A few weeks ago, right before Father’s day, I had the pleasure of touring a local distillery–San Diego is becoming known for small batch brown stuff–and saw the still, and all the grains, and the barrels. Saw the hands of the men in plaid shirts who hoisted sacks of rye and wheat, who did all this back of house so that, ultimately, a small snifter of bourbon could be tapped out for me to sniff and sip.

And as I sipped, I learned story. How the distillery came to be; how two young men chose to leave lives that were lucrative but uninspiring in order to follow their passion. They learned the craft, even as they were planning their move; they made mistakes, they savored successes, they went into granular detail as to why their single malts each have numbers. The light in their eyes as they talked about temperatures, and the wine barrels from Temecula they use to age, and how they prep the still before each batch–this was love, pure and simple.
I knew then that I would be giving more than liquor to my father; I would be giving him a community of men who sweated out their best every day.

This was no BevMo. This was heart and soul.

When I chose the bourbon for my father, they pointed out the date and batch number, and proudly showcased the number ‘16’–the sixteenth bottle out of the batch of nineteen, destined to go to Chief Watkins. They sealed it with red wax right in front of me, and put a small tag around the neck of the bottle. Without question, above cologne and ties and sweaters and other lesser liquors, I knew this was the best I would ever give my father as I honored him on his day.

I cradled the bottle of small batch bourbon in my truck, remembering the sweat that went into each drop; the learning, all the missteps; all the funky formulas–all of the backstory that culminated in the bottle with the cork stopper.

And off I went to my father.

But. All of you who follow me know that my dad, Chief Watkins, is quite the curmudgeon. Funny, profane, not a bit sentimental. Rough, and at almost 85, still sharp.
When I presented the bottle to him that Father’s Day, he squinted at the bottle, and asked who made it. I told him–and he said ‘Well gaddam, Jan’, (he uses my childhood nickname; a shortening of my middle name)–well, sheeiit! You got me moonshine!’

Um, no, Dad. I got you the best brown stuff I could find. So even as his face wrinkled and he inspected the bottle with suspicion, I told him the story of the two distillers and the work they put into what he was holding. No moonshine, this.

He noticed the hand numbering on the label; written in blue felt tip pen. They wrote on it! he said. ‘Is this stuff even legal?’

I said nothing more; I just went into the kitchen, and found a good glass, took the bottle out of his hand, poured a few drops, and handed it to him. The aroma hit him first. He looked at me, and I suppressed a knowing smirk, and he sipped.

And then he got it. He got it.

And Hubert held the glass in his weathered hands, slightly gnarled from almost 50 years keeping planes aloft as a jet mechanic.

‘Tell me again’.

And I did.

Who knows what can come from a no name bottle, with a funky waxed seal.

Sometimes the tale is in the sip.

And in the repetition.

Some stories, like bourbon resting in Cabernet barrels, some stories just get better with retelling and with time.
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I find myself thinking about community.

What it is; what it isn’t, and why there has been so much mission drift around the word.

People love community.

The idea of it anyway. We love the idea of a group of people who will be there for us, care for us, make room and space for us, support us–in short, a group of folks whose main investment is to help us find our best selves.

That’s a heaping helping of expectation. A cubic ton of entitlement.

This is how the world sells community–sort of like a kind of ‘Cheers’, where everyone knows your name, and there is always a cold draft with a knifed-off head of foam just waiting to be slid down the bar, right into your waiting hand.
And after the beer is downed, and the peanuts are eaten, one makes their way back out into the world; a little buzzed, but basically unchanged.

That’s not how we do.

We are small batch. With a handwritten label. Every drop squeezed out with heart and Hesed.

I feel it is important to note this too: the bottle they shared with me–I paid for it. As much as I paid for the libation in the old-timey bottle, I paid for their expertise, their effort, their faith in the little community of Spring Valley where they chose to locate. I want the distillery to stick around. I want to sit in a barrel chair and watch couples and groups exclaim over tasting flights; want to see them hold the amber liquid to the light; want to hear the owners tell the story yet again to another new patron. I am part of their community now. I am invested in their success. I am invested in people who will come who I will never see.

So it is here.

Every word here, whether original from me or from Leadership, or commissioned from our contributors, or carefully curated from across the web, is done with thoughtfulness and care. Every word carries the memory and fragrance of the last three and a half years.

What’s your role? To remember, or re-remember, all of the stories; those that happened, both good and o so very painful, to smell the aroma of the here and now, and to ready the still for the next batch.

Community is not about, or not *just* about, what you guzzle down. It’s how you make sure everyone can hoist a glass, whether it be of stout, or single malt, or, sarsaparilla, or tea.

Community is about what we share. It is about who we are as we toast.

To help to provide the good water, good grains, aged oak barrels, and sparkling glasses.

So that we can then make another small batch. And another. And another.More than Moonshine. North Star First Batch.

Chief Watkins Approves.

This is the July Early(ish) Ask.
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And this brings us to the by-now familiar boilerplate, which I hope one day will be unnecessary, because the Ask itself will be unnecessary:

Very simply, I would like to continue to serve you with my utmost. I thank you in advance for allowing me to do so.
I also thank those of you who have financially engaged without the prompt of the ask, and for those of you who are aware of the shortfall that has been endured post Holly. If you would like to earmark engagement specifically to address that shortfall, you can designate and we will see it, and again, your thanks for your faith in me, in us, and your commitment to our Western Star, even in the midst of adversity.

To Sustainers, Sustainers in Training, those who have registered for the Lace on Race Cafe, and those who aspire to be part of Chef’s Table, thank you in advance for your fulfilling your monthly commitment. It is you all who allow us to serve and influence and mentor and teach and abide. Every month, especially in these recent challenging months, my heart swells because of your continued faithfulness.

For those of you who engage a la carte at the Takeout Window, I hope you have seen and appreciated the value in the fare we offer you and directly invite (and gently and lovingly challenge) you to partner with us.

If you would like to know more about becoming a Sustainer or a Sustainer in Training, or if you would like to be seated in the Bistro, links are below. I look forward to walking with and abiding with you in ever deeper ways.

What we do is different from what you will see anywhere else. What we offer to you is different; and what we ask for and from you is different. We are grateful for you. You will find our walking with you will never waver.

Sometimes it’s hard to say variations of the same thing at least twice a month: but the truth is here every day: what we do here is important and needed; your financial engagement is what allows it to happen, and this: we have only scratched the surface of what could be and what reach we could have. Thank you to those who are now and or are considering walking with me in this way.

And a candid thank you, and an invitation, to those who are considering re-engagement who have not since February. I hope you have seen our faithfulness to you individually and to the community as a whole. Our faithfulness and resolve will continue; on that you can rest. I look forward to your renewed commitment with anticipation and with deep gratitude and appreciation.

With deep and unshakable Hesed,

Your Lace

PayPal: paypal.me/LaceonRace

Sustainer Form: https://bit.ly/SustainerForm

Sustainer in Training Form: https://bit.ly/SustainerInTrainingForm2021

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