CONTINUED: "While his cereal mixture simmered, ... (he) gazed at the tidy property he had hewn, single-handed, out of the wilderness: his house, a homesteader's cabin shaded by giant sycamores; his barn, high-peaked and cedar-shingled, with clapboards of weathered red; his grist mill perched on its mill pond like a tiny side-wheeled boat..." ...Under the sharp assault of fire, the mash had become a seething lava. Saffron-colored bubbles (yellow)rising from the bottom of the cauldron broke explosively, releasing vapors of dismaying, goose-necked cover over the top of his kettle. Barely was the cover in place when a deluge of rank oils and half-digested solids gushed from the spout. This, the foreshot, was the corn's angriest bile and must be allowed to spend itself in purgative retchings. Attracted by the fumes of the foreshot, Effie, the black sow, came snouting toward the kettle. She slurped up the foul puddle and snuffled eagerly for more. Cleaner vapors were now steaming from the goose-necked spout. ...(he) coupled it to the coil of copper tubing immersed in the wooden sluiceway. And now the miracle of distillation began. Alcohol-laden gases rising from the mash kettle passed along the cool inner surface of the worm. Here the disembodied essence of the corn was nebulized into a dew. And this dew, dribbling downward in tear-shaped drops, as hot and colorless as tears, was whiskey-liquid essence of the corn, tonic and pain-killer, opiate and elixir, elemental stain and universal solvent. As the trickle swelled to a small torrent, a very practical problem presented itself. At what point should he cut off the flow of whiskey? Opinions differed. Many local distillers eager for quantity, squeezed the last drop of liquor from their mash. Others, believing that the latter portion of the 'run' contained undesirable elements, cut off the trickle too soon. The real test of a distiller's judgment lay in his ability to select only the 'middle-run' for his whiskey. ...(he) removed the cover of his copper alembic and was almost asphyxiated by the fumes rising from its sourish slops. He ladled all but two gallons of these 'tailings' onto the ground (Effie slurped it up)... 'Got to save part of the 'tailings' for the next batch. ...the hot, unsavory slops were essential to the making of a sour-mash whiskey. Like the deer's muskbag which serves as the base of rare perfumes, these 'tailings' would impart a bouquet to the next batch of whiskey. By noon the barrel was about half full of corn liquor. ....he had been working steadily for 6 hours. (the story departs for a quick romantic picnic with his wife). ...While the September sun deepened from topaz to sepia ...(he) toiled at his still. Morning's exuberance vanished as the work leveled off to a plateau of repetition. Twice he charged his kettle; twice the cereal mixture bubbled into saffron froth and gushed from the goose-necked spout. Foreshort, middle-run and tailings. When the sepia light darkened to umber, the mash tub was empty and the oak barrel brimmed full. ...(he) had transformed ten bushels of corn and small grains into forty gallons of new whiskey. He scooped up an ounce or two of the colorless liquor with a small dipper and lifted it testingly to his lips. Like all raw spirit, the stuff in his barrel tasted like hog-wallow filth laced with caster oil. No matter. Tomorrow he'd run it through his still a second time, plane off some its 'rough corners.' Then, stored in an oak barrel, secret tinctures from charred staves would enter the whiskey and transform its pallor into a ruddy glow. ...(he foresaw) his whiskey would be generous-bodied in substance; hearty, but mellow, too; delicate, yet frank in its approach to the senses. He would use it in moderation to banish fatique, ward off winter chill, deaden pain and celebrate festive occasions-christenings, husking bees, the raising of new barn timbers. His neighbors lifting a friendly glass would inhale its fragrant bouquet, then drink with confidence-admiration even-as deep spoke to deep. ...he would pass his skills (when perfected) to his sons as part of their education in husbandry." I actually read this for errors, and I'm sure I could have picked the recipe out of all this dialogue but I thought it was said so well by this author I wanted to share it with you. Kind of gives you the feeling of being there making whiskey with this pioneer in Ohio, but I'm sure they did it the same way in all pioneer locations, and later in the hills looking out for "revenoors". I actually knew a moonshiner who played a fiddle like an angel, and his customers preferred what he made to what they could buy downtown. Norma