Strega Liqueur

The sky is purple, the flare of a match behind a cupped hand is gold; the liquor is green, bright green, made from a thousand herbs, made from altars. Those who know enough to drink Chartreuse at Mardi Gras are lucky, because the distilled essence of the town burns in their bellies. Chartreuse glows in the dark, and if you drink enough of it, your eyes will turn bright green.

- Poppy Z. Brite, Lost Souls

Since the days back in the 90s when I was reading the horror novels of Poppy Z. Brite, I always made sure I had a bottle of Chartreuse liqueur around.  Over the years, I loosened up that tradition and allowed my one bottle to wither away, unaware that demand for this odd green spirit had soared while the Carthusian monks who produce it refused to increase production.  Word spread online about this shortage, and it became impossible to find. 

A week ago, Jenna surprised me with a yellow liqueur called Strega, with a neat Witch design on the bottle.  According to the manufacturer:  The life of Strega Liqueur began in 1860 evoking the old legend that places the city of Benevento as the former seat of witches’ rites. It is stated, in fact, that witches, from all over the world, gathered at night around a magical walnut, and that they had created a magic potion that united forever couples that drank it.  Turns out this thoughtful and impromptu gift has a very familiar flavor.  Despite being yellow, the combination of herbs and spices has made this liqueur taste extremely similar to the mysterious Chartreuse mentioned in those old horror novels. 

So until the demand diminishes or the Carthusian monks produce more, we'll keep a bottle of the Witch around.  Not sure if Poppy Z. Brite would approve of the substitution, but these are desperate times.

Elixir Of Long Life

The sky is purple, the flare of a match behind a cupped hand is gold; the liquor is green, bright green, made from a thousand herbs, made from altars. Those who know enough to drink Chartreuse at Mardi Gras are lucky, because the distilled essence of the town burns in their bellies. Chartreuse glows in the dark, and if you drink enough of it, your eyes will turn bright green.

Poppy Z. Brite, Lost Souls

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I always associated the anise liquors like Absinthe and Sambuca with the cooler months of Autumn.  Anything in that flavor range seems pretty appropriate for the dark cocktails of the Halloween season.  Chartreuse might not have anise in its mix of mysterious spices and herbs, but it's definitely in the same family with its flavors of citrus, clove, cinnamon, rosemary, and thyme.  Definitely a Halloween varietal.

Back when we visited Lambertville the week before Halloween, we stopped into a candy shop and picked up some liquor-filled chocolates.  One of them sported an absinthe filling we were dying to try.

It was in that green swirly one in the middle of the back row.  The absinthe wasn't as pronounced as it should have been, but it definitely tasted dark and seasonal.

We found a recipe for Boozy No Bake Fudge Squares and this time you can taste the liquor.  The recipe called for absinthe, but we used cool green Chartreuse that we had on hand.  Turns out fudge is a perfect conduit for strange liquors.  

Chartreuse fudge will definitely be a regular in the Fall lineup.

Recipe here.

Kali The Terrible, Kali The Ferocious

Only in extensive stages of decay can the dead be told from the lepers. The dead are greater in number now, and even the lepers look human when compared to the dead. But that is only if you get close enough to look into the eyes. The faces in various stages of wet and dry rot, the raw ends of bones rubbing through skin like moldy cheesecloth, the cancerous domes of the skulls are the same. After a certain point lepers could no longer stay alive begging in the streets, for most people would now flee in terror at the sight of a rotting face. As a result the lepers were dying, then coming back, and the two races mingled like some obscene parody of incest. 

Poppy Z. Brite, Calcutta, Lord of Nerves

Exquisite Corpse

I found no joy in gross mutilation or dismemberment, not then; it was the subtle whisper and slice of the razor that appealed to me. I liked my boys as they were, big dead dolls with an extra weeping crimson mouth or two. I would keep them with me for as much as a week, until the smell in my flat grew obvious. I did not find the odour of death unpleasant. It was rather like cut flowers left too long in stagnant water, a heavy sickish sweetness that coated the nostrils and curled into the back of the throat with every breath.

Poppy Z. Brite

Image by Douglas Carson.

His Mouth Will Taste Of Wormwood

The earth in one corner of the graveyard seemed blacker than the rest. The grave we sought was marked only by a crude cross of charred and twisted wood. We were skilled at the art of violating the dead; soon we had the coffin uncovered. The boards were warped by years of burial in wet, foul earth. Louis pried up the lid with his spade and, by the moon's meager and watery light, we gazed upon what lay within.

Poppy Z. Brite

Wormwood

The sky is growing lighter, showing her more of the graveyard around her: the corpses borne on the rising water, the maggot-ridden mud. Theophile's face yawns into hers. Rosalie struggles against him and feels his sodden flesh give beneath her weight. She is beyond recognizing her love now. She is frantic; she fights him. Her hand strikes his belly and punches in up to the wrist.

