Picture it. There you are in the blazing August sun, knee-deep in a weedy patch of black currant bushes, grasping for the tiny bastar.....berries that like to be just out of reach. Suddenly you hear an ungodly sound, and you look up, resigned to the fact that Armageddon is nigh, in the form of…who knows what. Langoliers, perhaps.
 
You see a man who’s just gotten out of a pickup truck, and though you can’t be heard over the noise, you make the universal sign for “what in the ever-loving fuck IS that?” He chuckles, wryly, perhaps madly, and as the sound wanes for a brief moment, he utters one word: peacocks. Yes, this is the shrill cry of the peacocks. Some would call it a screech. Some say it sounds like a woman screaming. 
 
Us? We would say it most closely resembles our daily fits of rage, as we hear even more lies and embarrassment coming from the WH. This jam represents our id, yearning to be free from this madness. It’s made of tedious work and patience, but is worth it in the end: black, dark, mysterious, brooding….but with a glimmer of hope. Made with black currants, Crème de Cassis….and the undying scream of all of us....uhh...that is, the peacocks, in a crescendo of righteous fury. 
 
Pairs well with (soon-to-be-released) Merry Mueller Time.
 
This jam is on the menu at the Highland Stillhouse Pub in Oregon City, along with Treasonous Tartan Tayberry.