Why I’m a Ginner

People often ask why I’m such a gin fanatic. Despite owning a shirt that says, “Gin, because everyone needs a hobby,” I like gin because it tells a story. Actually—stories. All plucked, crushed, and woven into the bottle. Gin wants to announce itself in every glass. Juniper from here. Citrus from there. Roots, bark, leaves, and the sort of botanicals you can’t pronounce and would only notice if you were on a survival reality show. Every bottle is a small treasure trove of geography, weather, and plants that suffered nobly for the cause.

What really hooks me is that gin feels intentional without being pretentious. A coastal gin that actually tastes like it knows the sea. A forest gin that smells like bad decisions made in good boots. The distiller matters. The actual still matters. Even the water has an opinion. Like a wine’s terroir, yes—but with less hushed reverence and more raised eyebrow. Gin doesn’t whisper where it’s from. It spins tales, sometimes all at once. That’s why I keep listening. And pouring.