Kvass is Diss???

Let's start with my upbringing.  Growing up in Clinton we never had a Corona chilling in the refrigerator, not plain, and certainly not boasting a slice of lime.  Our treaty beverage was boiled custard in December, redolent of whole cream and free from any alcoholic link to its delinquent sidekick, eggnog. A revelation was  Sunday dinner with friends Donna and Pete: white wine was in attendance, along with lamb, mint jelly, and an Episcopal priest who joyously imbibed.


So while other friends may have been sampling the sauce, I feared the wrath of Dad and stayed away. At least for a while. Then 11th grade folded to a close and was followed by...the summer o' bourbon.  Along with Thomas Wolfe and Demosthenes, David Sensing, boyfriend au courant and son of the local newspaper editor, seized the teachable moment and introduced me to Maker's Mark. It was a three-part process. First we angled his white 1960s Lincoln, the kind with an inverted rear window, into a grassy field off highway 123 east of town. Then, standing beside the flaring doors of the car,  David and I took turns sipping just enough fire-water to seal the deal. Having cleared that hurdle we swung by the Gazette office, located the bottle of Dr. Tichenor's Antiseptic Mouthwash that was hidden in the back of a gray metal file cabinet, and swished away all traces of the crime.


Somewhere between Dr. Claypool's history class and Matt's entry into preschool it dawned on me that it was not fun to wake up on New Year's Day--or any other day--with a remembrance of drinks past.  Now moderation reigns. I'll have a julep on Derby Day, but other than that, rarely any of the hard stuff.  I pace my one glass of Malbec to the evening news, and become downright doctrinaire when it comes to drinking and driving.

But wait.  There could be a complication.  Today as Simi and I are doing the loop with dog we stop at Cinderella's on Balboa. He goes inside for a loaf of brown bread and comes out with two glasses of the bakery's own home-made Russian kvass--a cold,yeasty brew that looks exactly like iced tea and tastes like a blend of cinnamon and heaven.


Kvass is so low in alcohol that The Cinderella--which doesn't appear to have a liquor license-- sells it as a soft drink. It's considered family fare in Russia, their Wyler's Lemonaid.  However, after downing mine and resuming the walk I am feeling a little too good.  At Park Presidio I sprint across four lanes of traffic, smiling good will at drivers who are waiting out a red light.  Gliding toward Cabrillo I wax eloquent on the current leadership style of Muammar Gadhafi, and offer my insights on Michio Kaku's theories on the crumbling Fukushima reactor. Only when both dog and hub turn, synchronized, to gaze at me do I realize I've been blissfully babbling my way down fifteen city blocks.


A silvery BMW, some David Furman art, The Nobel Prize. A dragon tattoo; flip-flop socks; a string of pearls. Occasionally we all need a little something new in our lives. So on this San Francisco afternoon I step outside the box, sipping this ancient Slavic brew and posing a question to the universe at large-- "Tell me...kvass else have I been missing?"