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Posts Tagged ‘colorado’

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It may come as a surprise to learn that Colorado now ranks second in the nation for the most distilleries (after Washington state). We’re more than just craft beer and ski resorts, baby.

I had the good fortune to research (ahem), curate, and write Edible Aspen’s inaugural Colorado Craft Distillery Guide, which just hit the stands in the Winter issue.

Photo love: Wood's High Mountain Distillery

Photo love: Wood’s High Mountain Distillery

From small-batch eaux de vie made with farmstead fruit to one of the nation’s greenest distilleries, we’ve got the intel on where to find the best tasting rooms, tours, grain-to-glass spirits, and bar programs in the state (with some recipes, to boot). Happy hols, y’all.

These heirloom potatoes become award-winning vodka. Photo love: Woody Creek Distillers

These heirloom potatoes become award-winning vodka.  Photo love: Woody Creek Distillers

 

 

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Hillside Cemetery, Silverton, CO Photo love: Live Do Grow

Hillside Cemetery, Silverton, CO
Photo love: Live Do Grow

I think I sufficiently established in a recent post about my dad why I’m obsessed with pasttimes most (read: normal) people find revolting. While I do enjoy dead things- particularly mounting them on my walls- one thing I’m not into is the paranormal. For this, I may also thank my dad, who calls himself a “compulsive realist.” While I’m better able to suspend belief than him (seriously, he’s the only person who found “Star Wars” preposterous), never, at any time have I believed in ghosts, zombies, vampires (yawn), aliens, or their brethren. I did have a brief flirtation with Bigfoot at age 8, but that’s only because we were on a camping trip in Northern California and my brother persisted in fucking with my head all week.

But. I do love me a good cemetery. I’m not sure when or how this interest developed, but having visited boneyards big and small, famous and unknown the world over, I can say that I find them oddly relaxing, as well as a great way to learn about the cultural, religious, and medical histories of a community. I love to wander amongst the headstones, reading the names and wondering about the lives of those beneath my feet. What compelled them to travel so far, to such an isolated spot? What must have it been like for parents to lose three children in rapid succession (influenza?)? How would Jim Morrison feel knowing weepy dirtbags still populate his grave and litter it with cigarette butts and bottles of  Jim Beam? And where the hell is Evita Peron’s tomb amongst all those vaults?

A seaside cemetery on the island of Chiloe, Chile

A seaside cemetery on the island of Chiloe, Chile

Given my life in ski towns, I have a particular fondness, and fascination for, Old West graveyards. I’m not what you’d call a history buff, but I love learning more about the (admittedly brutal) life of the pioneers, miners, ranchers, outlaws, and others who founded these mountain hamelets. Butch and Sundance may have ended up in Bolivia, but here in Colorado, you’ll find the remains of Doc Holliday, Buffalo Bill, Kid Curry, and others.

Ski towns are also notoriously haunted, if you’re a believer.  I’m obviously not, but I do love the stories and history behind the saloons, hotels, former brothels, mines, and private homes allegedly besieged by spirits. This is why my editor at Curbed Ski tasked me with writing up some Halloween posts on the dead and undead sides of ski country.  If you’re in the mood for some creepy, Halloween-style tales of murder, mayhem, and mine collapse, check ’em out…with the lights on, of course.

A grave at the Monastery of Christ in the Desert, Abiquiu, New Mexico

A grave at the Monastery of Christ in the Desert, Abiquiu, New Mexico

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I’m in Boulder, Colorado, right now, having serendipitously landed a job thanks to a fortuitous encounter while doing a book signing. I now take back the many unkind things I said and thought during my 12 months of house arrest writing Cheese for Dummies. And yes, I will be moving back to Colorado in August, a dream a long time in the making.

Photo love: Flickr user scomedy

Meanwhile,  I’m spending this week looking for a place to live. In between imposing upon friends, I’m spending a few nights at the Boulder International Hostel. It’s a janky-ass place in the student ghetto that I’ve unfortunately had to stay at a number of times over the years, due to it being the only remotely affordable accommodation in town.

I did evade the hostel the year I was teaching a weekend-long cooking class at the now-defunct Cooking School of the Rockies, however.  The school refused to pay for my hotel room at the last minute, and since I was broke, I elected to sleep in my car for four nights. This is why I get testy when people ask about my “dream job.”

Every time I stay at the hostel, something incredibly fucked up happens. One year, it was the weepy, morbidly obese, nymphomaniacal crazy cat lady who told me all of her boyfriend problems…at 2am. Then there’s the inevitable drunken idiot frat boys who bro-out late into the night (the hostel is located on Greek Row).

One time, the hostel refused to let me book a room because I had a Colorado driver’s license (something that used to be verboten if you wished to be a guest). I was a California resident, but I’d discovered at the Colorado Springs Airport car rental counter that my license was expired.  I was running late for a meeting that was three hours away, and I had to take a cab to the DMV, then go back and get the rental car. Several days later, in Boulder for work, I again ended up sleeping in my car. Arrgh.

This morning, however, took the prize. If you’re unfamiliar with Boulder, it’s essentially the Berkeley of the Southwest, only less militant, more beautiful, and with a higher collective resting metabolic rate. The first time I moved here, I had literally just pulled into town after a two-day drive, and stopped to pick up some groceries. I was standing in the pasta aisle, dazed, when I noticed a middle-aged woman next to me, dangling a crystal before the array of boxed goods. Apparently some people have trouble making decisions on their own.

Anyway. this morning I was in the bathroom–admittedly shaving my armpits in the sink–when I heard this curious noise, sort of like two people murmuring in the shower (which was running), or a mother and young child in a stall (except kids aren’t allowed). I had just seen a girl with cerebral palsy checking in down at registration, so I thought maybe it was she in the stall.

Be sure to align your Stayfree.
Photo love: Flickr user omnos

But no, that would be TOO normal for the BIH. Instead, out comes this girl of the yuppie hippie/I-just-got-back-from-a-yoga-retreat-on-an-ashram variety. I don’t know what she was doing in there (I didn’t hear any battery-operated devices) but she looked totally blissed out: eyes glazed, beatific smile. Drinking the Kool-Aid, if you will.

She crosses behind me over to the trash can, and I can see in the mirror that she’s holding something in her palms and quietly chanting over it. I then realize–to my utter horror, as I stand there, razor aloft, shaving cream congealing in my pits–that this psychopath is blessing her maxi pad before throwing it away.

I’ve already issued instructions to friends and family that I be euthanized immediately should I become one of them. You know, in case it’s catching.

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