I'm drinking alone. Though partial to a bourbon cocktail, preferably The Eldred, I've never been able to knock back much booze. I've got a 2-drink limit, because otherwise I head from pleasantly tipsy straight to clutching the bowl. But this bottle of Root has been winking at me from the liquor cabinet ever since it arrived in the mail, having caught G's fancy when he read about it somewhere. I took a teensy sip some time ago and realized it was not something I was going to be drinking straight. This is some seriously intense juice that needs to be coaxed into a sippable cocktail. So I've been mixing up a few different blends, trying to take the medicinal edge off the stuff. I've got a rocks glass in one hand, and my new Kindle in the other. I'm reading Mary Karr's memoir, Lit, about her slurring downward spiral into the quicksand of alcoholism—and her hardscrabble ascent out of it. The irony is not lost on me. I also read and enjoyed her other book, The Liar's Club, about her deeply unfortunate childhood. She writes with raw feeling and has that hysterical, bawdy wit that is often the veneer over lacerating pain. But back to Root.
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