A DISASSOCIATIVE OUTLOOK

Thanks to a friend and fellow pipe smoker, I shall henceforth associate Robert Frost's poems with Greg Pease's Haddo's Delight, which is a full bodied mostly Virginia tobacco compound that wallops me, and wich I rarely puff. But I love the smell when someone else smokes it.

Allegedly it is redolent / reminiscent of cocao and figs.

Like everything with more than just a smidgeon of air-cured Americans, it's a kick in the jaw for me. So I heartily recommend it for other wimps, as well as tough manly creatures with greater tolerance than myself.


HADDO'S DELIGHT

A blend of Virginias with perique, plus unflavored black cavendish and a little burley. Slight rum topping. Earthy, faint sweetness, piquancy.

Okay. No sh*t. It IS a good product.


Like Haunted Bookshop (by Bob Runowski), many of us old codgers are intellectually quite fond of it, but if poked will sorrowfully admit that we have an open tin from years ago that we occasionally look at balefully, but haven't been able to finish. It's good. Damned good.
But we're wimps. Bolder intellectually than in real life.

It is a lovely unseasonal spring day today, in the low sixties, scant breeze, and rather than continuing to glare at those opened tins, I shall head out to C'town for lunch and shopping. Anything with Burley is better for stormy weather, which is en route and will wallop us from tomorrow onwards. Wind, precipitation, torrents, a gale. Frost. Hail. Bitter wet nasty weather. It's expected to be in the forties over the weekend. See, this is why civilized people don't live in Alaska or the Mid West. It's soggy and frigid there. And they eat bland food.


I'm rather looking forward to actual Spring when it finally arrives.
Butterflies, wild flowers, and bunny rabbits. Plus tulips.
Those ARE tulips in my picture, aren't they?
It's been such a long time.
I've forgotten.



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