Akvavit Akvavit or aquavit (/ˈɑːkwəviːt/; /ˈɑːkvəviːt/; also akevitt in Norwegian) is a flavoured spirit that is principally produced in Scandinavia, where it has been produced since the 15th century.[1] Akvavit gets its distinctive flavour from spices and herbs, and the main spice should (according to the European Union) be caraway or dill. It typically contains 40% alcohol by volume. Etymology[edit] The word aquavit is derived from Latin aqua vitae, "water of life." Drinking culture[edit] Aquavit is an important part of Scandinavian drinking culture, where it is often drunk during festive gatherings, such as Christmas dinners and weddings, and as an aperitif.[3] In Sweden, Denmark and Germany aquavit is cooled down and often sipped slowly from a small shot glass. Production[edit] Akvavit, like vodka, is distilled from either grain or potatoes.[7] After distillation, it is flavoured with herbs, spices, or fruit oil. Origin and traditional variants[edit] Aquavit outside the Nordic countries[edit]
Snaps - Wikipedia Snaps drinking in Sweden, early 20th century. Snaps (Swedish: [snaps], Danish pronunciation: [ˈsnɑbs]) is a Swedish and Danish word for a small shot of a strong alcoholic beverage taken during the course of a meal. A ritual that is associated with drinking snaps is a tradition in Scandinavia, especially in Sweden and Denmark, where it is very common to drink snaps at holidays such as Midsummer, Christmas and Easter. This ritual has been described by one author as follows: A group of people are clustered around a table for a typical lunch that will include several courses and a clear, fiery drink. In Denmark, a snaps will always be akvavit, although there are many varieties of it. The word “snaps” also has the same meaning as the German word Schnaps, in the sense of “any strong alcoholic drink.”[2] Culture[edit] An entrée consisting of pickled herring and potatoes is typically served with snaps, as is the Swedish surströmming. Home liquor production in Scandinavia[edit] See also[edit]
x Sophie Cabot Black: Love Poem Love Poem Sophie Cabot Black Which cannot be written tries anyway— From one room to another, each time startled And does not want to hear of the already Passed through, the country of before. At each door poem believes itself In the room closest to the end Where finally everything will be gone over; Dismantled, held up, carefully laid back down While talked into the beauty which can turn In a minute. Alone and so the lovers look at each other Until none else can come near. Tries anyway, oh so brave, unable to know where She heads; unwrapping until only a gift Which cannot be given as it cannot be let go. The infinity of things: Christopher J. Johnson | Books Christopher J. Johnson dedicates his first collection of poetry &luckier (The Center for Literary Publishing at Colorado State University, 2016) to grand physical things: “for the depths of Vostok& Jupiter’s ancient storm.” Vostok, the forever-frozen Antarctic lake, is a time capsule of prehistoric times. Jupiter’s swirling red eye, so large it could swallow three Earths, is at a distance that requires imagination to picture its size and energy. “I feel that these large natural miracles provide a sense of scope that might help align our understanding of a place in nature,” Johnson wrote in an exchange of emails with Pasatiempo. “I would prefer to be a part as opposed to aside from nature, to paraphrase a 14th-century alchemist.” Something of an alchemist himself, Johnson also dedicates his volume “for all curious things” — which has a double meaning, not only referring to curious things, but also to the gift of curiosity, a measure of consciousness.
Excerpt from We Are Starved | Center for Literary Publishing We Are Starved Always blood and those who give of it so freely. The hemophiliac, the martyr. This Plenty, This Never Enough Ravaging your pear tree. Not for hunger nor poverty, but to do wrong, to perish. To want things is a kind of sadness, a sickness— for had I loved the pears I stole— But I did not and would not eat them. You beg me to stay. It is harrowing to watch. uncontrollable and so close to ruin. No love deserves the death it has, you say. But when I find the fruit in the dumpster behind your apartment, I eat it. There is nothing left, nothing I will not do. It wasn’t a meal, you say, it was my heart. Is it good, friend? It was foul but I loved it. Darkling The blackbird he feeds from a pomegranate in his hand. The red suffering it rushes to, it dies from. Seven seeds and then their bursting forth. My brother and I looking for another animal to somehow extinguish. The way we recognized the ache of the world and our place within it. That we must leave and return and leave again. That we must sing.
MINDFUL - Poem by David Lohrey You have an ad blocker! We understand, but... PoetrySoup is a small privately owned website. Our means of support comes from advertising revenue. Are you mindful of the fact that the man there in the turban Is not a chimpanzee? Copyright © David Lohrey | Year Posted 2016 Report This Poem Use this to report a poem that violates PoetrySoup's Terms and Conditions ONLY. Your IP Address: 198.27.81.81 Poem Title: MINDFUL Reason for Reporting: * Required Notes:
MY PLATE - Poem by David Lohrey You have an ad blocker! We understand, but... PoetrySoup is a small privately owned website. Our means of support comes from advertising revenue. I’d prefer I’d prefer only to eat things I like. Copyright © David Lohrey | Year Posted 2016 Report This Poem Use this to report a poem that violates PoetrySoup's Terms and Conditions ONLY. Your IP Address: 198.27.81.81 Poem Title: MY PLATE Reason for Reporting: * Required Notes: