Kyle Weiss
Well-known member
- Joined
- Sep 18, 2011
- Messages
- 11,988
- Reaction score
- 7
I open my tobacco cellar with baited breath, mouth watering at remembered thought of a special, red bag of a particularly rare tobacco, one which I purposefully set aside to age gracefully in its Ever-Fresh® Package. I am overcome with excitement to see it sitting at the back of my cellar, seemingly forgotten, and beckoning unto me like a ruby gem from the Angel of The Leaf. Smoker's Pride. I sit for a moment, contemplating my decision...should I do it? Should I release unto the world what could possibly be the final chapter in my never-ending quest for the perfect tobacco? After the Great Chase for "The One" was finished, what would I do? Become a lawn dart champion? Travel unhindered to the farthest reaches of my world, which include south of the freeway? Gain my fame with my unnoticed prowess, making fine cocktails with Tang?
The decision was made: new territory, and perhaps--the end.
The bag fights my every attempt to open the fine cellophane keeping me from my prize. Oh! How they impress with quality packaging! Even the Ever Fresh® Package was a difficult puzzle to physically decode, which is quite possibly how it got its name. The aroma of toothpicks and a light whiff of pancake syrup greet me, reminding me of days gone by...but I admit I wasn't sure where they went. My briar vessel of choice, a $2 estate Jobey with an ill-fitting stem, I pack lovingly with the shaggy, fresh, cardboard box-dry tobacco, a hush came over me when I realized I was about to spoil this moment with a butane, metal lighter. I hurry to find my Love Ranch Cathouse matches, the paper kind, and begin the first False Light...and sure not to miss a moment of the sulfurous flare that come from a True Smoker's proper lighting technique.
It was only after I had gotten past the bliss of the three-week old barbecue chicken taste I realize my False Light had produced a miracle! It was the actual light! Puffing happily, the sides of my tongue tingle with the pain only Master Pipe Smokers enjoy. The tobacco then repays me in kind by assuming my tongue must have been too cold--hot steam and even more tongue-tingles are graciously given to me by this, my aged Smokers Pride. My tongue was quite cold, I declare! I am at your mercy, O Great leaf!
Let me be the first one to report, it is a smoking experience like no other. Flavors of a warm, comfortable house on fire, subtle nuances of just-fallen autumn leaves, and a strong nose of that scent, the kind that hits you when you walk past a dive bar airing out last evening's performance on a hot noon day...what could be better? The taste of pencils. Yes, pencils--the final Jenny Sequoia (or whoever that French chick is) speaking directly to my love of the written word. Fortunately, there is almost no nicotine to speak of, so I'm not distracted away from this pinnacle of moments. Also impressing is how this tobacco, obviously seeking to increase my status among fellow smokers, has made my pipe so hot and impossible to hold that I'm getting a lesson in clenching the pipe, a skill not oft learned so young. Who is to argue with the Tobacco Gods when miracles are right in front of our faces, traveling on poetic, flying carpets of blue, skyward wisdom?
Lo, we reach the end of this experience. I can say no more, as transcendent waves of knowledge course through my spirit. I have been blessed this day, brothers, and can only encourage you to attempt to follow in my path. Do heed my words, though, exalted as they may seem, you must walk through the door, I can only go so far with you, and finally point to the knob.
It is so far the only tobacco I have reserved for the special, round cellar, containing thoughts on paper too good for me, spent batteries and expired coupons. It has earned a such a distinguished place.
Rob, with heartfelt thanks to your generous gift, one that I patiently awaited for so long, this will be my last post. Ar-rev-wa, my fellow Brothers, keep on truckin' the flipsides!
The decision was made: new territory, and perhaps--the end.
The bag fights my every attempt to open the fine cellophane keeping me from my prize. Oh! How they impress with quality packaging! Even the Ever Fresh® Package was a difficult puzzle to physically decode, which is quite possibly how it got its name. The aroma of toothpicks and a light whiff of pancake syrup greet me, reminding me of days gone by...but I admit I wasn't sure where they went. My briar vessel of choice, a $2 estate Jobey with an ill-fitting stem, I pack lovingly with the shaggy, fresh, cardboard box-dry tobacco, a hush came over me when I realized I was about to spoil this moment with a butane, metal lighter. I hurry to find my Love Ranch Cathouse matches, the paper kind, and begin the first False Light...and sure not to miss a moment of the sulfurous flare that come from a True Smoker's proper lighting technique.
It was only after I had gotten past the bliss of the three-week old barbecue chicken taste I realize my False Light had produced a miracle! It was the actual light! Puffing happily, the sides of my tongue tingle with the pain only Master Pipe Smokers enjoy. The tobacco then repays me in kind by assuming my tongue must have been too cold--hot steam and even more tongue-tingles are graciously given to me by this, my aged Smokers Pride. My tongue was quite cold, I declare! I am at your mercy, O Great leaf!
Let me be the first one to report, it is a smoking experience like no other. Flavors of a warm, comfortable house on fire, subtle nuances of just-fallen autumn leaves, and a strong nose of that scent, the kind that hits you when you walk past a dive bar airing out last evening's performance on a hot noon day...what could be better? The taste of pencils. Yes, pencils--the final Jenny Sequoia (or whoever that French chick is) speaking directly to my love of the written word. Fortunately, there is almost no nicotine to speak of, so I'm not distracted away from this pinnacle of moments. Also impressing is how this tobacco, obviously seeking to increase my status among fellow smokers, has made my pipe so hot and impossible to hold that I'm getting a lesson in clenching the pipe, a skill not oft learned so young. Who is to argue with the Tobacco Gods when miracles are right in front of our faces, traveling on poetic, flying carpets of blue, skyward wisdom?
Lo, we reach the end of this experience. I can say no more, as transcendent waves of knowledge course through my spirit. I have been blessed this day, brothers, and can only encourage you to attempt to follow in my path. Do heed my words, though, exalted as they may seem, you must walk through the door, I can only go so far with you, and finally point to the knob.
It is so far the only tobacco I have reserved for the special, round cellar, containing thoughts on paper too good for me, spent batteries and expired coupons. It has earned a such a distinguished place.
Rob, with heartfelt thanks to your generous gift, one that I patiently awaited for so long, this will be my last post. Ar-rev-wa, my fellow Brothers, keep on truckin' the flipsides!
