Friday, December 30, 2011

Glogg: Quite possibly, a life changer

      I’ve been drinking glogg, a very potent mulled wine made with equal parts of heated red wine and aquavit, spiced with raisins, cloves, cinnamon sticks, almonds, cardamom, fire and sugar, every Christmas as far back as I can remember. Just to make sure you’re not drinking pure rocket fuel, you light it on fire in a saucepan and pour the flaming brew over a strainer full of cubed sugar, back into the pot, until the sugar is gone.
     This burns off some alcohol, but really, not much. This recipe came from my Mom’s side of the family. It may be the booziest recipe of glogg (there are many) ever invented by Swedes or other Scandinavians trying to warm up after freezing their asses off ice fishing, herding reindeer, or just being out in the freakin’ snow too long.
      My mom always fired up a batch every Christmas, because her mom always made it when she and my uncle Roger were growing up in Chicago. I’ve always associated it with delivering an always welcome pre-Christmas buzz (literally).  In fact, glogg-centric parties have been my way of keeping these warm feelings alive with any friends brave enough to try it. To me, it’s really not Christmas without downing some glogg.  The first sip offers a powerful vapor that snaps the head back. After that initial shock, the sips that follow go down smooth and easy. If anything can warm the cockles from the inside out, it’s this stuff.
       But it wasn’t until a Thanksgiving a few years ago that my uncle Roger (my mom’s younger brother who I hadn’t seen since college) told of the time when he was a teenager (in the 40s) in Chicago with his two buddies. It was Christmas season and he and his pals went over to his house where his mom was hosting a small party and serving glogg. She asked the boys if they wanted to try some of this heated up Swedish Christmas drink. Uncle Roger was very familiar with it and knew caution was called for. He and one of the friends said they’d have a little. The other friend announced he couldn’t have any because he didn’t drink alcohol. And besides, he was due later that night to deliver a sermon at his church.
       Now, I never met my grandmother, since she passed a year before I was born, but Uncle Roger hinted that she was a bit of a troublemaker. She ladled some of the raisins out of the saucepan of glogg and put them in a cup. Then she asked the young man if instead he’d like to try the raisins. Well sure, why not, he said, and started popping them down. Understand, raisins that have been drenched in glogg for a day or so, soak it up like a sponge. They lose their wrinkles and turn back into juicy grapes; and in this case, booze-infused grapes. This young fellow couldn’t get enough of the tasty glogg grapes. He downed several more supplied by my grandmother. After a time, Uncle Roger and the other friend suddenly realized they would have to drive this guy to his church sermon. He was too sloshed to get behind the wheel.
        Outside, it was freezing cold and snowing hard. They made it to the church, but the young sermon-giver was very late. He got out of the car and peered through the blowing snow up a long set of steps leading to the church. He struggled up them, vaguely seeing a figure at the top of the stairs.  Whoever it was seemed to be extremely angry.         
        As he finally made it to the top, he focused on the outline of his girlfriend, who screamed, “Where the blank have you been? Do you realize you’ve embarrassed me and the whole church is waiting for you? I’ve never been so humiliated!”
        The staggering young man gathered himself at the top of the stairs and focused her face. “Oh yeah?” he snarled.
        He punched her in the nose. Her blood flowed onto the new-fallen snow. She wailed in pain and horror, causing a crowd to rush out of the church. This incident caused such an uproar that the young man was shunned by his church. His already-won scholarship to seminary school was revoked. He was made an example to deter others from such irresponsible, drunken, brutish acts.
        And to this day, it remains a mystery whether the above incident changed this young man’s life for better, or for worse. Only the glogg spirits know for sure. 

