Benjamin Franklin on drinking and dying extraordinarily.
No greater commonality exists between New Englanders old and new than their profound capacity for alcoholic drink:
“They are seldom known to be drunk, though they are often boozy, cogey, tipsy, foxed, merry, mellow, fuddled, groatable, confoundedly cut, see two moons; are among the Philistines, in a very good humor, see the sun, or, the sun has shone upon them; they clip the King’s English, are almost froze, feverish, in their altitudes, pretty well entered, etc. In short, every day produces some new word or phrase which might be added to the vocabulary of the tipplers.”
Benjamin Franklin was, of course, one of those old tipplers — a delightful few of his odes to the drink grace the pages of Forgotten Drinks of Colonial New England, a collection of recipes and history assembled by Corin Hirsch.
The variety of beverages consumed by New Englanders more than matched their slang for getting sloshed. They drank bitters and cider at the breakfast table, vinegary switchel in the hay fields, and any available liquid in the tavern. Children drank ciderkin, a hard apple cider made from the second pressing of apples; and even the average temperance advocate drank at least one beer a day. At least.
Franklin was not among those in favor of temperance. His preferred poison was Madeira, a Portuguese wine that was popular amongst colonists due to its availability. Nowadays, it is often used as cooking wine. Perhaps this is telling — but Franklin loved it just the same.
Franklin believed Madiera to posess near-magical qualities, according to Hirsch. After watching three flies drown in a bottle of the wine, Franklin scooped them out and let their bodies bask in the sunlight. He then saw them wiggle back to the mortal world and regain both life and flight.
The miraculous raising of the drunkard flies seemed to have stuck with Franklin, as he later wrote in a letter to a French scientist:
I should prefer to an ordinary death, being immersed with a few friends in a cask of Madeira, until that time, then to be recalled to life by the solar warmth of my dear country!
That solar warmth may have raised a few flies, but it did not suffice for the colonists’ viticultural exploits. Many came to New England with hopes of growing their own grapevines, after rumor that the land was overgrown with wild grapes. They would be sorely disappointed after uncorking their first homemade wines.
Any hunter would recognize the musky scent of fox urine, and the aroma was a less-than-desirable part of the bouquet. Though colonists tried to establish Vitis viniferis, they found that the vines did not take well to harsh winters. They would have to make due with native grapes.
A lack of the noble grape did not keep all colonists from guzzling their foxy wines. Desperate drinkers often added mixers to their wine to make it more palateable (the recipes for many such drinks can be found in Hirsch’s book). Some took cream and sugar in their wine, as if it were a morning cup of coffee. Add to that egg whites and lemon, and you have a cup of syllabub.
Those who could, immediately set up equipment for brewing beer. Accustomed to England’s poor water quality, they found a sense of home in the familiar ale. They discovered clean springs in the verdent new land, but this did nothing to curb their drinking habits. New Englanders made booze out of everything. Random herbs, plentiful berries, honey, trees, anything with a fresh grating of nutmeg over the top became quaffable drink.
And no matter the drink, people found ways to bond over it. Pubs and taverns were places for gathering, and often had work spaces (imagine if they’d had wi-fi). Toasts to health emerged from one table or another, to which each person was expected to drink the remainder of their cup. Drinks sat at the elbows of travelers, farmers, thinkers, and lawmakers alike — and Franklin on one occasion considered the necessity of such elbows for enjoying drink:
Reflect on the position Providence has given the elbow. Man, who was destined to drink wine, has to be able to carry the glass to his mouth. If the elbow had been placed closer to the hand, the forearm would have been too short to bring the glass to the mouth: if closer to the shoulder, the forearm would have been so long that it would have carried the glass beyond the mouth. Let us then adore, glass in hand, the beneficent Wistem. Let us adore and drink.
