There are several components of Episode 24 that combined together to inspire this cocktail: a golden apple, a sweet-talking golden tongued cleric, and a flaming sphere all play important roles in both the happenings of the episode and this drink.

Whether or not you're caught up with the happenings of The Dimension Door Podcast (although you should be!), this cocktail is perfect for autumn. The fresh, crisp apple garnish sets nicely against the warm, aromatic caramelized brown sugar. Hints of cinnamon add to the pleasant scent, and then the drink itself is just-sweet-enough with the flavors of butterscotch and apple blossom set against a backdrop of a slightly-smoky scotch. Drinking it is a bit like sitting by a bonfire and enjoying a caramel apple.

Keep reading for the full recipe and instructions to make this cocktail.

Orgeat (pronounced /ɔːrˈʒɑː or ˈɔːrdʒiət/) is a French term that originated in the Latin phrase hordeaceus, meaning 'made with barley.' It started out as a kind of barley water (a barley oil and water emulsion), but over time to improve the flavor almond, sugar, and other flavors were added. Now, orgeat no longer has anything to do with barley. Instead, orgeat syrup is an almond and sugar syrup, usually flavored with either orange blossom water or rose water. It's non-alcoholic on its own, although you can extend its life by adding a bit of liquor (usually brandy) as a preservative.

Orgeat is an important ingredient for a lot of Tiki cocktails, including the Mai Tai. It can also be diluted with water or soda water for a refreshing non-alcoholic drink (sometimes called orzata). You can also play around with flavors, using different nuts (such as pistachio or cashew) or infusing it with fruit or spices. 

In recipes from as far back as the mid-1800s, orgeat was made with bitter almonds. However, it's far more commonly made with sweet almonds now. This is largely because bitter almonds are toxic, and potentially lethal in large quantities; they contain cyanide.

What I will be providing instructions for here is a pretty traditional orgeat recipe, using almonds and flavored with orange blossom water.

After you've had a chance to listen to Episode 23 of The Dimension Door Podcast, you'll understand just why this episode's cocktail is inspired by hair, domovoi, and hatch chilies.

Hair of the Domovoi is a twist on the Hair of the Dog cocktail that adds an underlying bite of chili heat to the traditional hangover drink. It's as white as the Irrisen landscape where the questers from Taldor have ended up, and combines smoke & heat with cream & sweet in a way that is evocative of the events of Episode 23.

Keep reading for the full directions to make this cocktail.

September is International Podcast Month (IPM), and I was fortunate enough to be able to participate by playing in a TTRPG one-shot run by the wonderful Russ Wilde, gamemaster of the Prism Pals podcast. This game was my first experience with the new Quest TTRPG system, so I thought I'd take the opportunity to give a bit of a peek behind-the-scenes regarding what goes into creating a character and learning to play what ended up being a simple, enjoyable, and incredibly wholesome game.

You can find the IPM Episode for this one-shot here. Keep reading if you're interested in learning more about what goes into character creation for Quest, or if you just want to learn more about the characters we played.

Just as the most recent episode's drink was inspired by the small Irriseni town of Waldsby, so is this cocktail from Episode 16 inspired by the small Taldan town of Heldren. Whereas for Waldsby we had a hot beverage perfect for the inhospitably cold climate, for Heldren we had an icy, refreshing drink that celebrates the summer season and its flowering, fresh botanicals. The local Dansby farm produces some fine mead for the town (may poor Farmer Dansby rest in peace), so it's only fitting that any Heldren cocktail include mead as an ingredient. The garnish of this drink is also a bit of an homage to the donkey belonging to Vasilisa Morozova (Heldren's local wisewoman). After all, Marigold is a Very Good Donkey.

Keep reading for full instructions to make your own Heldren Highball.

This drink is inspired by the small town of Waldsby, which the characters of The Dimension Door Podcast enter for the first time in Episode 22. Waldsby is a small town in Irrisen which sits just outside of the Hoarwood. I won't say too much about it (this is a spoiler-free zone!), but one thing I can say is that the people of Waldsby are very dependent upon the resources the Hoarwood has to offer for both their livelihoods and their diet. The primary resource to be found within this Irriseni forest is the winteryew, also known as the witch-tree. They depend on winteryew trees for lumber, and on their edible seeds and bark for food.

One way that the inhabitants of Waldsby can warm up​ is by enjoying a nice, hot cup of Winteryew Wassail.

