Big Whiskey Road Trip

Our adventure begins at the Baltimore Airport just outside arrival door A1. I've flown in from Portland, Maine to meet my good friend, Carlo DeVito. Carlo is an exceptionally talented writer, published author, wine maker and one of the most gifted publishing minds in our business. In essence, he's a renassasance man, and a terrific traveling companion. As promised, he's waiting in his ragtop Chrysler Sebring, topdown, sporting sunglasses, khaki cargo shorts and a blue polo short sleeve t-shirt... and a slight hangover. (I learn he’s been attending a mid-Atlantic wine makers mini convention and last night was a sort of grand finale event. Need I say more? One can imagine how much wine is consumed when wine makers gather to taste wine together.)

The morning sun is already bright and hot as we embark on our drive west to bourbon country. His Mediterranean complexion soaks in the sun and I swear I see him tanning before my eyes, while my pale Irish skin begins to cry foul and “tan” as a lobster does in boiling water.

We have 8 hours of open highway ahead of us, and three state borders to cross, our first order of the morning is gas for the car and breakfast for us. We track down both options, complete our tasks, and are crossing through West Virginia in no time. Somewhere a sign catches Carlo’s eye and we detour off the objective of Kentucky bourbon and I find myself tasting wine at a West Virginia Winery. I’ve never known my wine maker friend to pass a winery without stoping for a quick tasting, some enjoyable conversation, and to purchase a bottle or two in support of their vines. Like everyone’s favorite uncle, he makes friends wherever he stops, fills every room with good cheer and parts making everyone feel as if they just had the spirit of Christmas in their presence even if it’s a hot July day in West Virginia.

We’re following a handcrafted itinerary by a talented young editor, Taylor Bently. She had only been interning with us for a short period of time when she was given the assignment to map out and reach out to as many of the whiskey distilleries of Kentucky and Tennessee as possible creating a driving tour (the ultimate whiskey tasting road trip) which we had dubbed, the Big Whiskey tour. Carlo would interview as many master distillers along the way, and I would document the distilleries, their distilling process, and the various personalities that crossed our path. We broke the adventure up into two tours of duty. The first week had us racing along the back roads and highways of a Kentucky and Tennessee, while the second week would have us fully ensconced in the wide and beautiful countryside of Tennessee. 

FUNKY BOW LIVE

In music, there's nothing more disappointing than discovering a great new band only to learn they are breaking up. And so it was last night at the always fun live music venue, the Funky Bow brewery in Lyman Maine. The Wetsuits were rocking, heels were being kicked up all over the dirt dance floor (by loyal fans), the Funky Bow drafts were flowing while the wood fired oven was heating up the greenhouse and stoking our senses with the aroma of handcrafted pizza.

WINTER'S LAST STAND

SPRING SNOWSTORM

Yesterday was the first day of Spring. Today, Old Man Winter reminded us that he wasn't quite ready to leave town.  At least not yet.

LIVE BURN

Training is at the heart of all firefighter safety. Readiness is the result. No matter what the exercise entails, it is often filled with extremes; high temperatures, smoke, grime, dirt, soaking wet sweat - coupled with heavy turnout gear that makes for back-breaking, and exhausting work. But you can't replace live fire drills with classroom and video instructions. Fire is the real deal. It's unforgiving to those with even the best intentions. Firefighters fight the elements best working as a team, choreographing their entire operation through difficult and challenging training. Few organizations base their entire mission on helping others in need, whether family, friend, neighbor, or stranger alike. But firefighters do. I'm honored to capture and document this commitment. There is much to learn about life from the selfless commitment displayed by firefighters. You'd be hard pressed to find a more genuine soul, and can tell a great deal about a community from the men and women who serve as their firefighters.

FUNKY BOW LIVE

In music, there's nothing more disappointing than discovering a great new act only to learn the band is breaking up. And so it was last night in Lyman, Maine at the Funky Bow Brewery. The Wetsuits were rocking the plywood stage, their loyal fans were kicking up the dirt dance floor, dogs were howling and running about, and the Funky Bow tap masters were filling mason jars full of their finest. Outside the converted green house the temperature was -8, but the Funky Bow wood fired oven was working overtime and stoking our senses with the aroma of handcrafted pizza.

