Stirring in the Bitters

If I had known what trouble that Perfect Manhattan with rhubarb bitters I had with my now-dead brother in that now-defunct restaurant would lead to, I would have ordered a double.

Rhubarb bitters! Who knew there was such a thing, and of course it would be wonderful, because what thing rhubarb is not? Rhubarb sauce, rhubarb pie, rhubarb crisp. All those memories of cutting the long thick green stalks ruby red inside and out with my grandmother.

The tasting notes for rhubarb bitters . . . yes, there are tasting notes for bitters, just like fine wine . . . promise a bright tanginess with underlying floral and citrus notes in a mystical extraction of botanicals, roots, and spices.

Being a somewhat obsessive person, I soon had an exotic collection of bitters in my pantry alongside the stalwart, ordinary aromatic bitters that have graced cocktails my whole lifetime. Orange bitters. Cardamom. Black lemon. Orleans. And the spiced cherry bitters purchased at the holy bourbon altar, the Woodford Reserve distillery in Kentucky horse country.

This was all before I realized just how deadly alcohol is to the aging heart, liver, and brain. This is when a complex and interesting recipe for a fancy cocktail was almost as good as planting a specific type of garden. But I digress.

I’ve always had an affection for tart. Lemons every way possible. Homemade wine, cider, and champagne vinegars. Pickles! Rhubarb, of course.

Bitter is a kissing cousin to tart. You’ll find my veggie garden, refrigerator, and belly full of bitter greens. Collards slow cooked with bacon. Chard chopped in soups or sautéed. Baby mustard and beet greens mixed in with lettuces and citrusy French sorrel. I’ve circled but not yet embraced the bitter melon sold at our farmers market. Bitter pairs well with tart. Tart-tongued some would say about me.

It used to be thought that there was a bitter section on the tongue. Nowadays, we know that bitter receptors are scattered all over the tongue, mixed in with sweet, salty, and sour. These tastes aren’t really on the tongue. They are in the brain. Two cranial nerves run the whole taste perception game. Which makes sense to me since the bitter receptors in my brain have become overloaded, piled-up with bitter regrets. Bigger than the collection of bitters bottles in my pantry.

Needless arguments that severed important relationships. Lazy weakness exhibited when strength wasn’t out of reach. Curiosity faced down by insecurity. Support not given. Facts ignored. Mistakes sloughed off. Time spent chasing windmills. Blindness to other people’s needs. A loud narrative in my head that prevented me from learning from others. These are the bitter dregs of decisions made at key junctures.

It can be as deafening as a chorus of spring peeper frogs.  As choking as a suffocating bittersweet vine.

About this point, you may be saying in a soothing tone, “It’s all water under the bridge; give yourself a break.” True, I can’t go back. And I can’t know if a different decision would have led me to a better me. But I do know I should pay attention to all this racket, not ignore it.

Instead, I welcome these bitters as a new spice in my life, like a few drops of cardamom bitters in a glass of artisanal tonic with a twist of lemon. I’ve always been self-absorbed; that won’t change, but my history of bitter stumbles and arrogance have stirred in me a new inclination.

Now, when I feel resistance, I know it’s a hint from the bitter dregs to love a bit more. To listen. To assign value instead of criticism. To allow happiness. To forgive. Others and myself.

To remember Carole King’s old song from fifty-three frigging years ago, you got to take the bitter with the sweet.

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