Next up, Anonymous’ Apple Pie Moonshine (ABV unknown):While we were in South Carolina over Thanksgiving I thought I had a novel revelation: That there is a burgeoning redneck middle class. The Haybag, a South Carolina native, just rolled her eyes and kindly told me it’s been that way for years.
I suppose she’s right. They already represent a significant marketing segment. They even have their own SiriusXM comedy station. If that isn’t proof of their economic rise, I don’t know what is.
Swaths of the redneck population have achieved economic success through a combination of good jobs, smokestack-chasing economic development in the South, and college education. This has brought about an evolution from jacked-up trucks; outdoor, youtube-worthy, deep-fat fryer food preparation incidents; and an affinity for white lightning moonshine…to more genteel transportation for refined sporting endeavors:
…And moonshine blended to appeal to more refined palates. Now, I’m not going to say where my jar of apple pie ‘shine came from; but if any revenue agents are reading this, I’m sure it was blended from fully legal store-bought and tax-paid corn or grain liquor and was most certainly not transported across two State lines.
So, after a couple sips off the jar, I decided it was time to get down to business with a real drink. Like a gentleman, I poured it into a Waterford crystal glass usually reserved for bourbon. The commotion of the pour unsettled some sediment, apparently from the whole stick of cinnamon and the unpleasant-looking apple slice marinating in the jar. I nudged the decomposing hunk of apple to the back of my mind and below the surface of the murky moonshine so I could enjoy my beverage in ignorant bliss.
It smells like over-ripe apples, apple cider, massive cinnamon, and a masked but unrelenting booze. And the taste…well butter my butt and call me a biscuit, it’s pretty damn smooth. It has a nice sweetness, an apple cider character, and a cinnamon and booze sizzle at the end. The booze is not oppressive, but as I feel my core temperature and overall sense of well-being rise, I realize how well the cinnamon covers it up. Then I remember the sage advice I received as the jar was handed over, “Careful. That apple pie ‘ll sneak up on ya, now.” The best part, though: No apparent optic nerve damage from methanol poisoning. Yay!
The Haybag: No way.