Good music. Great people. A warm hearth, with terrific handcrafted food and drink at arms length: What more could life offer? Perhaps a few more years with this band staying together?!

TRAVEL HELL, TRAVEL EUPHORIA

The dreaded middle seat of an airplane. You make friends with no one, at least not the guy to your left who controls access to daylight, and definitely not the woman to your right, who, like a troll, guards your only access to freedom, the aisle. Let's be honest, the middle seat is the prisoner transport seat. It's an 18 inch cell and no one sharing the aisle wants to see anyone sitting there especially not during a four to five hour flight.

In fact, the only people that smile at middle seat passengers are the flight attendants, and that's primarily when they're dispensing food and water to window seat passengers. Flight attendants hate having to be both waiter and busboy, which is why you'll get a polite, formal smile helping them shuttle trash from the window seat traveler to the aisle. (You know for damn sure an aisle troll won't touch that shit. They have the throne of seats, they control access to the kingdom. Trash is beneath them.)

Personally, when I have the aisle seat, I don't mind getting up or down for my fellow passengers. I really don't. (I would have made a great and fair feudal lord during medieval England!) I count my blessings every time I shag an isle seat, even when fortunate enough to be upgraded. If you think the trolls in economy class have attitude, wait till you're dealing with imperial trolls, those trolls found guarding the first class aisle. They're not rank and file trolls like those you'll find in coach, these are real trolls, they have voting rights, airlines love first class trolls; why do you think they are given priority boarding to their domains?

Remind yourself of this when you find yourself in their first class kingdom: Do not disturb them without a gracious smile, but do so with an air of authority that will hide the fact that you're not a "paying" first class passenger. You must disguise the fact that you are truly an interloper, that you were only blessed by a ticketing God, and have found your way to first class with a big dose of luck. Imperial trolls show no mercy to posers, so be sure to act as if your mother gave birth to you in first class and that sitting there is your frigg'n birthright.

But let's be honest since we're talking about first class aisle seats: these are power broker seats. If you're traveling first class on the right airline, an imperial troll needn't even stand up to let a window passenger exit the isle: they can simply pull their legs in like border control agents stamping one's passport: "Yes, you may pass."

Here's how I would right all wrongs with air travel and ungracious aisle seat thugs. Every aisle seat passenger would have to answer a compliance question the way emergency row travelers must: "Are you willing and able to get up during this flight as often as necessary for the comfort and well-being of your travel row buddies?" If not, you'll have to take a window seat or, worse, the dreaded middle seat. No "ifs", or "buts" about it. If you can't be nice from one of the best seats in the cabin, then you shouldn't be given the seat that controls comfort for others.

Sadly, I confess, I do not control an airline, and of late, they are not calling for my counsel. In truth, I guess it comes down to my favorite air travel announcement: "You are now free to move around the cabin."  -- Of course, those are sweet words if you have an isle seat. As far as the rest of you go, learn how to beg.

Autumn

Without a doubt, Autumn is my favorite season of the year. Though I embrace each season during their annual visits and I sadden at the end of summer, nothing moves me more than the breathtaking beauty of a New England Autumn.

SPIRIT

Weddings are awe inspiring. They bring out the best in everyone as the gift of friendship, the love of family, and the generosity of spirit surrounds the newlywed couple.

A Camera

Most photographers would agree: A camera does not make the photographer. The general idea being that the photographer, as an artist, uses their equipment to create the body of work; their equipment doesn't use them. This holds true with perhaps the exception of one camera, the Leica M. If ever their was a "soul in the machine" we might find resonance of it embodied within the brass frame and ground glass of the Leica M rangefinder. Perhaps no other camera has captured the power of life and death, of good and evil, of love and heartache, of humanity's greatest and most horrific moments more so than the Leica M -- the camera that created 35mm photography.

The great chief Geronimo believed, as did many native Americans, that a photograph stole the soul from it's subject. If this is true than the collected spirits that passed through the hand ground lenses of Henri Catier-Bresson, Robert Capa, Alfred Eisenstaedt, Nick Ut, Sebastião Salgado, Steve McCurry, Jean Gaumy, and countless others may explain why when I hold my Leica to my eye I feel hopeful, energized, -- full of life, that I have the power to make a moment last forever.

