Aromatic Bitters

Philip D. Beverly

This past Christmas, feeling disconnected and longing for the family I once had, but will never have again, I attempted to re-create what Hank Williams Jr. sang about. – A “Family Tradition”.

I used the suboptimal materials readily available: 2 packets of foul Bargain basement Keefe brand Hot Chocolate; 2 generic imitation coffee creamers; 1 peppermint candy; and 2 packets of Equal. I succeeded in making a reasonable facsimile of the Land - O - Lakes mint hot chocolate that Kim and the girls - and I of course - would drink together on Christmas Eves. 

A light muddy brown seemed to be about the right color. The taste was close, almost acceptable. The sweetened chocolate was…well….sweet, and the peppermint candy made it minty in an artificial kind of way. But suddenly, the semi-translucent tendrils of steam rising up from the Frankenstein-ish concoction began to mesmerize me, and then without warning, it hit me, the smell, it smelled like…..memories. 

Gentle, loving, memories of sweet, smiling, cherubic faces, shoulder-length blonde hair still wet just after their bath. They’re dressed in new Christmas pajamas, with candy canes and elves and scenes of the North Pole, excitedly anticipating the dawn and what Santa had brought. Delighted giggles of glee erupt as the girls eat the chewy, gooey marshmallows roasted on old clothes hangers, and as they drink mint hot chocolate by the warm glow of the fireplace; the multicolored lights of the Christmas Tree twinkle and dance in their young, eager eyes. We trudged through the ankle deep snow to cut down only the finest, fullest, roundest, white pine during our annual trip to the tree farm, the day after Thanksgiving, saw in hand. To warm up, we made our way back to the aged red and white barn where Kim and I drank spiced hot apple Cider by the fire, while the girls petted the animals. 

At the home hearth, after the marshmallows and mint hot chocolate, the fire smolders and dies down, the charred logs collapse in on themselves. The sparks are like shooting stars, full of tomorrow's best wishes. The embers are like hope, breathed on to rekindle the fire of relationships, long since died out. 

Until then, all I need do, is sniff…and smell the memories.