Shaken Not Stirred

You may have heard of the not so new phenomenon distillers use to enhance the complexity of their precious cargo.  They “ship-age” whiskey, loading sealed wooden barrels of their most cherished spirits onto rusty freighters sailing the mighty seas through numerous climate variations, absorbing other worldly cultures, sloshing, rocking, withstanding salty sailor profanities finally maturing, adopting a sophistication worthy of their lofty price tags which are just about as high as their miles traveled.  

Ok, our RV doesn't sail the high seas or brag about all inclusive amenities but it is a certified “earthquake on wheels” absolutely capable of providing enough turbulence to shake a few spirits loose.  Let me tell you a story….

Preparing for our annual trip to the sun last year, we loaded up the RV first, as always, with enough bourbon, gin, tequila, beer, wine to survive well into our next generation golden years, along with a few scraps of food, piles of socks and underwear, water, bug spray.  A stash of 19 Crimes Martha's Chardonnay carefully stowed alongside an old blender, a bag of fuses, plastic cutlery, laundry detergent, mouse traps. Throughout our months-long journey every single drop of alcohol was heartily consumed, each celebration a little longer and even more raucous, toasting one more lap around the backroads never sure if this one might be our last. 

One lonely forgotten bottle of Martha's Chardonnay was unknowingly spared, crammed in that cubbyhole, rolling under a jumble of unused hand weights, sea shells and koozies, it was then that ordinary Chardonnay developed character, bouncing, jostling, rounding corners, careening almost weightless, slamming, swirling airborne then braking fast, stopping dead.  Surviving an epic snow storm in the Gulf of Mexico, through the Panhandle of Florida, sandstorms, deluges of pouring rain, landing on the Indian River directly across from Cape Canaveral, that Chardonnay experienced the wonder of the Space Coast, dolphins, flying mullet fish and lumpy manatees.  Heading due north to the oldest city in the USA, St Augustine brought religion to that humble Chard, a few nights in Jacksonville whose skies are striped proud by our very own United States Air Force, along the shores of Savannah, Charleston, toted up the eastern seaboard through the birthplace of this entire nation, glimpsing bountiful seas and revolutionary history imaging battlecries of the south, generals vs generals, brothers vs brothers, mothers losing sons, husbands broken, a time of war, eventually, miraculously, a time of peace.  That indestructible bottle fiercely continued to age ever so gracefully through twisted passages of West Virginia's Blue Ridge mountains, over gaping canyons stretching across New River Gorge National Park, the newest national treasure, worthy of a few nights stay for a couple of weary Midwesterners, onto peaceful rippling streams of Tennessee and of course our favorite Kentucky Bourbon Trail leading us back home. Unloading heaps of stuff from the RV, realizing one incredibly resilient bottle of Martha's Chardonnay survived, unscrewed and still breathing, absolutely nothing about that Chard had changed other than a shredded beat-up label, but with feet up in my very own home sweet home it was delicious.

If any of you, my dear friends, are interested in taking advantage of our RV earthquake aging process just send a bottle of your favorite beverage along with us on our next gypsy voyage and upon return the spirits may be gone but you will hear a story of the most incredible adventure.