beagleparisgirl - The Monday Morning Memo

When I walk into a painting, I travel to the year it was painted.
This is Paris, 1961. Her name is Monette Russo.

“

Lagavulin, 16 Years

The first sip is a smokey peat-fire
gnawing the driftwood of your ribs—
not warmth, but the memory of warmth,
something smooth,
like hunger after a long forgetting.

Then the sea comes, not as a wave
but as the slow seep of tide through black sand,
brine and iodine, the tang of a fisherman’s
hands after mending nets all morning.

You will think of firewood—not campfire romance,
but the damp kind, the smolder of wet leaves
in a forgotten valley,
the kind that clings to your clothes for days,
like a fog, a stubborn ghost.

And beneath it all, the faintest hum
of honey stolen from a winter hive,
gold turning to dust on the tongue.

This is not a drink for the timid.
It is the taste of a storm-lit shore,
of a man kneeling in the shallows,
salt and sweat and something like prayer
dissolving in his mouth.

You will not love it at first.
You expect heat, spice and burn.
Instead, it will love you,
and the back of your throat slower.”

More Information

Contact Us

Address