Hard Cider

Everywhere you look, hard ciders are in. If a flavor in nature can be reproduced chemically in a laboratory, that flavor is on its way.

When I was a thirteen-year old kid in England I discovered the best thing (besides birds) that a young kid could get his hands on, was hard cider, or just cider as it was called at The Three Kings Pub. Since the British did not seem to have any kind of checks and balances for identifying underage drinkers, we eventually made our way brazenly into the grown-up pubs (like The Three Kings).

But before I worked up the courage to try the pub scene, I figured out quickly that there were no underage drinkers going through the front doors of the pub. However, there appeared to be a day-long procession of young kids, many even younger than myself going to the back door where the small kitchen was. They were carrying jars, pitchers, and even soup pots and would return after a few minutes with full containers of very strong alcoholic hard cider. I watched from the hedges within earshot of the back door.

Not one of them was old enough to enter the establishment through the front doors.

When I saw a kid show up who was barely big enough to carry his empty soup pot, I craned my neck so I could hear:

“Hello lad. Whatcha needin’ this mornin?”

I heard this wee high-pitched voice. “A half pot please. Me mum is not well.”

The old cook took the pot and returned, handing it to the small boy.

“Easy does it mate,” the cook warned as the boy balanced the pot and ambled off.

I was curious.

I jumped the hedge, zig-zagging my way through a field of stinging nettles, and followed the boy.

He turned to look back at the pub and just as he turned the corner in the dirt road and was out of the line of sight, he looked around (I ducked) and then he went about 20 yards off the road into a small clump of trees and bushes.

I kept low and saw him sitting next to a young girl. He was dipping two small teacups into the home brew.

I watched for about fifteen minutes and they were having the best time playing, smiling, and drinking the cider. I might have even heard the lilt of children’s laughter on the summer breeze.

I left the pair to their private little tea party. I crawled down to the road, keeping low to maintain my stealth. I walked home thinking I had just witnessed a stroke of genius.

I never met that little kid, but he is a hero of mine without ever knowing it. I have several followers from England, so if you are reading this blogpost and you are that kid,

U da MAN!

I hope you have had a great life on this wonderful planet.

I guess you are personally responsible for changing Mark Diaz into the Satin Latin.

Stay well.

Published by maddogg09

I am an unmotivated genius with an extreme love for anything that moves the emotional needles of our lives.

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