          My mother saved money by cutting hair for the family. My father, at one point, began cutting his own hair, as well. I had sisters who were interested in learning to cut hair, in practicing at doing so. It was never, ever something that grabbed my interest.
            I was the one standing there with twin sharpened blades held close to head, to neck, to eyes, to spine. He was the one with all the power.
           In many ways, looking back at it, I see that our hair type strangely parallels the type of person each of us was. His hair was dark black with the occasional glint of red. Extraordinarily glossy. Straight and sharp as a razor. I’d never before encountered hair of such strength and rigidity—I’d awake to find his rare loose hair literally pierced through the bedding, sharp and straight as a needle woven through the cloth. I learned the hard way how dangerous it was to try to brush up loose clippings from his trims with my bare hands—plucking out hairs that pierced like pins into my skin.
       Rigidity defined him—effortless in demands upon him, but extraordinary in demands upon me to care for him. He never needed any special product, any conditioning, any styling effort whatsoever—all he needed to do to keep his hair in perfect order, when it was kept well-trimmed, was to wash it now and then. Maintaining that perfection, however—my role to play—was an entirely different story. His hair, as with his every expectation of me, demanded perfection—even the slightest mistake made in cutting it would show, and any flaw was unforgivable. I carefully tried to sculpt the correct shape to his specifications and still, still, always fell short.
       He was all the things his hair was: demanding, perfectionist, dark, cuttingly sharp, deceptively soft—beautiful, but dangerous.
            On the other hand, my hair is a messy mass of curls. Soft, easily tangled, loose and easily lost to stress. Curly hair is starved for moisture—thirsty for any sort of positive attention and care. Then, with him, when I was beaten for so much as using a basic conditioner—or even expressing a desire to do so, my hair was snarled and coarse, dry and brittle. Now, on my own and thus allowed to care for it, my hair has thrived with daily, thoughtful upkeep; even so, it is a carefully-cultivated mess, never precisely the same from day to day or even hour to hour. There is something untamed—and untamable—about my curls which he could never, ever accept or understand. Certainly because he refused to allow for any time or expense solely for my benefit, and perhaps because there is a spirit equally untamable, unconquerable, which he did not want me to recognize within myself.

Over the past few years, I have developed an appreciation for mixology, and what began as an enjoyment of concoctions others have created has grown to include enjoying the creation of my own recipes. Even more recently, I have begun to create themed cocktails to go along with characters from books & TTRPG campaigns, and for podcasts that I enjoy. I already share many of my drinks and their recipes through the various social media I use, but I've decided that it makes a lot of sense to gather all of them together in one place. This is why I'm announcing a new corner of my blog here at Briarbook Lane: Dressing Up Drinks.

The drinks and other concoctions I come up with will be shared here under the "Dressing Up Drinks" category. I'll share photos, step-by-step instructions, and sometimes even videos.

So, if you enjoy mixology yourself, or maybe just love a nice drink, keep an eye out here!

          It’s hot in the car. I roll the windows down and hope for a breeze to stir the air. The trees beside the field spread a generous expanse of shade that doesn’t touch me where I sit within the suffocating embrace of a black metal box heated by a relentless sun. I shouldn’t complain, perhaps. Preferable to roll a window down and yet melt than to huddle in coat and gloves against an equally inescapable cold. It seems only yesterday that the field was layered with snow, the drifts from the plows blocking out entire swaths of parking spots and a slushy ice-salt mix coating the asphalt where the most frequent traffic had passed.
            How many hours had I spent in that parking lot, in that car?
            Waiting.
            It takes a certain power to make someone wait for you. It’s a symbol of status, having someone wait on you, wait for you, wait upon you. Whatever else it is, it’s a clear indicator of his power over me that I have spent—will spend—so long doing nothing else but waiting.
          Sitting in that car, waiting in the place and after the fashion he allowed me, I don’t always have anything with which to occupy myself. It’s not that I’ve nothing I need to get done, nothing I want to do—no, not that. Instead, I am a constant aching ball of nerves as I agonize over all the many demands upon my time which are on hold as I sit and sit; wait and wait. Chores at home, errands to run, tasks set both by basic daily living needs and by even his demands upon me all await me. The stress of feeling my responsibilities adding up even as I’m kept from fulfilling them is compounded by the frustration of having so much else I’d simply like to do which is barred me, though I’ve nothing else on which I’m spending my time (save waiting, hours on end, just waiting).
          Antsy in my inactivity, I suddenly thrust the car door open and step almost gingerly out into the comparable coolness of the still, open air. Feeling as though I’m tempting fate even in this small defiance, I walk around the car in careful circles—stretching my legs, pretending at exercise, feeling ridiculous, anxiously watching with every turn towards the building from which he will be exiting when it’s time for him to return to me. My mind skitters across the glossy surface of a fear I refuse to name. He can’t see me from the windows of his classroom, can he? Surely not. Even if he can, how could even he care about me just taking a turn about the car? It’s not like I’m going anywhere, speaking with anyone, doing anything objectionable…Surely not even he would object. Besides, surely he can’t see.
          I make certain I’m back in the car well before he’s scheduled to get back, just to be safe.