Monday, December 5, 2011

Bored Sons of Riches

Buns: Ya know what pisses me off, Jimmer?
Jimmer: No idea, Buns. Throw me a bone. You’ve been waiting too long to get served at the bar? Hey, watch and learn: (To bartender) Hi, can I get a pint of the amber ale? Thanks.
Buns: I’ll tell you what gets me. Rich kids. But not just any rich kids. I’m talking about the ones that grow up and kill people for power and fame.
Jimmer: Oh really? This been bothering you for a long time? What are you drinking? You need a shot? I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna have the meatball sandwich. Hey, what about dictators that came from poverty?
B: Aw, they’re just barbarians from day one. They don’t know anything else. The rich shits can take the high road. But they’re so spoiled, I mean really, they grow up bored, with everything taken care of and they want to have their own identity. They’re warped enough to try for fame by killing people for a cause.
J: What have we here? A peasant with a petition? Who you talking about?
B: You know, like bin Laden, or further back a few decades, Che Guevara.
J: What about ‘em? Richie Riches that were sons of bitches? You gonna order anything, or what?
B: Pretty much rich bitches. I mean these guys were real assholes that knew better, but couldn’t resist stirring up shit to have a shot at martyrdom. As Snoop would say, theys mo’ ova bitch than a bitch. Both bin Laden and Che were rich kids. Both were self-appointed messiahs of underdog loser causes who used violence to get their points across.
J: Just to get famous?
B: Oh yeah! They loved cultivating the image of the rogue badass, leaders of the downtrodden.
J: Martyrs ‘R Them?
B: So they got a following, and just to make sure everybody knew they were for real, knocked off their enemies with surprise high profile violence. They figured that would get them media attention and punch their ticket to fame and notoriety.
J: Well, it kinda did. You gonna order or what, Bitch Bitcherson?
B: Yeah. (to the bartender) I’ll have a pint of the stout and the pork sliders, please. (back to Jimmer) That’s why these guys were such bad news. If you’re rich and want to be famous, what’s so bad about doing something good with your money and influence?
J: Well that’s easy. Doing good stuff is just a yawner, man. It’s the bad stuff that gets media attention. Why, if I’m not mistaken, it’s a well traveled career path to fame. It’s infinitely more exciting than being a no-name rich guy who donates to battered women’s shelters.
B: You like that beer?
J: Sure, not bad at all. Shoulda had a shot of Jameson’s first. But hey, what about other rich kids that rose to fame and power? Like Donald Trump. He didn’t go out and knock off enemies, he just bribed his way to his own prime-time TV show.
B: Yeah, but he’s a different strain of rich kid ego-freak. He doesn’t go out and kill enemies. He just bores em’ to death!
J: Yeah, lots of money, none taste, boorish, wants to be president. What’s that spell? Fuckhead. And what's with his hair? Looks like an elaborate squirrel's nest.
B: He thinks it’s cool to be a bullying asshole. Like when he fires people. He loves to tell people they suck, then calmly shove in the knife with his patented soft-spoken, yet murderously cold, “You’re fired.” I bet he spent hours practicing his “you’re fireds” in front of the mirror.
J: Gotta admit, makes for great TV.
B: Maybe for one or two times. Not after that. He’s deluded. He has no idea everybody sees him for what he is: a pompous prick with bad hair. He’s a circus act. He should wear tights.
J: Still, at least he didn’t decide to actually kill people to become famous.
B: Yeah, but if by some disastrous turn of events he became president of the United States, don’t worry, he’d be itchin’ to send the troops somewhere to kick some ass.
J: I can see that. Hey, check out that guy comin’ in in the Viking horns and animal skins. Now that’s a definite cry for help. Wanna split an order of sweet potato fries?
B: Yeah, I’m in.
J: OK then, Mr. Bitch against the rich, how about Bill Gates? He grew up rich. He got famous and a lot richer building his company into a dominator. But he’s a stone cold nerd, man. Hey, lovin’ the lady bartender. Comin’ this way.
B: (to bartender) Can I have an order of sweet potato fries? True, he didn’t kill anybody. But even with his high little balls-free voice, Big Bill was a boardroom badass. He built a billion dollar monopoly by buying or blowing out any companies in his way.
J: But at least now he’s using some of his chump change to knock out malaria in Africa.
B: Yeah, got to admit, that’s a pretty high road way to get a tax write-off.
J: So OK Big Boy, what about bin Laden?
B: He was lost in the crowd of a shit-load of kids born to a Saudi royal. His family had a successful construction company. Filthy rich.
J: Must have been bored.
B: Totally, he wanted some action. He hated the American influence in the Middle East and he hated Israel. So he made them his personal enemies.
J: Must have hired an image-maker to show him how to be John Wayne in robes so he could stand up to America. Leak footage of his bad self, smiling and firing AK47s, serenely showing eager young recruits how to get their violence on.
B: He wanted to become the biggest, baddest leader in the Middle East. So he kills thousands of Americans with sneak attacks and goes into hiding.
J: What a brave man. Well, he could run, but in the end, he couldn’t hide.
B: No, he could not. Thank you Navy Seals. You dudes did a fine service to humanity.
J: Did you see the video they found at his compound? OBL’s hunkered down under a blanket, watching his own TV clips. It looked real, but you never know…
B: All he ever wanted was media coverage, and in the end he got the ultimate coverage.
J: Yeah, his obit. So what about Che? You need another one?
B: (Pointing to his empty glass, to bartender) Thanks. Che was a cocky upper class medical student from Buenos Aires. Remember? He wrote about his motorcycle trip through South America with a college buddy.
J: Yeah, I saw the movie. Made him out to be a real swell man of the people.
B: That was when he discovered he felt sorry for all the poor people he met on the trip. He blamed U.S. businesses for exploiting cheap labor in South America. But he really just felt guilty for being an elite rich kid on a continent filled with poor folks. It felt better to blame America.
J: A budding Commie!
B: Yes! He eventually met up with Fidel Castro and decided he was the savior of the poor. With guns. He was sure the commie way would help the poor not be poor any more. And he’d be a famous hero with power in the bargain.
J: Wow. Bad call. He ditched his white coat, lit a cigar and put on the beret and army fatigues with Castro, right? Sure that they were liberating Cubans from an evil American influenced system.
B: Yeah. A story the press couldn’t resist. Guevara and Castro got global coverage as heroes of the Cuban people. But their rag-tag guerrilla army takeover of Cuba was way lucky. They killed off a ridiculous bozo army of the U.S.-backed dictator.
J: Overnight rock stars.
B: All that sudden hero worship made Che extra bold. After taking Cuba, he thought it was somehow his job to free, or take over, the South American continent, country by country.
J: Yeah, piece of cake. Why not? Cuba went down no problem.
B: So he invades Bolivia. But he finds out before too long that Bolivia isn’t Cuba. He was tracked, captured and shot there by a CIA guy who had been after him for years. End of story.
J: Oops. Bad planning.
B: Yeah, but he got his wish. He became a folk hero, a souvenir seller’s dream for T-shirts and mugs with his photo showing his faraway gaze and cool beret. He was Hollywood ready. Most people in the U.S think he was cool, like Johnny Depp or something. That’s funny! He freakin’ hated the U.S.
J: Yeah, and the Cubans didn’t get such a good deal from Castro. Good cigars, though. Hey, was Carrot Top a rich kid? We need another round over here…

Mark Eric Larson has written two books of essays, "The NERVE...of Some People's Kids," and "Don't Force it, Get a Bigger Hammer. To read, visit: 
http://www.scribd.com/Mark%20Eric%20Larson/shelf