1934 Irvin S Cobb's own Recipe Book

silo; it tastes like the Wrath to Come; and when you absorb a deep swig of it you have all the sensations of having swallowed a lighted kerosene lamp. A sudden violent jolt of it has been known to stop the victim's watch, snap both his suspenders, and crack his glass eye right across - all in the same motion. Personally, I would recommend it only to persons who are headed for the last hiccup and want to get it over with as soon as possible. And if you must drink it, always do so while sitting flat on the floor. Then you don't have so far to fall. So now, if in these pages I should seem to lean rather lovingly toward gallant old King Bourbon rather than toward his estimable half-brother Prince Rye, I pray the reader may bear with me and excuse my preferences on the grounds of local pride, or, would you say, insular bigotry? The best Rye, as most everyone knows, has alw'lys come from Maryland, just as the best Bourbon has always come from Kentucky. This noble circumstance is due to the gr'!.,cious co-mingled chemistry of a certain climate and a certain soil fo~mation and a certain limestone underlay; plus a certain crafty knack in the mixing and the making that was handed down from the fathers who discovered generations ago this imm1:1table law: that truly great whiskey must be made by the "sour mash ''. method, which in contrast to the commonly used "cooker" process, 10