The power of the M.

SMOKE & FIRE

Those who know me and know me well know this: My taste buds have cycles. When I find an entree, a dish, or even a food group that I like I become a creature of habit. I will dine at the same restaurant, over and over, ordering the same meal or collection of entrees until I eventually "O.D." on that cuisine. Once the cycle ends, it's over. The End. Done. 86 that until the cycle comes full circle and I'm back at the table craving another bite, scoring another fix.

These days I'm in a serious BBQ jag. And it doesn't matter where I am, I stop for BBQ. If the establishment is closed, I'll wait until it opens. In fact, I'll plan my itinerary around their hours: Very few things in life are more important to me than food, and those that are, are made better by a great meal. What would family life be without a Thanksgiving turkey or a great Christmas roast? What would breakfast be if not occasionally shared in bed?

I've taken ferry boats to reach great meals, driven (as we all have) hours to reach a certain restaurant, and I've even backpacked with lobster and a bottle of red wine, even carried a bottle of Laphroaig single malt Scotch, high into the White Mountains because everything tastes better under the stars. My past excursions for all things BBQ have led me to the Red Hook section of Brooklyn, New York; the outskirts of Birmingham, Alabama; Bentonville, Arkansas; Fresno, CA; Boston, MA; Freeport, Kennebunk, Portland and South Portland, Maine. These days, I'm always in search of authentic brisket. Beef with bark. Not just to satisfy my "taste junkie" desires, but to feed my need for a visual fix as well. It's not just because the earthy, rich and smoky flavors of well cooked BBQ satisfies my taste buds like no other cuisine, but the entire atmosphere of a real BBQ kitchen and smoker satiates my visual appetites as well.

I crave settings where my camera can serve a purpose, where stopping time through photography reveals facets of life that are nearly imperceptible at the normal pace of our everyday activities. I have a passion for documenting people at work, especially when it's hard and honest work, such as lobstering, firefighting, or cooking. In truth, without my camera, I am rudderless. I often feel directionless, as if I'm moving along without a purpose, like wafting smoke that flows in every direction. But with camera in hand, I like to believe that I'm contributing to the visual history of mankind, or at least those unique individuals that I encounter.  And in truth, what better subject to photograph than the people who cook our meals!

Elsmere BBQ and Wood Grill of South Portland, Maine is the real McKoy. Their smoker is from Texas, and they start their days priming it at 4 or 5 am. They work till 11:00 feeding their patrons. Jeremy Rush, one of the co-owners and pit master is an amazing person, but so isn't Kaitlen, his kitchen manager, as is their entire team; they love what they do and you can taste it in their food. If I could cook BBQ it would be the way Jeremy smokes his brisket and ribs. To perfection.

WALKERS AT THE BEACH

SUNDAY, DAY 1 of MARCH

Found this draft of a blog post that was never finished or at least never posted. I remember some of these moments with fondness.

unedited post

Woke. Pissed. Checked for messages; via Text, Email, Phone. One business matter. Bad weather forecast for New York. Cancelled car for author. Put on headset. Selected R&B and soul mix. Danced my way downstairs. Greeted Maggie & Gracie. Danced around kitchen. Dogs went crazy. Danced with them. Fed them. Gave them fresh water. Let the old girls out. Encouraged Maggie along our morning ritual. Dogs rubbed their faces in snow, and went along their scent searching path.  Brewed coffee. Cooked breakfast for family. Pre-interviewed Ryan for his 9:00 a.m. job interview. Watched news. Rebooked the "canceled" rental car. Author decided to travel. Meditated. Walked along beach. Photographed. Listened to music. Sitting in car, bundled up. Warm and comfortable, and enjoying this state of mind. Living in the moment.

MISCELLANEOUS

There are times when the photographs I’ve taken don’t quite fit into a category other than family, friends, music, food, and landscape. At the pace I’ve been working and traveling, I’ve actually found it challenging to keep my photographic spirit alive. I know there are a number of projects and subjects that I plan to pursue, but making the time has been challenging and finding the motivation even more so. My camera is always at my side, but rarely have I lifted it to take on something new, or to create and capture moments that are passing around me.

