When asked what I want to drink, I usually just say, "Pour me some brown."
my little one sometimes refers to it as my "special drink" but she wouldn't think it special if she knew what it's doing to her college fund.
The rest of the story:
In 1964 my future wife and I met the parents of her classmate, Marcia. Dick and Annabelle were quite social and kept a nice bar. He would ask, "What do you want to drink?" I'd answer, "How about a Margarita with salt on the rim." Dick was a Kentucky Colonel so he'd pour me some bourbon.
When Dick died in 1982, we promised him we would look out for Annabelle because Marcia had gone off to be a Grey Nun in Edmonton.
When we visited Annabelle, she'd ask, "What do you want to drink?" I'd answer, "How about a Margarita with salt on the rim." She'd roll her eyes and say, "You little sh*t!" then make me a vodka and tonic with a twist of lemon because that was what she liked and could not understand why anyone would want anything different.
Annabelle died last night at age 101. Until Friday she was still living at home and still insisting that she knew better what I should be drinking.
If God made anything better than bourbon he must have kept it for Hisself.
great story, flyfish. tip one back for annabelle tonight!
I call it the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips, and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes.