'Sinthe I Met You

"Do you see this?" my aunt said, pointing to a small glass in the hand of a wild woman on an album cover, "I think it's absinthe."

"What's absinthe?"

"It's illegal, and it makes you see things."

The album was Pearl. The wild woman was Janis Joplin. The year was 1971.

I was 8 years old.

God, I love my aunt.

There began my lifelong obsession with absinthe. I was fascinated by it. Maybe because it was forbidden, maybe because it was such a pretty color, or maybe just because I always secretly wanted to be able to pull off a feather boa as an everyday fashion accessory like Janis. I really don't know. But that brief moment stuck with me. Someday I would find that elusive liquid.

As years and luck would have it, I found myself in Paris in 1983. Although it was still contraband, I was convinced that someone would have a bottle tucked behind the bar, and that if I asked nicely enough, and offered plenty of francs, I would be secreted into some back dusty room and allowed entrance into the world of the Fairy.

Between my ears my life plays out like a 1940's movie. The reality is never as glamorous. I must have popped into fifty bars during my stay and every bartender denied my request, and at least half of them muttered something nasty under their breath. Was I really just a 'Stoopit Amerikhan'? Yes, yes I was. So, I quenched my thirst with something delightful: bottles of Dom Perignon purchased with my strong 12 to 1 Stoopit Amerikhan dollar. I had so much champagne in my bags when I left that customs refused to stamp my passport. I felt smug with my vast assortment of vintage bubbly, but it couldn't fill up that tiny part of me that left without the one thing I came for.

As the years rolled on, and baby bottles replaced champagne bottles and play dates replaced trips abroad, I forgot about my green obsession; until one day during a half-hearted dusting session I was interrupted by a faint voice on the Travel Channel.

A gentleman by the name of Ted Breaux was talking....about absinthe! I dropped my dust rag and was all ears. Transported instantly from housewife to Bohemian, my sole thought was how to get around not paying the electric bill in favor of getting my hands on some wormwood-laced euphoria. Needless to say, the electric bill was paid; but shortly thereafter I did receive a lovely green box as a gift from my husband. And, how convenient that it came complete with an absinthe spoon!

I waited a few days before I actually opened the bottle. I just kept staring at it on the kitchen counter, and although I now know that the stories of hallucinating are just myth, and that it is no longer illegal, I almost felt guilty about having it - and a little saddened by the fact that a lot of the mystique is gone. It really would have been so much better if I had had the privilege of a clandestine glass in Paris, as opposed to a sample in my kitchen with my daughter snapping pictures for my blog. C'est la vie.

I carefully prepared my brew. Slowly pouring ice water over the sugar cube poised on the pretty spoon, I watched in awe as the liquid changed. I closed my eyes and entered my own little world of make-believe, lifted the glass, and took a slow sip.

It was strong. It was a bit like anisette. But most of all, it was wonderful. Finally, after 37 years of wanting and wondering, I knew what the proverbial buzz was all about.

It makes you feel lovely, and it makes your lips numb. There is definitely something different from the average drink going on here. I know that the absinthe aficionados will disagree, and that maybe my imagination was running wild, but there was almost an instantaneous change in my demeanor. A happy change.

I am looking forward to many more tiny glasses of opaque giddiness. And, the next time I lift my glass, I'll lift it to my aunt, who made my childhood very cool.