWorks graphic; colors added for fun.

So that's that. To the art of the cocktail. So mote it be.

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