BITTER

Bitter is not my favorite taste.

Tart isn't either, but bitter is the worst. But, now that my teeth have gone to heck in a hand basket, tart is really bad and my dying tastebuds are not so horrified by bitter. Hot and cold? That still wrecks me.

My mom and dad used to put something called Angostora Bitters into their cocktails.

It was supposed to enhance flavors and mellow acid. To make the lime slice less limey I guess or to make the tomato juice in a Bloody Mary less acidic. I don't think they put it into their Clamato juice and gin or martinis. Martinis only need cocktail onions or green olives: the only part of a cocktail I ever enjoyed. Soaked in gin, the vegetables caused a little fffsttp of an inhaled breath, but chomping and chewing gave a feeling of joining in the fun on evenings or afternoons (on a weekend).

I didn't pay that much attention, although I did learn early and proudly from my father how many fingers of bourbon to pour over how many cubes of ice. 4 of the first (I was little) and 5 of the latter.

Soda was the special celebratory drink for kids. Grabbing the glass of 7-Up off my grandma's coffee table for a sip, ice cubes tinkling, I gasped with the recognition of that gin taste. I knew it from the olives. Ooops, my 7-Up was on the other table.

There are a lot of visuals that go with these memories.

Paintings and sculptures.
My dad's, my grandma's, my other grandma's, my brothers'.
And music.
Played by those same people.

Someday one of my own paintings would grace my own family's walls.

My sister's, too.