Then suddenly Theophile's body opens like a flower made of carrion, and she sinks into him. Her elbows are trapped in the brittle cage of his ribs. Her face is pressed into the bitter soup of his organs. Rosalie whips her head to one side. Her face is a mask of putrescence. It is in her hair, her nostrils; it films her eyes. She is drowning in the body that once gave her sustenance. She opens her mouth to scream and feels things squirming in between her teeth.

"My cherie Rosalie," she hears the voice of her lover whispering.

And then the rain pours down again.

- Poppy Z. Brite, Wormwood

Image by Dave.

Fistula Ligation

"It happened right after they were born,” the kid told him. “They came out of Mama’s belly grown together. Nearly ripped her open. She had to have thirty stitches. The twins were born with one arm each, Michael’s on the right and Samuel’s on the left, and the doctor cut them apart at the shoulder.”

Poppy Z. Brite, Angels

Image by Matthew Nelson.

Calcutta, Lord Of Nerves

Calcutta, you will say. What a place to have been when the dead began to walk.

And I reply, what better place to be? What better place than a city where five million people look as if they are already dead—might as well be dead—and another five million wish they were?

Poppy Z. Brite

Now Playing: Bloom

Late in the year, New Orleans still has its hot days. In the slave quarters, they blossomed like the giant, stinking carrion-flowers that grow in humid jungles. Their ravaged abdomens swelled and burst like red-black petals, a jubilee of rot. Their putrescent fluids pooled on the concrete floor and in the hollows of their disintegrating bodies.

Poppy Z. Brite, Exquisite Corpse

Click below:

The Skull Behind The Dear Face; The Skull That Cradled The Thoughts And Dreams

Theophile's eyes have fallen back into their sockets and his mouth is open; his tongue is gone. She sees thin white worms teeming in the passage of his throat. His nostrils are widening black holes beginning to encroach upon the greenish flesh of his cheeks. His sleek hair is almost gone; the few strands left are thin and scummy, nibbled by waterbugs. (Sitting on the dock, Rosalie and Theophile used to spit into the water and watch the shiny black beetles swarm around the white gobs; Theophile had told her they would eat hair and toenails too.) In places she can see the glistening dome of his skull.

Poppy Z. Brite

Image by Sam Heimer.

Exquisite Corpse

I found no joy in gross mutilation or dismemberment, not then; it was the subtle whisper and slice of the razor that appealed to me. I liked my boys as they were, big dead dolls with an extra weeping crimson mouth or two. I would keep them with me for as much as a week, until the smell in my flat grew obvious. I did not find the odour of death unpleasant. It was rather like cut flowers left too long in stagnant water, a heavy sickish sweetness that coated the nostrils and curled into the back of the throat with every breath.

Poppy Z. Brite

Image source.
Text source.

Mixed Media Of The Bayou

At the PZBART etsy shop.

To Fall Into His Grave

The sky is growing lighter, showing her more of the graveyard around her: the corpses borne on the rising water, the maggot-ridden mud. Theophile's face yawns into hers. Rosalie struggles against him and feels his sodden flesh give beneath her weight. She is beyond recognizing her love now. She is frantic; she fights him. Her hand strikes his belly and punches in up to the wrist.

Then suddenly Theophile's body opens like a flower made of carrion, and she sinks into him. Her elbows are trapped in the brittle cage of his ribs. Her face is pressed into the bitter soup of his organs. Rosalie whips her head to one side. Her face is a mask of putrescence. It is in her hair, her nostrils; it films her eyes. She is drowning in the body that once gave her sustenance. She opens her mouth to scream and feels things squirming in between her teeth.

"My cherie Rosalie," she hears the voice of her lover whispering.

And then the rain pours down again.

Poppy Z. Brite, Wormwood

Image by Michael Homan.

Chartreuse

The sky is purple, the flare of a match behind a cupped hand is gold; the liquor is green, bright green, made from a thousand herbs, made from altars. Those who know enough to drink Chartreuse at Mardi Gras are lucky, because the distilled essence of the town burns in their bellies. Chartreuse glows in the dark, and if you drink enough of it, your eyes will turn bright green.

Poppy Z. Brite, Lost Souls


Image source.

Taphonomy

Late in the year, New Orleans still has its hot days. In the slave quarters, they blossomed like the giant, stinking carrion-flowers that grow in humid jungles. Their ravaged abdomens swelled and burst like red-black petals, a jubilee of rot. Their putrescent fluids pooled on the concrete floor and in the hollows of their disintegrating bodies.

Poppy Z. Brite, Exquisite Corpse


Image by Luke Kopycinski.

Chartreuse

It's from a recipe protected by Carthusian monks living in a monastery in the Chartreuse Mountains. It's made from 130 herbal extracts, flowers, and secret ingredients blended with a wine alcohol base.
It's green.


I first heard about Chartreuse back in 1992 in Poppy Z. Brite's novel "Lost Souls" and assumed it was a fictional beverage. After spotting it (and buying it) in a liquor store many years ago, I've always made a point to own a bottle. Potent stuff. And there's just something about it that reminds me of Halloween.

Official Site

(The color Chartreuse was named after this drink)