But the photographs continue to accrue, and the images, though not quite at the level I strive to distill are hopefully of value for sharing. So, in the spirit of pushing the creative rock forward, here are images that I thought worthy enough to gather and post.

Each image documents a vary narrow slice of time and may have no connection, one from the other, but they will provide a view through my lens. Hopefully, they'll provide their own narration so that you might share in these moments that were inspiration enough for me to expose a frame or two.

HEMINGWAY

"I would like to live long enough to write three more novels and twenty-five more stories. I know some pretty good ones." 

-- Ernest Hemingway

It's a Hemingway Sunday. The need to hear this great writer's voice inside my head is too strong to resist. I'll start with his stories. 

CHICAGO BLUES

Out of nowhere it began to rain. It was Chicago cold. I had no umbrella. The wind kicked up. Enough was enough. I decided I'll get a good nights sleep and head in early. The rationale was to wake around 5 a.m., fight the notorious Chicago traffic and catch an earlier flight home. My decision caught even me off guard: For the first time in 25-years I would not visit Kingston Mines while in the city of blues. Something was wrong. Even my niece called me out on it. "Are you sure about this?" she queried. "You LOVE Kingston Mines."

I was sure.

The plan was too drive back to her apartment near Wrigley Field and call it quits. As we left downtown and approached the highway we found the on-ramp backed-up. I decided to ignore the navigational system and work my way through the back streets until I found my way to her apartment. Since she rarely drives, we didn't actually know the best route home. So began our inner city road trip. The streets glistened wet with rain, and as I drove the surroundings became familiar, from the tree lined streets around a college, to the stretch of decaying girders that held up the tracks to the elevated train; I had that distinct feeling of having been here before. Yet neither of us knew where we were until the garish orange canopies of the blues club glowed into sight. And though the wipers were trying their best to keep the windshield clear, it was obvious even through the rain covered windows we were about to pass my favorite live music venue. It had to be a sign! If this accidental passing wasn't enough proof of true devine intervention than the open parking spot diagonally across the street was clearly an act of God, or at least a blues loving muse! Once the music deities get involved there's no use fighting the siren's call. I parked the car. Fed the meter. Paid the cover. And ordered a round of drinks -- a double single malt for me, a cold beer for Katie. There was no turning back. This was going to be a blues night. I needed a fix. "Strap yourself in Katie. There's no turning back. It's Kingston Mines!!"

What neither of us knew was that in the wee hours of that morning we'd loose one the the greats. One of the most influential souls of blues: B.B. King died just a few hours later, a short while after Vance Kelly and his blues players finished belting out their rendition of "The Thrill Is Gone" - King's signature song.

Regret is not a taste I enjoy, but I'll chew on gratitude heartily. Any other emotion is better than the sick sour flavor of sorrow. Had I not been in the hallowed grounds of Kingston Mines the night of B.B's passing, I would have regretted my rare decision for many years there after. But this night was meant to be: Fate has a way of guiding us even when we fight the sure currents of our destinies. There was only one place I could be found on that rainy night in Chicago, the night B.B. King would leave us. It was only appropriate that I found myself in a blues joint when he died.

Truly now, the thrill is gone.

1925 - 2015

PARIS

NEW ENGLAND NIGHT LIFE

Live music is one of my drugs of choice. Add single malt scotch into the formula and I'm a captive audience. Put a lens and a camera body in my hand and I am simply a lost soul. 

These are images from my Sunday night out along the coast of New Hampshire. I doubt there we two more extreme venues than those I attended just a block away from one another: live jazz vs acoustic renditions of the Grateful Dead.

But so long as it's live, it's all good to me.

MEAT

PRIME: Rediscovering The Prime Rib Experience

The search continues as our author researches and develops new menus, finalize side dishes, nuances his  tantalizing rubs and marinade recipes.

We've partnered with unique and distinguished contributors on wines, beers and artisan cheeses ranging from The New York Times, The Washington Post, Josh Bernstein and Butter Communications of California.

Our most recent study took place at the CIA campus along the Hudson River in Hyde Park, New York. We were invited into the Culinary Institute of America's meat cutting class.

Remarkable handcut selections of beef with a knowledgeable chef and butcher at the helm; Chef Thomas. Great students and terrific staff.

SOUTHSIDE JOHNNY & THE ASBURY JUKES