Friday, January 17, 2014

IN EVERY LIFE A BADGER MUST FALL

Yesterday someone shook my hand three times because I was smoking a pipe. And, apparently, I totally rule. But I would have been a lot more charmed if he had been a woman.
And, if he had been a woman, I would have explained that instead of huffing cigars, which he-who-would-better-have-been-a-woman did, a pipe was within her reach. And provided an immeasurably broader spectrum of pleasure than a cheroot.

Though women will, like men, occasionally sport a cigar even if they aren't regular smokers, quite unlike men they will not acquire a pipe for that once every two or three weeks moment when they need time to themselves, indulging in a quiet hour with a cup of tea and a spot of resinous puffery.
That's very odd. It can't be the expense -- many women own shoes they haven't worn since that ghastly wedding of their third-cousin the failed real-estate developer to the Romanian beauty queen Miss Sarmalute (stuffed cabbage) of 1995 -- but the idea of having a secret object of delicious vice hidden in their clean underwear drawer disturbs them.
Somehow, it seems to suggest, they aren't wholly innocent.
It might be discovered, and require explanation.


Stuffed cabbage is sarmale, in case you were wondering. From Turkish 'sarma' ("rolled"). It's often served with peppers and polenta (mamaliga).
Romanians do fabulous pork dishes, and soups both hearty and satisfying. Frequently there is a haunting tanginess to their food.
They also have an array of sweet dishes.
As well as tripe.


The individual who so admired the fact that I smoked a pipe was the male equivalent of Miss Sarmalute 1995. Under no circumstances would one describe him as petite, trim, or vibrant. Though there may have been a perkiness still lurking within from long ago.


We judge people differently because of their gender. A man who yearns to smoke a pipe, we feel, is expressing an individuality, and doing the best he can to get in touch with repressed feelings.
Quite unfairly, a woman who would like to smoke a pipe is often considered to be a shoe-collector gone horribly wrong, and possibly a closet intellectual. With 'artistic' tendencies.


For my next project, I should like to instruct a young lady in the finer points of pipe smoking. Well-made briar objects, fine even grain, superlatively old wood, and a silky surface. Translucent patterning. What to look for in a sandblast, and why some shapes are classic.
Aged leaf, Latakia and Perique, and the numerous choices.

It's not just about indulgence or nicotine; it's also training for a lifetime of spotting aspects of quality, and making distinctions of taste.


Everyone experiments with aromatic mixtures for a while, but the educated palate eschews such perfumed trickery.


Above all, it's a learning process.


Continue to learn.
Avoid tripe.
Always.



TOBACCO INDEX


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