Bailey’s Deliciously Light—altering my relationship to reality, and not in a good way

WordPress daily prompt: What relationships have a negative impact on you?

My fellow inebriates,

I’ve been absent for longer than intended, preoccupied with a variety of things (in addition to the usual ongoing pursuit of alcoholic beverages).

When you’ve gone dark for this long, you need a kick in the furry ass to get started again. And that’s why I’m leveraging the WordPress daily prompt to re-establish my good habits (providing you with randoms) and reinforce my bad ones (drinking and falling down).

Today’s prompt is about relationships. I do have some of these, and my older readers have heard about them at length. So instead of grossing you out with another Dolly story, I’m going to wax on about another type of relationship—our relationship with reality.

Okay, so if you are reading a blog written by a bear, your relationship with reality is already tenuous, and that’s okay. We’ve all had our relationship with reality stretched in the past few years. Remember donning your covid mask to enter a restaurant, wait in the lobby and walk to your table—only to then take it off for a couple of hours as people spittle-shouted across the table to outcompete the crappy restaurant sound system and servers came and went with plates that dozens of kitchen staff had handled? Our health authorities asserted that at your table, you were in a magical zone, impermeable to airborne viruses. As long as you remained seated. If you stood, of course you had to put the mask on again. If you suggested that everyone was involved in an elaborate and stupid fiction, people became visibly upset.

“A fool can throw a stone in a pond that 100 wise men cannot get out. ”
—Saul Bellow

The upshot of all this has been a blossoming of all-or-nothing thinking about masks—a complete polarization. You have dumbasses double-masking to walk their dogs outside. Conversely, you have dumbasses going mask-free on a crowded SkyTrain full of coughing riders. The ability to make a situational judgment has vanished. All because the original health authority mask mandates came across as so ridiculously illogical that people ended up either digging in their heels and masking everywhere, or denying the utility of masks at all.

My relationship with reality is SO negative

As you know, I am not a fan of reality. I avoid having any sort of relationship with it. But my two brain cells had a come-to-Jesus moment during covid when they realized that they could not parse Bonnie Henry’s mandates as amplified by the CBC (which has also had a break with reality). We decided to redouble our drinking.

Months of alcohol consumption ensued, with two many products imbibed to ever review for you, my fellow inebriates. So I will just tell you about one of the latest, a Christmassy beverage called Bailey’s Deliciously Light.

What the hell is Bailey’s Deliciously Light?

According to its purveyors, Bailey’s Deliciously Light contains the gamut of regular Bailey’s flavours (i.e., cocoa, vanilla, whiskey, cream from Ireland), but it’s 40% less caloric and has 40% less sugar.

I do appreciate that Bailey’s chose to cut sugar rather than alcohol in concocting this light version of its Irish Cream. (I didn’t even consider that I could rejig the ingredients when I attempted my own version, which ultimately coagulated in a milk jug at the back of the fridge.)

LB helping make Bailey's Irish Cream from scratch.

Ours was crappy too.

Unfortunately, Bailey’s Deliciously Light didn’t stop at the sugar mod; it also swapped in some reduced-fat cream for the original’s whole cream, which detracts from the mouthfeel and compounds the impression that you’re drinking something meaner and stingier than befits the holiday season.

Why did my mother buy Bailey’s Deliciously Light?

My mother bought it because, although she gets a LOT of her calories from alcohol, she didn’t want to be getting 75% of her calories from alcohol, if you know what I mean. Still, she was wrong to buy this crap. It is an inferior species of Irish Cream that warrants a big reality check. I’m gonna drink it anyway, though.

The case for lowercasing “covid”

It’s here for good.

It’s evolved into something milder.

Maybe it is the new flu.

When words have firmly entered the vernacular, we tend to lowercase them.

As in: “Eat my ass, covid.”

So I think we should lowercase it. Hear that, Canadian Press and all the other style guides out there jostling for primacy and torturing various copy editors I happen to know? Let’s do this.

And with that, I’m pouring myself a scotch.

LB with a big glass of scotch.

What fruit flies can tell us about liquor

My fellow inebriates,

Today we have some very special guest reviewers.

I’m talking about fruit flies!

