Whiskey @ MindSay

So, Josiejunk was encouraging me to blog about my enjoyment of bourbon and whiskey. I am a social drinker, and not really a sit at home and have a drink sort of person. More often than not my drinking is limited to sharing a bottle of wine with friends. However, on occasion I really enjoy a tasty Bourbon. I started drinking Whiskey, mostly 7&7's, but have moved on to Knob Creek and Maker's Mark. I also like Booker's, but that can get a little pricey. While I enjoy sipping them, to avoid getting plowed I usually will cut them with 7-Up. Plenty of bourbon tastiness still comes through.

What I find the most interesting is that when someone asks me what I am drinking, and I tell them, inevitably both men and women are shocked that I like Bourbon and usually wrinkle their noses. Now, I can't be the only girl who likes Bourbon. My father informed me that my Grandmother (see previous blog) enjoyed a 7&7 from time to time. I also enjoy offering someone a sip and usually get a shocked look from them when they take a sniff. Most refuse to take a sip after that. They don't know what they're missing. It is soooo yummy. Something about the taste of the oak barrels that they are cured in, or the fermenting process, I don't know, but when it hits your mouth it is a little strong, but the aftertaste is amazing. Now, I could launch into a whole discussion about the difference between Bourbon and Whiskey (mostly the ingredients used and length and process of fermentation). And, to clarify, I like American Whiskey (Irish Whiskey is what we call Scotch - yeech! - smells like old socks to me!). But instead, all I can say is try it. I think you will be pleasantly surprised. If not, more for me =)

            I picked up two of our granddaughters at the airport yesterday.  Laurie was working, so I was on my own.

            Hmm….

            I arrived at the airport and finally found a place to park—way too far way from the terminal, as it turned out.  How was I to know?

            When I arrived at the gate with my special I-have-permission-to-pick-up-my-granddaughters slip, the kids were camped out next to podium.  The youngest, five, gave me a hug.  The eldest, eight, was fussing with her backpack and her responsibility to giving Laurie a birthday gift which was in that pack, that she didn’t even acknowledge my presence.

            We grabbed the two carry-on backpacks and plastic sack filled with odds and ends and were off.  But wait—there was checked luggage to pick up. 

            This is when it began to get interesting.

            My daughter, bless her generous heart, had packed gifts for Laurie, me and my son’s new arrival, Ty—he had just popped out of the oven three days ago.  Which meant there was lots of luggage—luggage that had been carried to the airport that morning by two adults and two children.

            We headed off completely loaded down with two more heavy backpacks and a suitcase, to the very far away parking spot.  We were about halfway there when the Eldest made a request which reminded me with a jolt that I had broken one of the cardinal rules of parenting: make sure all young participants in any trek have used the facilities before departing.

            Oops. 

            Eldest granddaughter had to go pretty bad.  It was either turn back or, um, let it go where we were, which was in a cold, dark, airport parking garage.  However, after we walked on a bit, I checked with her, and she seemed to indicate she was doing ok.

            But Youngest Granddaughter was struggling mightily with her carrying her pillow and little backpack.  She just couldn’t keep up.  We kept having to stop and wait.  It was becoming apparent that she wouldn’t last long.

            And then there were Eldest’s containment issues.  Apparently the circumstances concerning her over-full bladder had returned.  She was beginning to run and jump around.  She said she was resistant to relieving herself here, in this place.  I had to hurry.

            The car was still far away and unfound.  I was pretty sure I knew where it was. 

So I left all the luggage, except for the thirty-pound pack on my back, and jogged around a corner to see if the car was where I thought it was.  I told the girls not to move.  The car was there.  I hastily shed the backpack, threw it in the back seat, got the car going and honked the horn to let the girls know I was coming.  I turned the lights on and headed toward them.

            I turned the corner and there was Youngest amidst all the luggage, alone.

            “Where’s Eldest?” I asked, as I quickly got out of the car.

            “I don’t know.”

            “She didn’t tell you where she was going?”

            No answer.

            Interesting thoughts ran through my mind, but at least Youngest wasn’t saying a strange man had come and taken her sister away.

            I started throwing all that luggage into the trunk—and it didn’t all fit there, which I found out after spending too much time taking the packs out and re-adjusting them.

            Keep in mind that I’m parked in the “road” of this garage, with the luggage.

            And then Eldest showed up.

            Where was she?

            Let’s just say that we unfortunately contributed to that classic Urban Urine Smell that you’re all familiar with.

            Finally, we had everything stowed, and everyone was all snug and safe in the car.

            And I, a teetotalling Christian, felt the need for just a small hit of some fine, aged, malt whiskey.