My grandmother sipped whiskey on the rocks in the evenings. In the summer she sat facing the wide window looking out at the lawn, the beach, the harbor. She was always reading, always with a story.
When I sip whiskey on the rocks, I think of my grandmother. I pour an ounce over two ice cubes and pick up my book.
But the truth is nostalgia is just glamour for a habit that leaves me swallowing morning Advil and reaching for caffeine two hours ahead of schedule. The truth is I think of my grandmother, but then I think of me, reading old habits in my window reflection and sending myself to bed on time. One ounce too many.
I learned to love whiskey first because of a Carrie Underwood song. “...buying her some fruity little drink ’cause she can’t shoot whiskey.” I wanted to shoot whiskey. Jameson was my first shot of liquor.
I learned to sip whiskey first with a coworker who bought me the good stuff at a favorite bar. He stopped me as I was about to take the shot. Sipping Whiskey. And it was the good stuff.
I learned to love the aesthetic first, the taste second and then they got all mixed up in each other. A friend buys me Spider-Man whiskey glasses so I go out and buy a bottle to break them in … starting a habit for the past week where I pour a shot over ice and read before bed. It reminds me of my grandmother.
But the truth is I live so much in absolutes these days — in every day or no days — that habits stick to me easily. The good and the questionable. The sixteen months straight of meditation and the uncapping of Russell Reserve in the evening.
I rub my great grandfather’s ring. I never take it off. My grandmother’s father. Everything in moderation.
With Love,
Natalie