We actually thought they had given LBHQ a pass this year. Usually they arrive sometime around blackberry season, in August. This year they were strangely absent, though. Why, I wondered? Had June’s heat dome flamed them and all their eggs out of existence? Had we neglected to buy their favourite fruits? Or were they not double-vaxxed yet?

Whatever their reasoning, we weren’t sad about their absence. Fruit flies can be pests around alcohol. (And I’m an expert on being a pest around alcohol.) Just when you think there’s not a single one in sight, as soon as you pour a drink, they appear. Even if you have a bunch of neglected bananas on the counter or a full compost bin, those little fuckers will immediately zip toward your glass and prepare to land.

Sometimes it’s just one fruit fly that appears. You’ll swear and clap your paws around it, only to find it’s vanished. As soon as you relax, it will materialize again.

When that one fruit fly finally does meet its demise—either because you clouted it about the antennae or because it did a swan dive into your beer—it will immediately be succeeded by another, equally persistent fruit fly.

August, September and most of October passed without this phenomenon. And then suddenly they were here.

Instead of trying to eradicate them, I decided to get their opinions on some liquor.

REDBREAST 12-YEAR-OLD SINGLE POT STILL WHISKEY ($76.99)

Redbreast 12-year-old Still Pot Irish Whiskey

LB’s review: Redbreast is elegant and impeccably balanced. Richly aromatic, it wafts toffee, vanilla bean, soft tannins and hints of dried fruits and perhaps some hazelnut to balance out the sweetness. The mouthfeel is large and mouth-saturating and the finish is lingering. It leaves you wanting more. This whiskey more than delivers on its very reasonable price point.

Fruit flies’ review: They were willing to die for this. One immediately plummeted to its death on a large ice cube.

CROWN ROYAL CANADIAN WHISKY ($25.99 on sale)

Crown Royal Canadian Whisky

LB’s review: Crown Royal was created to commemorate the 1939 grand tour of the British Royals to Canada. It is made from over 50 different whiskies! Crown Royal features light vanilla and toffee top notes along with undercurrents of baking spice, oak and a tiny hint of orange peel. The mouthfeel is substantial and satisfying and the finish is long. At around $27 for 750 mL, you can feel good about drinking it copiously by itself or making cocktails with it.

Fruit flies’ review: They were quite desperate to have it. Clearly the Redbreast-inspired suicide of their compatriot had taught them nothing. Or perhaps fruit flies are just nihilistic hedonists.

SWEAR JAR CANADIAN WHISKY ($37.99)

Swear Jar Canadian Whisky

LB’s review: I’ll be honest—we bought this for the container. Even though, at 750 mL, it is nowhere near capacious enough to be the family’s actual swear jar, it represents some pretty cool packaging. But as far as flavour goes, Swear Jar is odd. Aromatically, this three-year-old Quebecois offering leads with nuts. Which nut, I wasn’t sure for the longest time. Maybe almonds? Maybe hazelnuts? Or some sort of big nut mash-up. Singing and dancing behind this top note are peppery spice, cloves, some fruit and—yes—some kind of solvent. After nursing a glass each of Swear Jar, my parents decided to drink it no more and, instead, to push it at visitors as a cocktail ingredient. Not that we’ve had many visitors lately, so Swear Jar remains in the cupboard. But my parents poured some into a bowl for our fruit fly experiment this weekend, and I enjoyed it very much.

Fruit flies’ review: They acted as if it didn’t exist. Something in Swear Jar is a fruit fly deterrent.

LAPHROAIG 10-YEAR-OLD WHISKY ($73.99)

Laphroaig Scottish Whisky

LB’s review: If you’re a fan of Islay whiskies, you may already know that Laphroaig 10-year-old represents incredible value. It is redolent with smoke, vanilla and peat, with an interesting brininess and medicinal aftertaste. The mouthfeel is full-bodied and warming without singeing your fur. The finish is lingering. As my dad commented, it gives Lagavulin a run for its money.

Fruit flies’ review: They LOVED this whisky. They agreed with my dad that it was just as good as Lagavulin, and one of them died for it. It didn’t get its chosen death, mind you—my dad got out the vacuum cleaner and hosed it into oblivion. After that we waited for more fruit flies to appear, but they must have been having second thoughts. That or the raunchy bananas on the counter started looking a bit less risky.

Liquorstore Bear enjoying a bowl of Swear Jar Canadian whisky - with no fruit flies competing for it.