“For many minutes,” continued the latter, “my sole sentiment — my sole feeling — was that of darkness and nonentity, with the consciousness of death. At length there seemed to pass a violent and sudden shock through my soul, as if of electricity. With it came the sense of elasticity and of light. This latter I felt — not saw. In an instant I seemed to rise from the ground. But I had no bodily, no visible, audible, or palpable presence. … Beneath me lay my corpse, with the arrow in my temple, the whole head greatly swollen and disfigured. But all these things I felt — not saw. I took interest in nothing. Even the corpse seemed a matter in which I had no concern.”
The Tale
This is one of Poe’s more convoluted stories, around which I’m still trying to wrap my head. In it, the narrator recounts a tale told to him by an acquaintance named Bedloe, who had mysteriously disappeared in the back country of Virginia, and then he just as mysteriously reappeared. To make matters more confusing, Bedloe claims that, during his disappearance, he had died and somehow recovered. Meanwhile, Bedloe’s personal doctor, who was also present when Bedloe tells his tale,suggests that Bedloe’s temporary death had been a recollection of a historic death in battle that originally had been suffered by Bedloe’s doppelganger…a man named Oldeb. Which, in the big reveal, we are informed is Bedloe spelled backwards, minus the E. Oh, and somehow Mesmerism (aka animal magnetism, coupled with maybe hypnotism) figures into the plot.
Meanwhile, the eponymous Ragged Mountains of the title are simply the place where Bedloe had temporarily disappeared. They are described as a “chain of wild and dreary hills that lie westward and southward of Charlottesville, and are there dignified by the title of the Ragged Mountains.” They do in fact exist; they’re near the University of Virginia, where Poe spent his brief stint as a student in 1826.
The full story is available here.
The Drink
Given that I can derive little coherent meaning from the tale itself, I figured I would focus on its evocative title. Surely this calls for a drink that features some manner of mountain peaks. And these, I initially thought, can be portrayed with some carefully-sculpted meringue. Now, to be honest, I have never made meringue. My experience with it limited primarily to my mom’s lemon meringue pies, which are a whole other Tale of the Grotesque. In any event, the meringue on a pie isn’t really defined by sharp peaks; rather, it evokes low, rolling hills. But perhaps that’s what, in actuality, Poe is describing??
So I tried to make meringue. It’s a pretty simple recipe–mainly just sugar and egg whites. And the final step involves browning the outside with a culinary torch….or, in my case, a plumber’s butane torch from a cabinet in my garage. Flame is flame, right?
Alas, I learned that there’s some black magic aspect to making the meringue that I failed to master. My meringue never advanced beyond the thick icing stage. No way that it would evoke mountains…or even “wild and dreary hills.” I nevertheless browned it with my torch and dejectedly ate it by the spoonful over the kitchen sink. Waste not want not, I always say.
So, moving on to Plan B, I figured I would make the Ragged Mountains out of whipped cream. This worked a little better. The only question was what kind of spirit to place it atop? I settled on a simple chocolate martini. Now, chocolate martinis are not really my bag, baby. I’m far too insecure to drink such a froofy drink. But what else are you going to put under whipped-cream mountains? My manly persona braced for a direct attack as I assembled the ingredients:
Ingredients:
2 oz. vodka
1-1/2 oz. creme de cacao
¼ cup heavy whipping cream
1 tsp vanilla
1 tsp sugar
Grated nutmeg
Combine the whipping cream, vanilla, and sugar. Whip with a whisk until it forms stiff, raggedy peaks…or at least least wild and dreary hills. Set aside. Combine the vodka and creme de cacao in a shaker with ice. Shake until chilled, then strain into a martini glass. Top with the whipped cream, forming ragged peaks. Sprinkle with grated nutmeg (as I did), or with chocolate sprinkles, if you are feeling really secure.
Poe-script
Poe’s original manuscript for this story takes the form of a long roll of paper (like a scroll, perhaps?) that’s 15 feet long and 8 inches wide. It’s owned by the Morgan Pierpont Library in New York City. I dare you to try to steal it.
Chasing Phantoms 
Oh yeah! My kinda cocktail!!
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