Diary of a Distiller: Chapter One - Back to the Beginning

Welcome to Diary of a Distiller

Diary- di•a•ry
Function: noun
A record of events, transactions, or observations kept daily or at frequent intervals: journal; especially : a daily record of personal activities, reflections, or feelings

Distiller- dis•till•er
Function: noun
One that distills, especially alcoholic liquors

This is my journal as I enter into the spirit-ual realm, whereby I become a distiller of fine libations. As I write this I am sitting at my desk in what is rapidly becoming my very own distillery and brewery. The Penobscot Bay Distillery & Brewery to be precise. Named such because it is located on the Penobscot River in Winterport, Maine; near where it spills into the rugged but lush, island studded Penobscot Bay. The beauty of which has charmed me from when I was a child and visited the Coast of Maine every summer, through my adulthood as I dreamed of one day living here.

Over the next few months I invite you read my Diary of a Distiller as I go through the journey of building an artisanal micro-distillery and brewery, creating fine spirits and ales for like minded folks to enjoy. I don't guarantee every bit of it will be about food, wine, or spirits; but this journal as a whole is focused on my travels in those directions. A new chapter will be posted every Friday, plus an occasional mid-week one as well.

As you will hear many times in this journal, I am in what will one day become my distillery. I wander around the space at times half lost in thought. Every now and then one of my partners, Mike, walks by and looks at me, shakes his head and gives me a wry smile. At times I am obviously lost to what's actually around me as I envision what could be, can be, will be. Much of my thoughts reach out to the future, but just as many root deep back into my past. This is a time of major change in my life, and with change the past is as important as the future. So don't always expect everything to be chronological, since I am already halfway through the gestation process. Most artisanal distilleries take around two years from start of the process to opening. Ours seems to be on the same time line as a human birth, about nine months from conception to birth.

When I decided to open a distillery I wanted to do something slightly new and different, by doing something old and the same. I want to create premium, artisanal spirits, especially whiskey and rum, in the style our forefathers did 150-250 years ago. To do so I sought out someone who could make me a still that is a modern version of those used centuries ago in American Colonial times. I heard about Col. Wilson, a Southern Gentleman from Arkansas who has great experience in the realm of still building. "The Colonel" built my still by hand and created two different heads for me, so that I can make just about any type of distilled spirit you care to name.

The other reason besides looks that I am buffing the still is because I am bored. Over the past few MONTHS we have been kept hanging by the local gas company. We need them to run new gas lines in the distillery, a four hour job, but we can't get them to return our calls. I guess they like to go hunting and fishing more than they like to work. Welcome to Maine, the Vacationland! hey, it's a way of life, but sometimes I want things to move a little bit faster. At least when it comes to my businesses. It's infuriating because we can't progress in our construction of the facility at all until they do. So I buff my still. The jokes on that subject from my partners, Mike and Jody, swing back and forth between amusing and annoying. So I just let my body do the work while I let my mind wander.

Today is May 23, 2008 and exactly one year ago today I hopped in my car and drove 380 miles from the New York City suburbs where I had grown up and moved back to live the past few years, to Rockland, Maine; near where I had spent many of my summers the past three decades. I was on my way to an interview for a position as assistant chef in a small but exquisite wine bar and cafe called In Good Company. After one look at the size of the tiny kitchen I knew that my 6'2" frame just wasn't going to fit. I could touch every wall from the middle of the kitchen without fully stretching out my arms. Actually this was a relief, I really didn't want to work back of the house in the high stress life of a restaurant kitchen. So I spent the rest of the weekend visiting restaurants in the area and enjoying the misty, cool, but refreshing weekend. I chatted with several restaurateurs in the area and before I knew it I had a few consulting contracts.

