A long time ago, I read “Dandelion Wine” by Ray Bradbury. I had read Bradbury’s “Fahrenheit 451” and “The Martian Chronicles,” but this was something totally different, a nostalgia-laden yarn about the ephemeral delights of summer in a small town. The writing was beautiful, metaphorical and dense. Take this paragraph:

“The golden tide, the essence of this fine fair month ran, then gushed from the spout below, to be crocked, skimmed of ferment, and bottled in clean ketchup shakers, then ranked in sparkling rows in cellar gloom.

The words were summer on the tongue. The wine was summer caught and stoppered.”

At the time, I didn’t know what to make of “Dandelion Wine.” Why had my English teacher recommended it to me? I’d been expecting another science-fiction book. But this was more of a memoir, tinged with fantasy and mystery, but rooted, for the most part, in the real world. The one element that seemed truly fantastical was the dandelion wine, which Bradbury depicted as a treasured and magical elixir, containing hidden wonders. Dandelion wine — who’d ever heard of that? I later discovered that there is such a thing as dandelion wine. But I’d never tasted any until about a week ago.

Someone suggested that I write an article for the Gazette about dandelion wine, which seemed like a fun thing to do, and so I went searching for local dandelion wine makers. It took a while to find them — not that many people make dandelion wine anymore. (Mainly because it’s a pain in the neck to pick all those dandelions.) But eventually I did, and so last Monday I took a drive out to Middleburgh, where I met Freya and Willard Karsch, an elderly couple who have been making dandelion wine for years, using an old recipe passed on to them by Willard’s step-mother. The Karsches were in the process of making a batch of dandelion wine, using dandelions from their yard, and they were kind enough to let me sample some of the wine they brewed a couple of years ago. Which I really appreciated, because I like trying unusual kinds of alcohol.

I don’t really know how to describe the taste of dandelion wine, except to say that it was sweet. It went down easily, like lemonade, and had a slightly citrus-y taste, which makes sense, because two key ingredients are oranges and limes. I doubt it would ever become my drink of choice, because at heart I’m a beer drinker. But it’s the sort of thing that would be fun to drink with friends during the summer, while sitting on a porch, as an aperitif, or an after-dinner liqueur. And it reminded me a bit of the mead I drank in college because I think if I tried to drink a lot of it, I would probably get sick.

The mead was a bit of a disappointment, but only because it couldn’t possibly live up to the hype. “Mead?” we said, when our friend Peter told us he was going to brew mead. “Isn’t that what the Vikings drank?” In any case, we couldn’t wait to try it. Mead is made from honey and water. Like dandelion wine, it’s sweet. And it was fun to drink for a while, but eventually the sweetness started to get to me, and I decided that I would rather drink a beer. Anyway, that was the first and last time I ever drank mead.

The oddest drink I’ve ever had is absinthe. Banned in 1912, absinthe was legalized in 2007, and several local liquor stores (Rotterdam Wine & Liquor, Vineyard Wine and Spirits in Schenectady and Crescent Wine & Spirit Shoppe in Clifton Park) now sell Lucid, the first brand of absinthe cleared for sale in America. (I wrote an article about absinthe’s newfound presence in the Capital Region, which you can find here).

Absinthe has a fascinating history. For years it was believed that the drink could cause hallucinations and even insanity, mainly because it contains an herb called wormwood. But a chemist determined that absinthe’s bad reputation was undeserved, and Lucid was cleared for sale. Also intriguing is the strange ritual associated with drinking absinthe. Basically, you pour a small amount into a glass, and place a sugar cube on a flat, slotted spoon that rests on the rim of the glass. Then you slowly drip four to five ounces of cold water onto the sugar cube, which dissolves and drips into the absinthe. When this happens, the greenish liquor transforms into a milky cloud, and releases the drinks herbal aromas.

How could I resist a drink with such mystique? I ordered a slotted absinthe spoon on the Internet, and drove out to Rotterdam Wine & Liquor to pick up a bottle, which I drank with a friend while watching the Oscars. Like dandelion wine and mead, I can’t imagine ever drinking a lot of absinthe — in fact, I haven’t even finished the bottle I bought over a year ago. But it was a fun thing to try, and I’d definitely drink it again, on a lark. The main problem is the taste. Absinthe aficionados will tell you that here in America, we’re simply not accustomed to herbal liqueurs, and they’re probably right — the whole experience just made me feel like having a beer.

The weird drink I keep meaning to try is Glogg, a Nordic form of mulled wine that’s popular in Sweden. A friend of mine gave me a bottle, and it’s been sitting on my counter for months. It’s more of a winter beverage, so I’ll probably just wait until it gets cold again. Like dandelion wine, mead and absinthe, it probably won’t become my drink of choice. I may never even finish the bottle. But you never know. And at least then I’ll be able to tell people that I’ve been drinking Glogg.

By the way, the dandelion wine article will run on Wednesday’s food page.

Got a comment? A weird drink to recommend? Add your thoughts below or e-mail me at sfoss@dailygazette.net.