Smokey Mountain Breakdown

I'm on the phone with Betsy, the Goat Yoda, because I want to drag her away from the goats to go eat lunch with me Wednesday. Actually, I'm realizing my toenails are getting pointy and it might be a good idea for me to place myself in a social situation where I'm not eating with my hands.

Our conversations usually include what sort of healthy food things we are attempting. I bemoan the fact that even though I've been eating nothing but raw fish and miso soup for the past six months, I still haven't turned into a Japanese teenager. I grudgingly admit it's probably sugar related. If I could just accustom myself to the mouth-feel of Splenda, I'd be looking like Yui Aragaki. Really.

That's when Betsy said it.

"Well, we are just eating farm-grown produce. Our only vice is Blenheim Ginger Ale."

"You are shitting me!" I say. "You found Blenheim here?"

I immediately demand she give up her source.

"So, do they have triple X?"

If all this sounds like Greek to you, triple X was what we used to call Blenheim's Old #3 Hot. Blenheim's is a sipping ginger ale noted for its fiery bite. It burns on the way down. Burns bad. It's a South Carolina delicacy. It's even got its own fansite, The Blenheim Shrine.

I remember huddling around a fire with the wind blowing off the May River, waiting for the oysters to pop open. The drink of choice was Blenheim and Bourbon. I've been drinking this stuff for 25 years and I've got to tell you, there is no better Ginger Ale on the planet. It is legendary.

Betsy passed off a few bottles to me, wrapped in a paper bag--like the drug the stuff is. Her source is already out of the #3. I tried one of the red top bottles and it doesn't have exactly the kick I remember--but it comes right close.

If you like ginger--Blenheim Ginger Ale is something you have to try before dying. Really.