Icebergs in Woodstock

Yesterday's roses in 19th century glass. Maybe.

It's hard to say what is Woodstock and what is not. I love it, though, regardless of its actual provenance and have been collecting tumblers at every opportunity, though this last time, I did bring back from Cape Town a couple of the flat champagne glasses and some little sherry ones, too. Anyone ever in doubt as to what WONDERFUL gift to get me, cough? Hit Kalk Bay, or Julie Atkinson's in Church Street...

There's something so aesthetically satisfying about their lack of uniformity, their thickness and thinness, fernleaf, or Art Deco scribbles. Especially the little tumblers I love, thinking them good for strange drinks, like Cassis and Pellegrino with a slice of lime (a lot like the Fortris of my childhood); or a Pernod, or my red Kir, to which I add lime, too. Good for beer, the bigger tumblers. Drinking is as much a pleasure for the eyes as for the er...other parts. I enjoy it profoundly, and at other times have no interest at all. The worse things get, the less I want anything to do with a drink; the better, the more. Lucky chemistry. Stress = a drink, certainly. Unhappiness = ugh, no. Happiness = most certainly. Odd.

Thinking Cinco de Mayo margaritas would taste very good out of the flat ones. Glasses, I mean. See you here on Monday. Except then one needs good tequila and cointreau, and I have a freezerful of gin and vodka. What to do. Drinking gins and tonics could be considered colonial and racist on such a day, right?