M.E.S.S.
They say that the only difference between a blog and a manifesto is the amount of chickens that you own. Fortunately, my chickens all abolished private property some time ago, so I think I’m in the clear. Regardless, Welcome.
My name is Idylvain, and I thank you, Dear Maker, for being here. At M.E.S.S.
M.E.S.S. is the place where I make…well...just that. A mess. A full course meal of whatever can be found. And recently I’ve found myself thinking quite alot about food. As a concept. As a reality. And, also, as a weapon of control. And through it all I just keep seeing a phrase pop up again and again. A phrase that I really, truly hate. One I’m sure you’ve heard as well.
“YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT"
Awful. There’s truly nothing worse than that. It’s defeatist. It’s unimaginative. And it’s also…dead wrong. It's an insult to the marvel that you are, and everything we could be. It reduces us to not only the sum, but LESS than the sum of our parts. As if, by proxy, I am nothing beyond the potato I ate. But perhaps some disagree. To them I'd simply ask this,
Is Moonshine a potato? Or is it something more?
Because I believe we are much more than what we eat. We are also what we choose to make. And in between those two glorious acts, of consumption, and willful creation, something spectacular occurs: fire. And just like the fire of a match, its light comes not from the fuel, but from the process of changing it into something else entirely. And somewhere in the depths of a momentary fire that other Humans chose to kindle…you awoke. Born with an appetite, and a desire to make. Not just some reaction. But an event. An event aware of itself. Like a star, waterfall, or bonfire, YOU are the very action of change. But unlike those other natural phenomenon, you have control over the flames. A beautiful momentary happening that against all odds has not only begun to take to take shape, but to mold itself into something more. Taking form as you burn.
In short, YOU are what happens in between the act of consumption and the act of creation. You cannot make without food, sure. But you also cannot BE without changing that food into something else. And as we fires grow, as we change, and as we learn, we can become aware of what makes us burn brightest. What fuels we most like to consume, and what things we most desire to make.
You may not know what either of those things are just yet. And that’s fine. Because discovering them both is more than half the fun. There’s countless foods to be tried, and untold infinities to be made. But be warned. The food part is easy. Learning what you want to make…that can make a bit of mess.
As for me, over the years, I’ve found that making Moonshine suits me best. Because though Humans do make a variety of wonderful bevvies, it took me a while to find one to my taste. See, water’s too precious to mix in with this slop. Wine's much too fussy and stressed by their crop. Tea, it’s too sweet, for my blood anyways, and might not approve of the hells that I raise. Cognac is fine but its just too damn smooth, too soft, too refined, and too long in the tooth. And Beer, though delicious, its more for professors, and sangria stays for the star-crossed confessors. My search, it took me from table to table, from courtyards to alleys, and--one time--a stable. I loved them all, and they all have their place. But they all came with settings, and genres in place. Like Sojus and Cincaus, the summer’s their scene. While Autumn’s demands only coffee's caffeine. Schnapps and hot cocoa, they make snowy peaks, as Mead boosts the mana for LARPing mystiques. The beaches demand their Guarana and punches, as kvass does some gambling, or sun tea, hot lunches. And the same could be said for all tahos and chai, they’re perfect for catchups, and worth every try. Mezcal’s a riot, and causes them too, while choccy milk changes your whole point of view. Vodka breeds winners, as boxed wine does sinners, and bubbles do for celebratory dinners. Nectars, jamaica, and cactus will quench ya. While Tequilas help you to test drive dementia. Matcha’s for brain work and demands quiet function, while corn and chrysanthemum teas soothe disfunctions. It seems like there’s bitters for every occasion, each with their own enjoyer's expectations. There’s Dinners, there's ragers, there's parties and mixers, each with their own very special elixirs. Smoothed for that market and fitted by fixers. But moonshine is…different. Its much more my speed. There’s not much a plan, just more…a need. You make it because its what you want to drink. You brew it in back yards and rusty tin sinks. Its made from the rotting, and unwanted clippings, from stems and from taters, from vinerot and rippings. Its not made in vintage, its tested in batches and doesn’t mind much what you feed to its hatches. Not crafted in labs for some winery's cellars, nor smoothed for the mongers or miser resellers. Its label means nothing, just x’s or ‘ball.’ And most of the time, it won't have one at all. It's lunacy canned and it's nonsense distilled. And, licensed or not, it is made where it's willed. Some’s blinding, some's poison, some's hard to define, and sometimes you stumble on fire divine. And when it's shared proper, with gossip and fable, it's the most goddamned fun you could have at a table.