We all start at the beginning. After all, a journey of a thousand miles begins with a lot of head scratching and disgruntled grunts.
Well, this particular anecdote takes place a mere hundred miles from that starting line, so it was more about the arrogant glances and expressions of dismissal.
One day, my wife and I found ourselves at a local tobacco shop, searching for emergency flints and butane. As I perused the cramped shelves full of BICs, Zippos, and other varied smoking paraphernalia, I came across a display of pipe tobacco.
Now, I had been weaned on tin tobacco: smokey Latakia, spicy perique, and nutty burley — so these "drugstore" pouch brands, that bombastically hung before me, seemed an exotic novelty.
"You're not going to like any of those," said my brilliant wife, walking towards me from across the shop.
She can't possibly know that! This sprawling rainbow of tobacco bags and pouches represented an American heritage! I'm not so pompous that I can't acknowledge that our grandfathers and great-grandfathers probably puffed the same stuff back when they helped build this country. These plastic sacks are far more than just morbid curiosity, they're my legacy!
So, against my wife's proven years of wise observations, and in an attempt to gaudily display my own machismo, I settled on a well known gold, black, and white package; Admiral Ebony, or something-er-other.
I brought my purchase home; and while ranting in an inflated monologue regarding history, heritage, and personal legacy; I "popped" the seal on the ol' Admiral. The smell was pleasant, and so my ego grew three sizes that day. I began to pack my budget pipe, and my wife, in a moment of pure clairvoyance, excused herself from the room, in order to spare herself the horrors that she was convinced would ensue.
Pfft, that's fine, I thought to myself, I wouldn't want to be witness to being proven wrong if I had such a top notch track record. And, so, I decided to enjoy the warm summer night, and sat out on the steps of my porch, matches and pipe in hand, ready to open an entire new door on my tobacco loving life.
The flame began to char the top of the black mass... That's strange... puff-puff... Hmm? ... PUFF-PUFF... What?! ... PUFF... What is this, a pipe full of acid-spewing bees?! Aghhhh!
The smoke swarmed and stung my mouth, throat, and sinuses, and the taste was primary of chemicals and ash — that is — until the molasses-like fluid began to ooze from the stem, and turned the whole experience nauseating. But, nothing was a punishment quite like the days of miserable hacking that followed.
"I told you that you weren't going to like the pouch brands," she told me, as I tried to purge my throat and lungs of the mystery poison.
But, I was convinced it was just a cold! After all, our forefathers lived through these "drugstore" blends! ... Well, soft of.
Again, after a few days of recovery, and an excessive tobacco drying period, I perched back down on my steps, ready to again ride the torrid black seas.
If anything, the experience was worse! with my drooling, wheezing, and coughing to such a degree, I began to freak out the neighbors.
There was no more reasoning with my wife, as she stood over the bin, throwing my mostly full pouch of black death into the garbage. Hmm, I wonder if she ever gets tired of being painfully correct all the time.
So, to all of you, has there ever been a tobacco blend that you just couldn't stomach, regardless of effort?
Well, this particular anecdote takes place a mere hundred miles from that starting line, so it was more about the arrogant glances and expressions of dismissal.
One day, my wife and I found ourselves at a local tobacco shop, searching for emergency flints and butane. As I perused the cramped shelves full of BICs, Zippos, and other varied smoking paraphernalia, I came across a display of pipe tobacco.
Now, I had been weaned on tin tobacco: smokey Latakia, spicy perique, and nutty burley — so these "drugstore" pouch brands, that bombastically hung before me, seemed an exotic novelty.
"You're not going to like any of those," said my brilliant wife, walking towards me from across the shop.
She can't possibly know that! This sprawling rainbow of tobacco bags and pouches represented an American heritage! I'm not so pompous that I can't acknowledge that our grandfathers and great-grandfathers probably puffed the same stuff back when they helped build this country. These plastic sacks are far more than just morbid curiosity, they're my legacy!
So, against my wife's proven years of wise observations, and in an attempt to gaudily display my own machismo, I settled on a well known gold, black, and white package; Admiral Ebony, or something-er-other.
I brought my purchase home; and while ranting in an inflated monologue regarding history, heritage, and personal legacy; I "popped" the seal on the ol' Admiral. The smell was pleasant, and so my ego grew three sizes that day. I began to pack my budget pipe, and my wife, in a moment of pure clairvoyance, excused herself from the room, in order to spare herself the horrors that she was convinced would ensue.
Pfft, that's fine, I thought to myself, I wouldn't want to be witness to being proven wrong if I had such a top notch track record. And, so, I decided to enjoy the warm summer night, and sat out on the steps of my porch, matches and pipe in hand, ready to open an entire new door on my tobacco loving life.
The flame began to char the top of the black mass... That's strange... puff-puff... Hmm? ... PUFF-PUFF... What?! ... PUFF... What is this, a pipe full of acid-spewing bees?! Aghhhh!
The smoke swarmed and stung my mouth, throat, and sinuses, and the taste was primary of chemicals and ash — that is — until the molasses-like fluid began to ooze from the stem, and turned the whole experience nauseating. But, nothing was a punishment quite like the days of miserable hacking that followed.
"I told you that you weren't going to like the pouch brands," she told me, as I tried to purge my throat and lungs of the mystery poison.
But, I was convinced it was just a cold! After all, our forefathers lived through these "drugstore" blends! ... Well, soft of.
Again, after a few days of recovery, and an excessive tobacco drying period, I perched back down on my steps, ready to again ride the torrid black seas.
If anything, the experience was worse! with my drooling, wheezing, and coughing to such a degree, I began to freak out the neighbors.
There was no more reasoning with my wife, as she stood over the bin, throwing my mostly full pouch of black death into the garbage. Hmm, I wonder if she ever gets tired of being painfully correct all the time.
So, to all of you, has there ever been a tobacco blend that you just couldn't stomach, regardless of effort?