On a whim I went on an apartment hunting spree and before you could say Finest-kind I had a place to live, right on the ocean. Spacious, serene, quiet, calm. Several hundred feet of waterfront looking out on the head of Penobscot Bay. I was high, just riding the vibe, when one phone call brought it all to a sudden halt. One of my best friends failed to wake up one morning that weekend. I was in a state of shock the next week or so as I dealt with my grief, while I packed up my belongings and moved to mid-coastal Maine.


This story actually starts way before this, back when I was a wee lad. Like many of those of recent European descent I was introduced to wine, beer, and spirits at a young age; and my education proceeded from there. Starting when I was around ten years old my father would line up the bottles of wine that would be served for dinner with the labels pointing away. I would then be quizzed briefly about what type of wine they were and from what country, based on the color and shape of the bottle.

Soon after, my father bought us both tastevin's, and I was on my way in studying the spiritual world. As I got older the quiz's became more complicated and branched out to beer, spirits, and liqueurs. I also started cooking and by the time I was twelve I prepared every meal for myself, and many of the family ones. By the time I graduated high school I knew enough to land myself a job at a fancy wine shop. I also did a few stints as a private chef; but I soon realized that I didn't want to be stuck in the stress of working in a professional kitchen, when my home kitchen was my place to relax and de-stress. I worked for a few years in the retail wine field, and then off and on again as I pursued an education in psychology, anthropology, biology, education, and business. I started home brewing as a hobby in college, and worked for awhile for a brew pub and micro-brewery in grad school; but as I finished school I spent less and less time playing with my food and wine, and entered a varied career as a mental health counselor, educator, wilderness guide & Outward Bound Instructor, and corporate trainer. It was a busy time of my life, flitting around the country from work contract to contract. Half city bound road warrior, half wilderness ranging free spirit; and usually 100% exhausted.

After quite a few years I started to lose my fascination with psychology, teaching, etc. The long hours, and days, sometimes weeks on the road or in the wilderness were just too much. I had done some counseling with a post 9/11 agency focused on helping those with emotional trauma from the terrorist attacks, not realizing I myself was traumatized. On the morning of 9/11 I drove just two minutes up the road from my place, parked my car, and watched silently as the cloud of smoke and flames soared miles into the sky from Ground Zero as tears streamed from my eyes.

The Twin Towers had always held a dear spot in my heart. My father had worked in them for several years when they were first built, and I could remember as a child him taking me to work and showing me the view from his window. That endless expanse of New York and New Jersey, ocean and country off in the hazy distance; imagining I could make out Pennsylvania or Connecticut way off where things got blurry. I remember looking down with my nose pressed against the glass; watching what looked like building scaling, spy devices from a James Bond flick, crawling up and down the outside of the Towers. Later I learned they were window cleaning machines of some sort, but they still looked cool.

I soon became aware that trauma counseling wasn't for me. It wasn't just reliving my own personal trauma as I tried to counsel others; it was also seeing how much fraud was being perpetuated. The many rumors that went around were true, every agency involved with 9/11 had scores of greedy slime, sucking up every dollar they could, putting in false payroll requests and reaping an illegal and immoral windfall, much to everyone's shame. I documented some of what I observed and attempted to do something about it, but I soon became aware that the fraud must be going on at many levels. I never got calls or letters back, and the run around was truly astounding. After a few months I stopped banging my head against the wall and gave up. I resigned from the agency and my position as a trauma counselor and stepped back to take a long and introspective look at my life.

I decided to change direction and go back to my true loves; food and beverages. I undertook to educate myself on everything and anything to do with the culinary world. I studied for awhile at the French Culinary Institute and later at culinary schools abroad. Eventually having the opportunity to observe chefs and cooks work their food magic in fancy restaurant kitchens, tiny ethnic eateries, hidden basement food stalls, open air markets, and back country camps across five continents. I read my way through all the food and wine books at my local library. I spent hours and hours a day online, perusing food forums and discussing my likes and dislikes with other similar people. It became my life, and an overwhelming obsession developed that grows greater every day, in every way. I didn't know exactly where I was going with this, but I was on my way.